Romance? Ha!

When we first reconnected (that is after he realized who I was), Charlie asked me a series of questions about Bridget. He was trying to flesh out her character, and on some level, I think he was trying to figure out my motivation to open communication with him after all these years. Were my intentions devious? Was I trying to trap him in some way? What exactly did I expect?

The honest answer: I didn't know. 

Maybe it was more of that self-sabotage stuff. I thought he would confirm what Todd had told me about him (and about me) for all these years -- that he had just been playing a game to get in my pants -- that the intense connection I thought we had was just my once over-active imagination, delusional thinking. I thought he might negate that sliver of a belief that we had shared something real (and that it therefore might be possible again with another someday). Maybe he would prove me to be the fool once and for all -- put me in my place as an unlovable joke, and cause me to never again waste a moment on unrealistic desires. 

One of the questions he asked to figure out the Bridget character was, "Does she read romance novels?" Since I am Bridget, that was an easy one to answer. I told him of my disdain for romance novels -- they only set us up for disappointment. And that old adage: "Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall not be disappointed," is the easy way out, so I take it again and again. Lower the expectations, numb the heart so it cannot be broken.

As I'm attempting to learn more about myself through Bridget, however, I continued to consider that question. The immediate answer that had popped into my head when asked if Bridget liked romance novels, was, "No, unless by 'romance' you mean..." And then I ran through a string of unlikely titles, like "Fight Club," "The Hours," "Fried Green Tomatoes," "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," and "The Shining." What started out as a bit of a joke of a list, got me thinking about what I did see as a romantic story. I started to realize that the only romance I could believe was tragedy. "Romeo and Juliet" and other such stories in which the characters realize too little, too late.... 

Last night I was in one of those hopeless places. The riff between my eldest daughter and I, although cordially "okay," continued to bother me. And then her boyfriend (fiancee, actually) made a comment that was meant to be helpful, but just ended up compounding my stress level (which was already teetering on edge of sending me to the ER). I just wanted it to all be over with. 

Thinking of how all the times I had been tempted to "off" myself, I had fought the urge for the sake of my kids, I now found myself dwelling on all the ways my "trying" to make things right failed and fell short, on what a disappointment I was even to my own kids.... The effort I had put into sticking it out now seemed as ridiculously insufficient as my efforts to move forward.

Romance? Ha! Unlikely. The last thing I wanted was to be with anyone. I'd rather be alone, numb, but free from pain. Free from feeling. 

But that's not entirely true. That sliver of hope remains, mocking apparent reality, peeking through the crusted scabs of slashed wrists (metaphorically speaking).

This is as romantic as I can get for the time being (and even this is a stretch)...

Arrghh! You're turning me into a pirate, Todd!

I'm tired of nagging. Twice a month, I have to nag if I want to avoid the insufficient funds charges on our household bank account. Twice a month, the big unavoidable automatic payments go through. And twice a month, we (often needlessly) pay these fees because Todd doesn't transfer money into the household account.

He has been working, so I don't think its a matter of not having the money (but then, I wouldn't know that for sure because his business account is as secret as the illuminati's iCalendar). He's just too darn busy to get around to transferring it to the family account so we (I) can have a little peace of mind (and use of that $34 a pop that's going down the drain every time he's too lazy to manage his money as a supposed business owner).

He's too busy. Poor boy. Putting in three to six hours on the job site (including commute time) and then having to watch football on TV when you get home can be so demanding!

In a couple of weeks the property tax bill is coming due. I have no idea how we're going to pay it. Last time I was able to pay it all by myself by sinking my entire writing advance check into it. But I still haven't finished the project that was an advance for, so I'm tapped out.

My gut has been all tied up in knots. I woke up this morning and I could hardly move -- the pain was so excruciating. I've cleaned up my diet to the point that it shines like the top of Mr. Clean's head, so I don't think it's being caused by food allergies or additives or preservatives... I think this time it's just good old stress.

He bought me some expensive probiotics to try to take care of my problems. I wonder if it ever crossed his mind that such things might not even be necessary if he would just take the time to transfer funds on time?

At least Todd is able to sleep at night and eat without fear of what convulsions that might send his digestive tract into!

Arrghh! That's about all I can say.

Transitions

I do feel for Maria as she goes through her "transition." I heard some radio commentators mocking her today for this video:

They were calling her whiny. True, it would probably be a whole lot easier going through a "transition," with a couple million dollars to navigate it, but I still think it's pretty low to laugh at another person's pain.

