"Do or Suffer"

Just rambling... these thoughts are off the top of my head, and not some official treatise on the state of the union (be it union of Todd & Bridget, or of inner self and outer reality, or of team spirit and individuality, or...)

This is a new revelation to me—the fact that Todd’s demands are “do or suffer” (as opposed to "yes or no"--see comments on last blog post)—that’s not very nice of him, is it?

I’ve got to stop feeding the monster, even if it means suffering. So much of my mode of operation these days is the avoidance of undue inconvenience. Maybe what I need to be praying for is the strength to suffer.... How far will I have to go? If it comes down to having to leave and I can’t afford it, could I go to some sort of shelter?

I think I’d feel guilty doing that. There are women who are in physical danger—their very lives are at stake—those are the women those shelters are intended for aren’t they? Isn’t a woman who cries “emotional abuse” just being overly sensitive? Especially when there are so many hours in the day when her husband isn’t being abusive. (Just try pointing out the 23 hours a day when her husband isn't beating her to a woman who is physically battered for one hour a day...)

It ends up coming down to the altercations. I’m just so sick and tired of them! And each one is driving me further away from Todd emotionally, until I’ve gotten to the point where I’m so, so... bitter, I guess you could say... maybe more like numb—there’s no “team spirit,” that’s for sure... and I’m battling depression... depression that makes it hard for me to let myself care... and even if it starts with dealings with Todd, that carries over into areas beyond Todd.

I don’t think it’s at all chemical, because I really do seem to be okay with every other relationship in my life. If it’s situational depression, I’ve got to figure out how to change the situation before the depression gets any deeper, right?

I feel it creeping toward that level of self-destructiveness—that place where thoughts of hurting myself flash through my head in the midst of the arguments.... like a person with a really bad headache might be tempted to hit his head against a wall–one (self-inflicted and anticipated) pain distracts from another that feels out of one’s control—emotional pain can be so deep that pain in the physical realm would be a welcome distraction.

What Have I Done to Help Him?

Here's something I've been chewing on...

New Life Live: May 27, 2011

Did this comment from the first caller come straight from my blog or what?

“I have no more emotional energy for him, and I just want to move on and be able to start taking some action for my life and for my kids.... I keep my emotional distance from him because there was a lot of belittling—a lot of devaluing—of what I was presenting to the table....”

The counselor's reply, also, seemed in step with some of the things that I've been grappling with.

“Sounds like to me... that you’ve really held onto some big resentments toward him... and he’s given you... fertilizer to grow the resentments... and then you combine this justifiable resentment... down inside you really feel you’re entitled to more than what he is bringing to this marriage. So, you’ve got this entitlement and this resentment causing you to have absolutely no interest in a life with this man....”

The question of "What have you done with respect to counseling . . . and assessment [for his depression]?" kind of ties in with the challenge one of the "anon" comments issued of speaking up so that Todd will have the opportunity to make right choices . . . but then also takes it to a level of not just calling things out and expecting him to deal with it, but also basically holding his hand and leading him to initiate his own recovery.

The counselor advises the caller to say this to her husband:

“We’ve been through a lot. We’re kind of stagnant and I’m getting pretty miserable. And I know that back there in the back when we got together there was a lot of love and emotion and affection for each other. I want to see if we can find that again. And here’s what I’d like you to do—I want you to go to [counseling] with me and that’s all that I’m going to ask you to do....” If he doesn’t go or won’t go... “If you’re not willing to do that—give me one weekend—I’m going to file for legal separation.”

The ". . . there was a lot of love and emotion and affection for each other . . ." part feels like a lie, but otherwise, this really fits. Maybe I'm "making a lot of excuses" for not doing what good advise has told me to do. I am tired. I don't have the emotional energy. I don't know that I really even want things to work out . . . but I know that both Todd and I need to get emotionally healthy if there is any chance of things working out. I'm content working on me now. Perhaps I need to find the boldness to at least say:

“If you want me... I need you to do the emotional growth that I have been doing. It’s a combination of emotional and spiritual growth, and I need to see a part of that...”

Since I don't have the energy, I'm just going to share a few more great quotes from this show:

“Whatever you do to get out of limbo, you’re going to have to do something pretty drastic and different in order to get out of this limboville.”

“Narcissists don’t get help unless their world is really rocked.”

This was great:

Kids learn a lot from a parent’s reaction to someone who is unkind... that means getting some support for yourself...

Thievin' Joy Thieves

I choose joy.

Today.

I choose joy today.

Tomorrow,

I will choose again.

Joy.

Thieves will come.

Thievin' joy thieves.

What shall I do with a joy thief?

That is my choice.

Will I set him a seat at the table?

Will I give the thief a key?

Will I open the door and ask him in?

It's really up to me.

(I rhymed--cute, huh?

...that's what joy can do ;)

I chose poorly long ago.

Yesterday.

and other yesterdays.

Yesterday is not today.

Today is the day of joy.

I will fling open the shutters

and let in the breeze,

but I will not open my door

to the thief of my joy.

journal upon wallpaper

In my last post, I mentioned talking to walls. It reminded me of some drivel I wrote back in 2003, during a time of writer's angst--a pretty powerful case of the pity partying.

Anyway, since I don't have it saved digitally anywhere, and I'm trying to cut down on paper clutter, here it is:



"journal upon wallpaper"


I don't write anymore, don't even want to. Not my novel, screenplay, poetry, not even letters or cards. You may say, "What is this here, then?" It is merely forced scratching from a dead soul. I probably won't even share it. [There have been previous attempts aborted...]


I read a quote from Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet:

Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you to write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write.

I am numb. Yes, I believe I felt that way once, long ago. Perhaps I was deluded. I am not a writer.


Then a strip of paper printed with dull red ink turns up in the scraps as I sweep my floor. A "fortune" -- words of wisdom:

"Nothing in the world is accomplished without passion."

...and what is that to me? I think as I breathe in only enough air to keep on "existing."


There was a time when I was boiling over with passion -- when I believed my words could change the world. It was like a calling. Like Rilke, a compulsion -- that which was as necessary as breathing.


But I'm learning that one can exist on small breaths -- the shallowest of breathing still sustains that pulse which defines life. I don't have to care to go on -- I only have to do the minimum requirements: Throw some food in the oven, slap it on the table, wash the dishes, sweep the crumbs from the floor -- maybe there will be some wisdom in the scraps and leftovers, something I can nod my head at and pretend to digest before moving on to the next menial task.


That's it. No more. Too forced/contrived.


The point of writing is communication. I will show this to no one. I will publish nothing. Even those closest to me don't care to listen. Todd came in and headed straight for the TV: I tried to talk over the sounds of the game and even the well-written commercials. Guess which he chose to tune into?


My dad found an old story I wrote in junior high. He told me about it, but then added something about how many people have written the same thing and, "I guess you wrote it too." There had been a split second when I thought he was proud of me. Maybe my little story made it onto the refrigerator door. But no... he found it and immediately lost it. Maybe it's hidden under a copy of the magazine my brother edits... Kudos, big bro ~ you're a real writer.


I began this letter with salutations to no one in particular, and thus I end it: "To whom it may concern" (ie. no one)


I am not a writer. I am a housewife. I am married to a house. That is my closest relationship. It speaks to me of all I must do and do again, and listens when I talk to its walls. I should write my journal upon wallpaper.
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