Wisdom of MY Words

Random Musings & Book Reviews

Archive for March, 2017

17 March

Say Hello Wave Goodbye

d. Sad to the core of me. I’m beyond devastated that I stopped cheating and he was unable to open up to me. These men from Minnesota are so broken it makes me weep. My mouth, mucus heavy at the back of my throat, tears streaming down my face, I am simply emotion. I am nothing but feelings. Tragedy. Sorrow. Pain. I want to be a damsel from 1820 and throw myself off a cliff. The great dilemma of the start of the twenty-first century; romantic love is elevated to such a degree that a love of the minds is discouraged. I remember the moment I decided to get pregnant with Zack. I remember the moment I gave my will up to “the spirit,” as my beloved cousin Dawn calls it.

My daughter is twenty-two and owns a dog, or he owns her, giggle, giggle. She’s wanted a dog since she was tiny. The Wolski-Davis’ didn’t own dogs. “We weren’t animal people” Nana Wolski would say, in that voice reserved for low-tone. Now in my fifties, I know that is a shaming tone. It is rude, judgemental, belittling, demeaning. It’s the tone my husband uses when he talks to myself or our son. It’s the same dismissive way his own father spoke to him. Dirty is how I feel after Jon gives me a verbal lashing. Most of the time it’s the nonverbal that are the hardest though.

Because Jon doesn’t speak. I don’t know if I’m loved, hated, desired. I don’t know what he expects of me, and since he’s mostly stopped speaking I can only seem to attack him. I can’t get my tongue to say, “Please let’s go to Walkin Counseling. You keep saying we have all these years behind us, a child, raising children together, but I don’t see you doing a damn thing. You aren’t suggesting counseling. You aren’t making appointments with therapists covered by our shitty insurance. As you can see, I start out and then I attack. I can see where my language changes. I can feel the words and their colours, but I can’t stop myself from being angry. I’m tired of being the only person that wants to solve our problems. I’m tired of being told I’m worth nothing by this technique called stonewalling.

In the Year of Trump, lalalalalalala, she comes out of the sun in a silk dress, in the year of the Trump, mumble mumble because Trump takes more space than cat in the song and changes the pacing. Sniffle sniffle. Don’t bother asking for explanations, She’ll just tell you that she came
In the year of the Trump.
She doesn’t give you time for questions
As she locks up your arm in hers
And you follow ’till your sense of which direction
Completely disappears
By the blue tiled walls near the market stalls
There’s a hidden door she leads you to
These days, she says, I feel my life
Just like a river running through
The year of the cat
While she looks at you so cooly

By my husband’s own admission, he waits for me to take action. What I call “waiting me out.” And I’m sure I’m going to come across as a callous bitch here, but I can see why women can’t handle lagabout husbands that don’t even pull their frair share. Like Sunny bitching about Scott. My own husband has expected me to find him work for 18 years! I’ve navigated two careers, been treated like shite by recruiters, internal HR, the local IT community, neighbors, and friends for the bizarre way Jon has decided to handle his career. Jean Fox-Pearson said to me once, “You need to make him responsible for his career, he’s getting a reputation for being difficult.” Guffaw! No shite Jean, I wanted to say. I remember asking Jon if I could speak with him and I told him that recruiters were talking about us and he said, “Fuck them. Just keep sending out my resume.”

Then my own IT career started taking on water. I was generally disliked by women, in or out of IT, and while men treated me better, they all wanted to fuck me. It was easier to tell myself that I could lose the weight on the back end since guys left me alone for the seven years I was fat. It was a relief. As I tipped the scales at 200 I could see my appeal wearing off. Recruiters who’d been happy to flirt with me before started to actively avoid my calls. That was a bitter pill to swallow.

Before I started writing this, whatever this may end up being, I’d been looking for my voice. Month after dreary month driving through Nebraska and Iowa, long brown landscape damp and sinister. I realized one day, while lying in bed in pain, that I couldn’t find my voice because I was trying to mask it with teenage narratives, IT narratives, things I was not passionate about because I am frantic to make money. Every day we spend more than we bring in. We are not in retirement. I didn’t plan for this liquidation of assets at only 52. I’m having constant panic attacks because we will run out of money at the rate this is going. I don’t want to go back to sex work. I cannot go into an office for $35/hour. I earned more with less education and hands on experience than I did a decade ago, yet cannot earn enough to pay the bills.

Jon’s trained me not to spend money on computer equipment. That it runs through him. My computer and my phone don’t work right, I can’t drive because of the pain and headache due to an antibiotic resistant middle ear infection, ottis media. I can understand how Jon doesn’t know where to start with the job search. Just like he doesn’t know how to invest because he expects me to do it all. I’m currently struggling to make sense of iPhone and Apple laptop reviews. I dreaded doing this myself because he’s done the research. He’s more deal savvy. He hates to talk to recruiters. That the interview is hard enough for him. The interview itself is soul sucking to him. He gets upset that Simon questions me whether Jon is working or not when he calls from jail. Zack said us arguing and Jon’s chronic unemployment is difficult to live with. He told me it was too late, even though I’m only 52, for me to find happiness. I gave him a dirty look and he replied, “Not that you shouldn’t try to achieve it, or get divorced because it’s the better than the alternative. What I heard was, “You’re doing the alternative. You’re settling.” I can’t seem to explain that I feel like I am in quicksand all the time. The bullying of my youngest son in Minneapolis, Jon’s constant need for my attention, Miriam’s wishy washy texts. We plan on her bringing the dog over today because she’s going drinking like a good Wagner/Meyer/Davis/ Wolski alcoholic on St Paddy’s Day. My daughter’s drinking will wind up costing her much during her life. Writing those words feels so final. I’ve prayed and begged for my daughter to go to therapy, or read up on addiction and get help. My daughter and I have a precarious relationship that perplexes me. She’s part of this chick squad, the smaller one First Communion kids from Annunciation, and the wider one includes gals from college that grew up in St Paul with exotic names like Lily and Vanessa. She went to Michigan to work at the Eileen Fisher store in Sterling.