I did find it interesting that the same sort of extended family health and grief issues compelled Maria to put off leaving Arnold, even though she wanted to do it long ago. She definitely could have afforded good lawyers, but still she waited. As a mother myself, I'm sure the thought of pairing the loss of her children's grandparents with the split up of their parents' marriage seemed too great a stress to inflict on them. That was likely part of the consideration. She also probably didn't want to bring harm to her husband's political career (wait until he's back to being an entertainer--an actor splitting up seldom causes a lasting ripple of shock.)

So, after 25 years, she takes her time trying to figure out how to transition to a new life. She makes her own vulnerability visible to the general public, and a couple of radio jocks giggle about it and call her whiny. If she had come out more decisively, she would have been called a bitch. Whiny or bitchy . . . a gal really can't win. I guess you've really just got to be confident enough in your words and your actions to not care what other people say.

It's hard not to anticipate the attacks, though. I've seen couples split up and their mutual friends take sides and line up as if poised for battle, prolonging the pain of at least one of their "friends". I'm reminded of the brutality of a couple mutual "friends" of Doug and I (remember, "My Best 'Just Friend'"?) Those mutual friends quickly became Doug's friends and my ex-friends . . . because I was "bitchy." They may not have used that exact word, but I vividly remember Doug's friend Matt muttering "Hi Hateful" and "Jezebel" every time I walked by him on campus. I had no idea why he was saying anything like that to me when it was Doug who had broken my heart so badly I was walking about on the verge of crumbling to pieces. I'm not sure if Matt ever realized that his future wife, Lisa, had carefully engineered the whole break up because she wanted me out of the way so she could date Doug. Now Matt and Lisa are happily married to each other, and apparently oblivious to the destruction they brought about. One day, way back then, when I confronted Matt and asked why he called me Jezebel, he simply said, "Well, at least you weren't married." When I see Matt and Lisa fawning all over each other now, those words come back, echoing in my pain, and I just want to catapult back in time so that I can boldly answer, "Well, maybe we would have been if it weren't for you and Lisa!"

Transitions. In the words of Maria Shriver: "It's so stressful to not know what you're doing next . . ."

Inner Child Neglect

I'm usually skeptical of those who try to attach too much blame on childhood events for their present-day choices. Living in the present, it just doesn't seem all that helpful to dwell on the past. We've got what we've got--here and now. Some of us have been lucky and some of us have been dealt a lot of crap (AND some of us have dealt ourselves a load of crap). And the correlation between then and now is frequently the opposite of what you might expect. Those who were "lucky" as children can become complacent and lazy and make choices that really mess things up. Those who are less fortunate in childhood can buck up and with grace and resolve make a pretty sweet life. There are enough of those reverse examples to lead me to believe that it's more about what we make of the raw materials we have than it is about the raw materials.

That said, (in the words of one of my favorite lyricists) I've been "playing Cabbage Patch dolls with my inner child" lately. It's part of my patchwork self-therapy. Looking for the holes that need to to be patched in order to keep my soul from leaking out into a useless puddle.

I've been praying that I will recognize those things in myself--primarily faulty thought patterns that are shading the way I interpret my situation. What's come to my attention is the way in which my childhood does inform the way I respond to financial trials. I could say, "See! I can't help my reactions to this stress. It's all part of who I am." I could say that, but I refuse to be trapped in patterns born out of hurt, need, or insecurity. That is not the way of life I choose, so those patterns do not fit.

So, I've decided to "go there" -- to go back to my childhood and dig up the roots of my insecurity and fear -- not in order to wear them as an excuse, but rather in order to deal with them so that I can move on into joy and freedom.

The final nudge that prompted me to rendezvous with my inner child was an Easter blog post from a friend who alluded to how our childhood experience can affect our perception of God:

"...the way we view Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit speaks volumes of your enviornment that you grew up in and your view of men in general.... calling God father can often be an issue with many as it psychologically conjures up, often unbeknownst to us, our view of our own father and/or father figure(s). If we had a very strict father we may see God as a Legalistic Punisher expecting only perfection. If we had a father who was aloof and not emotionally there, we may see God very much the same. If we had a father who was caring and understanding perhaps that is how we see God as well...."

This came right after interviewing a man who, in his 50's, still struggles with the fact that he never knew his father. It was evident in the interview that the absence of a father figure early in his life still served as a template for how this man viewed himself all these years later. On some level, he still functions like an abandoned child--how he viewed himself, I said, not how he viewed others.

My friend's Easter blog post went on to pose this question about God: "He is what we need Him to be, don't ya think?" based on the assumption that "It's imperative that you view Jesus in a way that's helpful for you."

