Should I leave my lover?
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Some days I envy folks who can blog about their relationships. Most of you who can do that don't live with the guy you write about. Or do so intermittently, he has job that keeps him a way or even - ! - a wife.
Of course how many of you are keeping your mouth and fingers tightly shut I can never guess. Since it is my perspective I can't help but feel that when two people live together, the other is elevated to Lover instead of lover, to partner or Life-partner.
The Lover has rights to privacy denied a lover. My unhappiness with Charles is only allowed to leak out. Sometimes in an entry an entry on something abstract that eventually wends its way to a lamenting peroration.
OK, I feel I owe Charles a right to privacy since I'm the guy who knows everything. And I just don't want to whine. Last thing I want to write is one of those weepy weblog.
Why me … Why can't I … It is so unfair … Guys are …
Plenty of those, eh? Of course I can give it my own special twist:
No more nelly guys … Maybe with a woman … More masculine guys …
Charles is much saner than when we met. I don't get up in the morning wondering what nutty thing I may find. The rose garden won't be replanted, he won't have toted home hundreds of pounds of stone from a demolished building, the front door won't be a funny color.
With surprising will Charles has taken himself off all manner of medications and drugs. He doesn't go off on jags of rage.
Partly he's exchanged binges for apathy. Hours, days of watching TV.
And anger. The mornings when no reply I can make won't bring a hot retort accusing me of sarcasm. He isn't mad at me. Charles's rage it at being alive, living through another night, facing another day.
Each is equally hard to face. I miss the days when Charles would ask me which shirt I'd like to see him in. When he'd put on some scent because he knew it made me happy. The kind of folks I've found myself attracted to usually have some minor creative outlet. Maybe it is just trying to look pretty, a few recipes, minor craftwork that even if it is a bit silly makes me want to put my arm about their shoulder. The artifact or act doesn't matter. It is more than sitting for hours in a dirty nightshirt watching television.
I grew up with senseless malignant hate. I'll be cold in my coffin before I forget my father's mad anger when Momma served hamburgers instead of the fried chicken he'd expected. When Charles and I were first together I felt one thing I could offer him was my ability to surf with the storm. My Momma gave me the gift of shrugging my shoulders at ugly fortune. Charles' rage leaves me feeling like the innocent victim of bag weather. And I feel like I'm a kid again, hopelessly trapped into living with my father's rage. Charles doesn't mean to hurt me. His rage is too impersonal but I'm the available target.
Together we've deflected some deadly happenings. I'm amazed by how many times we've landed securely on our feet.
But I don't have a masochist's taste for self-damnation. I have to protect my clarity, feel satisfied with my life. Often I've feared that day would come soon.
So I've thought often of a date when I would workout my own secular salvation. My secret calendar has chosen a couple of dates significant in my time with Charles. The nearest is about six weeks from now. More distantly is about five months away.
Tolerating, self-denying, self-destroying merge too easily into each other. If only to feel that breathing is worth the effort I have to keep myself alive to what may be the right action.
I dread the day when I call my friends to have my belongings hauled out of this house without caring if it rots, collapses or is simply foreclosed on by Wells-Fargo. Some days I've wondered if I'm here to preserve the mortgage or to forgo the pain I'd feel in Charles' hurt.
A terrible cosmic slap in the face to want to be someone's strong shoulder only to find yourself fleeing from him.