When this friend asked for my response, I was reminded of the scripture in which Jesus quizzed Simon to see if he really knew who He was. Jesus wasn't satisfied with Simon rattling off the company line, so He pressed on, "Who do you say that I am?" Simon's answer to Jesus' question wasn't, "I think you're ___," or "I need you to be ___," or "To me, you are ___." His answer was a very confident:

"You are the Messiah. The Son of the Living God."

And Jesus replied, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven." (Mt. 16:17)

As I typed these words right now, I got to thinking that, since actions speak louder than words, another way of applying Jesus' question to our lives today would be by asking:

"Who does my life say that He is?"

Then I thought of the musical, Jesus Christ Superstar. When the Mary Magdalene character sings, "He's just a man," some Christians run the other direction in terror, fearing that such blasphemy might be contagious. I, however, found the raw, honest questioning of the lyrics--rather than luring me away from an orthodox faith--set up the very sort of questioning that allowed me to be open to the answer.

It's not really who HE is that is negotiable... but rather who I am in relation to Him...

This may seem like a tangent, but it really does connect to this whole inner child discussion. If the Father in heaven had not revealed to Simon who Jesus was, Simon wouldn't have had the confidence to assert his faith so boldly. Conversely, the identity of his dad had never been revealed to the man I interviewed, and the result seemed to have affected this man's perception not so much of his father as of himself. Our early relationships provide a template for how we view ourselves, and what we expect from subsequent relationships.

If confidence comes from God, as I believe it does, then our image of God is utterly important. Comparing Him to a human father, or a mother, or a brother, or a buddy... all of these things fall short. I think certain aspects of who God is can be revealed to us in comparisons with things that we have an understanding of in the physical world, but I also think that there is a temptation that needs to be resisted to build God in the image as we would like to see him... and that is so limiting.

Looking back over the years, there have been times when I've doubted, but in retrospect, I can honestly say that I've never had a legitimate REASON to doubt. There have been times when my concept of God has been majorly screwed up, but He has remained constant. If I try to form an image of who He is out of my own needs or desires or observations, that is likely to be a false god.

What I need is for Him to reveal Himself to me... and when I ask and seek, He is faithful. The bigger question then becomes, "Who do I say that He is?" Who does my life say that He is--in relation to me? Do I know how to love Him? Can I let down my guard enough to be truly loved by Him? to be changed, truly changed? Who am I because of Him?

As I pondered these questions in relation to my childhood environment, my family of origin, and my earthly father, I began to realize how intrinsically tied up all of the relationships of our lives become. Maybe that's because relationships run on on tracks called "patterns."

I remember coming to a surprising realization sometime after high school graduation, when I first moved out on my own and attended churches where my daddy wasn't the pastor. I realized that growing up a P.K., I experienced role confusion with this first man in my life--my dad. When I needed a pastor, I had never really felt that I had one because he was my dad. When I needed a dad, there were also times when I didn't feel that security because he was a pastor. Being a pastor meant he was often busy shepherding others, and it also meant that he received a very low salary and we were poor. Although I don't blame God for our financial state, on some level there is an equation of the spiritual to physical lack. My practical relationship to God as seen through the template formed by my relationship with my dad/pastor could be described as "It's complicated."

I've stated before in this blog that I don't really have so much of a problem living with Todd not making a lot of money. I learned to live a relatively simple life growing up because of my dad's lower income and the influence of having older parents who still remembered the effects of the Great Depression. We had a black and white television that my parents had rescued from a dumpster when they were first married. Even though everyone else had colored TV's there was no reason to replace our old set as long as it was still working. We were that frugal, and we survived just fine. I even remember my mother using an old wringer washing machine, doing a lot of laundry by hand, hanging it out to dry on a clothes line, and darning our socks when they got holes in them. Most of my clothes were either hand made or hand-me-downs. I wouldn't have said we were poor--that was just how we lived. My parents didn't complain about the things we couldn't have, and they seemed to enjoy the things we did have. I look back on those early years as being almost charming because they provide such unique memories for someone in my generation. Few can identify, so it is a history that is uniquely mine.

It did become a bit of an embarrassment when I entered middle school, though. That's when I became aware that my clothes weren't cool, and that I was one of the poor kids who had to stand in a special line at the cafeteria because of the free or low-cost lunch program my family was on. Those things were irritations, but I learned how to adapt and retain a joyful youth: I learned how to sew and made outfits I saw in fashion magazines before they even came to our small-town stores. I skipped lunch altogether to avoid the cafeteria line issues, and enjoyed having a little extra free time in the middle of the day.

From that experience, I learned that having little didn't have to mean being miserable. Todd may have had a very different childhood. Maybe that's why he places so much value on having the right stuff, and he has great difficultly adapting to lean times, but rather keeps spending at the rate of his want rather than the level of need.

The insecurity I seem to have carried with me into adulthood is the fear of loss of home. In my growing up years, my family never owned a house. We moved from one parsonage to another, usually moving every three years. The houses were not bad, but they were not ours to decorate as we wished, and there was always the question in the back of my mind: How long until we move again? The sense of impermanence took a toll on my sense of security. Even though I learned not to put down deep roots, I yearned to feel connected to a place an a people. Our longest stay in one place stretched out to seven years--just long enough for me to finally start settling in, making plans. Then, right in the middle of high school, we moved two states away to an ugly house decorated by a group of colorblind church ladies, with discarded (out dated) wallpapers and carpets that I've never seen anywhere else (I suspect they came from some Twilightzonish parallel universe in which the sun never shines and dogs drag their tails about in an attempt to scratch the itches caused by fleas trying to eat their way out of the miserable world). As if the house wasn't bad enough (did I mention it was haunted, too?), the community was even worse. The town was smaller than small, and whoever said small town people were friendly must not have ever moved into a small town from outside.

That is the plight I was so delighted to spare my kids of when we were finally able to buy a house. It was with such joy that I picked out tile for the kids' rooms and drew out the pattern I would use to lay it. Then when we were able to add on a family room, I designed it myself with a certain flair created by angles that weren't typical. I selected colors for a faux finish that took four of us working in tandem to accomplish. Now when I sit in that room, it is the most comfortable place I've ever been. Like the parsonages I grew up in, it's a modest house... but it's ours. Beyond the house, the community has become home. We've lived here longer than I've ever lived anywhere--pretty much for all of my kids' lives. I've finally relaxed and put down some roots, and my kids are so connected I doubt they'll ever leave this area if they have a choice.

Having been relatively poor growing up, I learned to conserve--to hold on to things that still served a usable purpose--partially because things were not easy to replace. So, I take that pattern into adulthood, as we're living in a house with a mortgage significantly lower than what we would have to pay to rent a similar place almost anywhere in the country. Without a pension or retirement plan, I look at this house as our retirement plan. It's from that perspective that I'm looking when Todd comes along and reveals his retirement plan as moving back to his dad's house where he can get stuff for free. Now, to be fair to Todd, I must say that his dad's house is the house he grew up in. His parents built it, and I'm sure it is full of many pleasant memories of better, carefree times for him. I can see why he might wish to go back there. He did know when he married me, however, that I absolutely hated the climate of the state he grew up in, and that I had no intention of ever living there.

Now, faced with the possibility that his dad will not be moving back into that house and that the house will have to be "dealt with," Todd has voiced his intention to hold on to it. I tried to bring up the subject of how we would be able to afford the property tax and upkeep on a second home when we're barely making it with the first, but as is customary, he ignored the question. We could be months, even weeks away from being faced with decisions about the property, and my inner child is trembling. Is it selfish for me to expect Todd to choose our home over his parent's home? Am I making an idol of this house? Should I be willing to go where ever he chooses to go, even if it is a clear violation of the spirit of our vows years ago, when he knew I didn't want to live in his home state? Has clinging to this house made me unwilling to leave Todd for fear that I'd lose the house in the process? And because I've stayed and continued to enable Todd's irresponsible behavior by not being bold enough to issue an ultimatum, has my love of this house actually contributed to Todd's worst characteristics?

I don't want to play the victim. I know I am strong. I also know I am responsible. I'm not going to take my childhood woes and use them as excuses. I'm not going to blame my parents, God, the church, or even Todd, for the path I travel. I want to see clearly, act wisely, and speak the truth boldly in love. I wish Todd would want the same, but that's his deal. For now, I pray that I will continue to improve my sight when it comes to identifying my own shortcomings and strengths, my own responsibilities and possibilities. I pray that I will somehow be able to rediscover that inner child who was happy to run about in hand-me-down clothes in the fields on the edge of a remote prairie town, playing with sticks and rocks and home-made paper dolls instead of fancy toys. That child who was happy. Not because of stuff, but because of security in her parents' love. That child who had not yet learned to withhold herself from connections for fear of having to leave once again.

From the Steve Taylor masterpiece,

The Lament Of Desmond R.G. Underwood-Fredrick IV

Ah, the news of my impending death
Came at a really bad time for me
I was far too young to depreciate
When they read me my expiration date

I'd built Iron Man stalls in the northern wild
I'd played Cabbage Patch dolls with my inner child
Now I'm getting sealed bids for a granite vault
And I'm pretty sure this is my parents' fault

Desi Ray, if I may be so blunt
Galahad, bag your agnostic front
Underwood, hire a good undertaker
Freddie, get ready to meet your maker

Ah, the news of my impending death
Came at a really bad time for me
When they cancel your breathing policy
Tends to steal a bit of the old joie de vivre

I'd just found the lost key to my mythic life
So I bravely shook free of my kids and wife
I had seminars booked as a second career
Until a still, small voice screamed loud and clear.

Why didn't you say "I do"?

Life keeps getting weirder.

Things have been very bad with Todd lately. Very, very bad.

We're struggling financially. I know a lot of people are, but for us, it's nothing new... and try as he might to pin it on the "bad economy," it won't stick--he's never been good with finances, or work.

The stress has really been getting to me, especially as he ignores bills even when he does have enough to pay them, thus racking up late fees, disconnection fees and reconnection fees until we can't afford to pay at all and we're going further and further in debt every month. Through all of this, he refuses to sacrifice anything. He rarely puts in a full day's work, and don't even think about suggesting that he pick up a second job (something more reliable than his self-employment--or "self-unemployment" is probably a better term for it) or cut back on anything he feels he's entitled to (like cable TV, iTunes purchases, fancy beers, expensive vitamins....)

I've been very blessed to have landed a good writing job. It's something I enjoy, but it is time-consuming. When I'm taking care of the kids: taxi-ing, teaching, and all the other tiny jobs that get undone before I can even finish them, the work I do for pay feels like a second job, and I'm left with very little time or recreation. Putting in long hours working from home, it becomes very frustrating seeing your spouse sit around watching TV. Add to that the wastefulness that causes large amounts of money to essentially be flushed down the toilet--large enough amounts that it almost feels like I work for nothing. I was fortunate to be able to avoid a huge late pay penalty this week by taking a sizable advance (almost 20% of the total pay for this project that I'll be working on for at least the rest of this year). Although I'm happy to have avoided that waste, the downside is I now have a lot of work ahead of me without equivalent pay to look forward to. Once again, I feel trapped by my circumstances.

So, in the midst of this stress, I've tried to keep my mouth shut. Every time I bring up financial concerns, it ends badly. Todd doesn't like to have his delusions shattered by pesky reality. He doesn't want anyone pointing out that he doesn't work full time, and he doesn't make any more than he would with a full-time minimum wage job, because he believes that he works hard and makes more than he could as an employee. He badmouths those he works for if they say anything about his slacking work ethic, never putting together the coincidental fact that such observations are not isolated, but rather have been repeated by countless others over the years. It's called a pattern. Todd denies any pattern that doesn't match his dream world.

I said I tried to keep my mouth shut. Tried. But then we had a little "conversation" today. I asked him what he thought we would do if we lost the house (since our mortgage is much less than what we would have to pay in rent almost anywhere in the country). I reminded him that since we don't have any savings or any pension the house basically is our retirement plan. He said we wouldn't "lose" the house, we'd "sell it and get something for it." He finally admitted that it would necessitate moving in with his dad for free rent. I said something about how we'd have to be able to afford anti-depressants and constant air-conditioning if we were to move back to that humidity. He replied curtly:

"I didn't say 'we."

That hit like a ton of bricks. He replied too quickly for this to be a new thought -- he had been thinking about this in detail. He would run us into financial ruin, sell the house out from underneath us, and then leave me to run home to his daddy... Leave me to what? I wanted to know. I guess he didn't care as long as he was taken care of.

In no time he shifted the discussion away from his work and responsibility to my wedding vows.

"Why didn't you say your wedding vows?" he asked.

I was confused by the question out of the blue.

He repeated it, and I managed to ask for clarification:

"When?"

"At our wedding."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You didn't say 'I do.'"

"That's not what we were supposed to say. We were supposed to say, 'I will.'"

"What ever. You didn't say it."

"What do you mean, I didn't say it. We wouldn't be married if I didn't say it."

"But the preacher skipped over it, didn't he? When you passed out."

"He didn't skip over--"

"Did you do that on purpose?"

"What?"

"Faint."

I was stunned and speechless at that accusation.

"You faked it so you didn't have to say the vows, didn't you?"

With that, I got mad. It's bad enough that I've been married a couple decades to a boy who thinks his cable TV is more important than medical insurance, but then to have him insinuate that I faked a medical issue that I've been plagued by my entire life. My head was reeling.

"I've always thought you did that on purpose," he continued.

"Why the f#@& did you go home with me after the ceremony then? If you thought it was a lie?"

"Well, I didn't think it then."

"You said 'always' -- that you 'always' thought that."

"Well, for a long time."

I'm still in shock. To me this is all a game changer. It explains a lot. His ill thoughts toward me haven't gone unnoticed even if I haven't been able to put my thumb on them. I've always felt that disapproval. And my always does go all the way back to the wedding (and before). I'm ashamed to admit that my self-esteem was so low as to think that feeling was acceptable. He was hot for my body and I mistook it for love. When I brought up how I've struggled knowing that I "ruined his life"--citing how he used to say that back during the summer when he had a truck, a motorcycle, and a camper, and lived at a camp ground was "the last time things were good" (and incidentally, before he met me)--he said, "Why do you always bring that up?" I guess I'm just supposed to forget every thoughtless comment he makes (on multiple occasions, comments that match up perfectly with his behavior) or I'm being unreasonable, but he can take my medical history and re-write it as some sort of game and that's reasonable???

Is this evidence that the gulf is too great to ever be bridged? I think I'm going to faint.

The Secret

"The last time my yearning meter was this high, I made a really big mistake that almost destroyed a lot of people, a mistake that still looms over me with threatening posture. Perhaps I'll work up the nerve to write about that soon."


Maybe it's not "nerve" I need as much as release. Here comes the painful honesty:

Living a lie is like being in prison. Life just cannot go on as it does for those outside the bars. Like the old saying goes, "Oh the tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive." I'm so tangled up in this mess, that I sometimes wonder if we've moved on to the stage in which the spider wraps up the prey and sucks the life out of it.

You already know how it started: The deception of playing a role that turned into a commitment that never should have been. Temporary insanity turned into vows before God to "forsake all others" and bind myself forever to Todd.

There were so many warnings and chances to get out along the way leading up to our wedding. Why I didn't end it is a good question. Low self-esteem, fear of being alone forever, and a warped theology--belief that since I had already consummated the physical relationship, marrying Todd would somehow justify my sin and make things right with God. I wish I had better understood God's mercy--that He would have allowed me to start over--that what I was doing was totally crazy... but, you see, I even deceived myself.

Early in marriage (before children), given how crippling our relationship was becoming, I probably should have left, rather than continuing to enable Todd in his many selfish and emotionally abusive behaviors. But I played the martyr... figuring that if I toughed it out, everything would work out in the long run. Then came kids.

When he learned that I was pregnant with our first child, Todd was so stunned and fearful that instead of providing support, he elevated my worries over finances and basic survival. I knew an older couple (with solid jobs, a nice home, and an already decorated nursery) who had suffered miscarriage after miscarriage, year after year... and here I was: pregnant, poor, and (as Todd kept reminding me) in a hopeless situation. I actually got so low that I prayed God would take the baby from me and put it in my friend's womb. Sobbing, I plead for it.

As we learned about the availability of public assistance, Todd came around and got excited about the baby. Starting a family was the traditional, idealistic "next step" in our playing house (and Todd likes his traditional ideals), so we went with it and worked on trimming our budget and tucking away as much of my income as possible so that I'd be able to take time away from work to care for the baby. The baby arrived and I was able to stay home with her in our little studio apartment for a couple months. Then Todd needed my help.

We found a self-storage facility that was looking for a couple to work as a resident management team. We would get a nice apartment and a decent salary in exchange for both of us running the office during business hours and being on-call most of the time. That worked well for us because I was able to keep the baby with me in the office.

Baby number one was extremely colicky and didn't allow me much sleep, so I was incredibly exhausted most of the time, running the office (because Todd didn't "get" how to do the computer and paperwork), keeping up with home and laundry, and caring for a fussy baby. I was busy all the time. Todd, on the other hand--because he didn't do the paperwork or much of the baby care--grew tired of sitting around doing nothing. We were supposed to both be there so that one could show lockers while the other manned the office, but Todd soon decided that he wouldn't be missed much if he ducked out in the middle of the day to play golf.

I found myself frequently stranded alone in the office trying to juggle phone calls, paperwork, diaper changes, feedings and crying (both the baby's and my own)... AND if a potential renter showed up while Todd was out playing, I'd have to pack up the baby and lock the office (which we weren't supposed to do & would get in trouble for doing if the boss called or came by while we were out). I'd have to walk down the deserted hallways with strange men who made me nervous because (as the boss had said) it really would be better to have a man showing the lockers--lest some pervert (which transients who rent lockers are more likely than the general population to be) decide to take advantage of me. So, along with being over-worked and over-tired, I was scared--scared of rapists and robbers, and of homelessness if the boss learned Todd was not keeping the office hours we had agreed to and thus decided to fire us. That job lasted a year, and then we moved to an apartment that we got for free in exchange for managing a small apartment building.

Since the apartment managing job did not pay beyond the free rent, Todd took an outside job in retail. We were hired for the apartment managing job as a couple, and when I had problems in my second pregnancy and was unable to do all the physical work around the apartment complex, Todd didn't do much to pick up the slack, and before we had even been there a full year, we ended up getting fired (incrementally). First, the owner hired a groundskeeper to pick up the slack and started charging us partial rent. This might have worked out if I had been able to collect disability pay; however, since the job we had been hired for was intended for a couple, the doctor said, "You can't do the work, but your husband can, so I can't sign for you getting disability pay." Before baby number two arrived, we got to the point that we simply couldn't afford the rent anymore, so we moved on to yet another job that hired us as a couple and provided housing. This time the work involved was not as physical, so I was able to do more of it (and again, Todd pushed all of the paperwork off on me).

I'm not going to continue with all the details about the next job, but suffice to say, a pattern was forming... and through it all, Todd managed to preserve his own leisure time activities like golfing and watching sports, and even when he wasn't working anywhere near to full-time hours, he'd complain about being over-worked, taken advantage of, and he'd remind me constantly what a burden the children and I were--how good his life was when he was single. During this time, we had a third child.

The burden of maintaining a disproportionate portion of our shared jobs, doing most of the housework and childcare (because he just didn't "identify with" babies and young children) might not have been so bad if Todd hadn't been indulging himself in leisure and complaining as if he weren't. I was the one who would field the calls from our employers when he would slack off on his work or disappear without telling anyone where he was going. I hated being put in that position. I covered for him so much, all the while admitting to myself that if I were the boss, even I would fire Todd.

With our shared jobs and his ability to sneak off and do things for himself, this would have been the ideal time for him to have pursued some of his dreams (like acting)--dreams that he complained weren't happening (even though he did nothing to make them happen... because he "didn't know how to start.")

Did I mention that when we were dating, Todd had told me that he was going to be a writer and that he would make a role for me in every play or film he wrote? Well, even though I didn't marry him for that, I was naive enough to believe that it might be possible (and to think that he was actually going to pursue his ambitions instead of sitting around and waiting for things to magically "happen.") [Looking back, I sometimes think that if "misrepresentation" is grounds for annulment, I should be able to annul the marriage based on the writer story... however, I suspect there must be some sort of a statute of limitations on annulment.]

During this time, I myself still dreamed of being involved in creative endeavors (and even though it was daunting with three small children, part-time work, and not a lot of spousal support, I did little things to keep my feet in it.) Then one day, an opportunity came knocking on our door. I had pretty much given up on acting, since we couldn't afford babysitting so that I could go on auditions, but I did like writing. I had been studying by correspondence, working on writing short stories for children and had even printed up a business card with "writer" on it.

When trying to plan a play date for the kids, I gave one of these "writer" cards to another mother from our church so she would have our phone number. A few months later, after they had moved away, her husband happened to be looking for writers. She remembered my card and told her husband that I was a writer. He contacted me to see if I'd like to be considered for a job. He knew Todd, too, and said that they were looking to hire a writing team and if we could work together it would increase my chance of being hired.

I sent samples of my writing and reluctantly included the one and only skit Todd had written (even though I knew it wasn't very good). Ultimately the partner who had the final say in hiring, liked my style and said we had the job based on that (indicating that he wanted me to basically be the lead writer because he didn't find Todd's work professional enough.) And so, in that manner, we entered into yet another job as a "team."

Since a pattern had already been established, I shouldn't have been surprised that Todd didn't do much on this project. When we met to brainstorm with the new boss (the one who the story idea belonged to), Todd didn't say much of anything... but even worse, he didn't seem to even listen. He'd excuse himself and go take a walk, or a nap, or just sit there looking at newspapers and magazines. It was embarrassing.

Creative energies would flow when the guy with the story idea (let's call him Charlie) and I worked together. He liked my ideas and we worked well together. Charlie was ambitious and didn't shy away from putting in long hours. Todd didn't "get it" and since he didn't participate, he didn't feel needed. He decided it best that he pick up the kids from the sitter and go home. Just a couple days into a job that was slated to last 10 weeks, Todd bailed, saying that he would help "if we needed him."

This job had come along at a time when we were trying to get out of debt. I was excited that the salary was good, because that meant I'd finally be able to pay off my student loans and we might be able to put a little bit away in savings for those little surprises that always come up--especially with kids. Knowing we might be able to finally get ahead a little made it worth working long hours and being away from my babies--to me it was assurance that I'd be more secure in being able to stay home with them in the future. What happened to our finances while I was working almost shocked me. Almost. Todd had opened a new credit card that he didn't tell me about, and since we had this great new income, he didn't hold back on his spending. And to think that the stereotype is of WIVES being the spendthrifts! By the time we received our last paycheck on this project, the money had all already been spent and we were further in debt than when we started.

I should have been furious, but I had no room to be judgmental, or hurt, or anything... I had no room, because I had an onerous secret.

During the hours of working on birthing a story together, Charlie and I had become close. Too close. It was wonderful having someone who seemed to be smitten with my mind. We connected like Todd and I never had.

With Todd, as I've already said, our relationship started out (and pretty much stayed) purely physical. That can be fun and exciting for a while, but without the connection of minds, it begins to feel very empty. You know all those times when I said Todd would tell me to be quiet so he could "enjoy" something? There were way too many times when the only-child/loner in Todd would push me away. Too seldom was it a "good time for this"--this being conversation, connection. It seemed that all Todd wanted me for was sex--that he would be perfectly happy if I were nothing but a couple of boobs and a crotch. An inflatable doll, in fact, would be better than me because it wouldn't have a voice.

Charlie, on the other hand, liked to play with words. We could talk and talk. His work ethic was so refreshing and impressive after what I'd been living with for almost 10 years... It was a real turn-on to be appreciated by a guy who wasn't afraid to go after his dreams full-throttle, a guy who didn't whine about things not happening, but rather took the bull by the horns and made things happen... a guy who loved my ideas and would spend hours conversing about everything under the sun.

One evening, we had just reached a milestone (I think it was a solid first draft or something like that) and Charlie suggested we go out to celebrate. The company had a generous per diam, so we ate well. We also drank well. I had too much. To be honest, I had too much on purpose. We had been shamelessly flirting as we worked together for some time. It's easier to flirt when you know that it's not going anywhere, and it obviously wasn't going anywhere because I was married... right? So, when he offered me wine, I accepted. When he offered more, I took more. I knew I was a light-weight when it comes to alcohol and yet I celebrated, and celebrated, until Charlie had to hold me up to keep me from melting into the ground.

I was so joyfully wasted, I think he even had to carry me up to my hotel room... and there he stayed... most of the night. We just talked... he may have held me a bit while I was still tipsy, but I don't think anything else happened. He apologized the next day for getting me drunk--but I didn't accept him taking the blame because I knew what I was doing--and he told me it was hard, but he just couldn't let himself take advantage of me. Before that day was over, however, we kissed--really kissed--ravenously kissed (like we knew we would never allow ourselves to do more than that, so we had to pour every bit of passion we had for each other into that kiss.) Then, probably no more than an hour later, Todd came with the kids to pick me up.

Before returning home, we were invited for dinner to the home of the guy from our church who had gotten us the job. He and his wife decided it would be nice to invite Charlie, too. It's a fuzzy memory that plays like an awkward slow-motion scene straining toward an ending on an empty tank of gas, but somehow Charlie and I managed our way through that meal at the table with my family and his co-worker's family, our kiss and our desire still lingering in the air, almost palpable to us, and hopefully invisible to them.

The rest of the job would be carried out mostly by e-mail and telephone... or at least that was the plan. We would arrange future meetings as they were needed for the progress of the project. By the next weekend, the project (?) "needed" another meeting. This time Charlie stayed at a hotel near where Todd and I lived. Charlie was still at our place when Todd went to bed, so we decided to take our conversation (about the project, of course) outside. We went for a walk in the moonlight, and as soon as we were out of eye-shot, we became ravenous animals. We might have made love right at the edge of the trail in the woods had we not looked up and seen a coyote watching us. Saved by the coyote, we decided to call it a night. Charlie went back to his hotel, and I quietly slipped into bed next to Todd, careful not to wake him because I really didn't want to have sex with him while thinking of someone else.