Ambivalence, Part 2

Today I am feeling ambivalent.   Part of me wishes to never see Jack again.  The other part had a panic attack I woke up and he wasn't home.  He was at the hardware store buying plumbing supplies to install our new dishwasher.

Independence Day

Back in 1993, I broke up with Jack after having dated him for several years.  He was a resident and working untold hours.  I was tired of having him gone one night, exhausted the next, calm the following and then panicked again about the upcoming night of call.  His general unavailability coupled with my frustraiton with his general lack of communication was not a good mix, so I broke it off.  While I loved him, being attached to him was difficult.  I was lonely.  We broke up for a year before I groveled back on my belly, begging him to have me back.  "Anywhere you go let me go to," was my line, borrowed from Phantom of the Opera.  We were engaged within weeks.

During the break-up, I began to exert my independence in areas I never had before.  Jack was a self-taught bike mechanic, in addition to begin a doctor.  He got his first job at Evanston Schwinn back when we were in college.  Before I met Jack, I had to take my bike to a shop for a repair when I was a freshman. That was the last time my bike was ever repaired in a shop.  Jack took care of all of my bike maintenance after we met.

Jack was an avid cyclist who had built his own bike from scratch, which appealed to me when I was nineteen.  I admired his bike before I ever met him, as I was friends with John's roommate and had been in their room for parties when Jack wasn't there.  Biking was one of my favorite pastimes growing up.  When I was in elementary school, I'd ride around my subdivision in suburban Chicago.  During the school year, I'd ride after school every day for about an hour, covering the same ground again and again.  In the summer, I'd ride the morning before the cars were out and the air was still clean.  I kept riding every day after school through high school.  I'd ride fast up and down hills.  My thighs were solid.

During the year of our breakup, I was itching for a new bike.  Instead of calling Jack to ask advice, I took my tax refund to Cycle Smithy on Clark Street in Chicago and bought a purple Cannondale mountain bike.  What did I love best about that bike?  It was light weight so I could carry it up and down stairs taking it to and from my apartment's basement?  Its sturdiness riding up and over curbs and potholes in the city?  Both were true, but I loved it for the color.  It was a wicked awesome dark purple with tiny metallic flecks.  It was the only bike I test drove.  I rode it around the neighborhood and came back and wrote them a check.  I decided all by myself.  I still have it.  It was my main bike for years.

That summer, the bike needed some tweaking.  I had ridden it a little bit in the spring, but in the summer I was riding more.   I packed up a small collection of bike tools, and went to the park.  I adjusted the seat, the pedals and the handle bars.  I made some adjustments to the shifting and brakes.  I felt fearless and strong fixing my own bike after having someone else do it for so long.  It was my Independence Day.

This past week, I discovered that Jack's duplicity was deeper and broader than I thought.  I am frightened and scared.  Before the recent discovery, I has thought that we could fix things with hard work and compassion.  Before the recent discovery, I had asked him to write me a letter of why we should stay together.  He did.  Six and a half pages handwritten.  I was beginning to be swayed, and thought he was serious.

Now I am not so sure.  My pain and suffering has been unbearable.  I am grieving the loss of something that I thought I had, but really didn't.  I am reminded of my friend Michelle's quote, "You can't really lose something you never held in the first place."  I think of myself and that summer, fixing my bike in the park, independent.

Ambivalence

ambivalence |amˈbivələns|nounthe state of having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone: the law's ambivalence about the importance of a victim's identity |government ambivalence toward the arts.

I used to think that ambivalence meant that you felt kind of neutral or beige, like the french word for so-so: comme ci, come ca.

Now I understand that one can both love and abhor the same person at the same time.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Note:  This is an old post that I had written in February and never posted.  Thought I'd share now.  I didn't think then that I'd be revisiting this question so soon and in such an immediate fashion.  

My husband and I were at a New Year's Eve party this year at our neighbor's house.  I told two of the guys there the story of how I got a $25 iTunes gift card for Christmas a few years ago.  I was pissed.  Now I love iTunes.  I download music all of the time.  I hear a song on the radio I like, and with few clicks and $1.29, it is mine.  My husband makes a decent amount of money and we've known each other for a long time.  I am not high maintenance and I don't need fancy jewelry (see the post "Pearls"), but for crying out loud -- he got me a Christmas present the day before in the checkout line at the grocery store.  It required as much thought as buying a box of Kleenex.  I spent the whole f--ing month of December running around town buying gifts for him and the family, writing Christmas cards, baking, etc.  I cried for two days after I got the gift card.

The following Christmas, we went to Maui.  The trip was Jack's idea and he planned the whole thing.  "Now no one can complain they aren't having a good Christmas because we are in Maui," he reminded us after an awesome day of walking the black sand beach and settling in for a marathon session of Monopoly after dark.

At this New Year's Eve party, I also told the two guys a story from 1992 about how Jack (my then boyfriend) got drunk, got in a fight, and then threw up in my kitchen sink.  Jack and I had gone out for pizza with his friend Chris.  They were having a boys night out, and I decided to call it a night and go home.  Which was fine with me.  I like Chris.  He is a good guy.  I knew Chris before I knew Jack, and I was happy to let them hang out.

I was at home in my apartment in Lincoln Park reading a book.  We lived in a yuppie part of town, filled with recent college grads working in the Loop or going to graduate school.  It is a pretty quiet and safe part of town.  Imagine my surprise when I heard out the window.

"Fuck you, asshole."

"No, fuck you."

Wait, one those voices is Jack's, I thought.  He was a medical student, and swearing like a sailor.  I open the door the apartment, and I heard some ruckus.  Chris comes up the stairs with a bloody nose.  Another drunk guy was trying to get back into a party upstairs, and Jack wouldn't let in him.  Fists flew, and Chris was the victim.  Jack's face was drained of all color.  He said he was getting a drink of water, and walked to the bathroom.  I said he could get a glass of water in the kitchen.  He came back to the kitchen, and then vomited in the sink.

The next day, I said to myself, "I am done.  I don't need this in my life."  I took the El up to Evanston to get my haircut.  At the time, I was working at consulting firm where we were doing market research on a new cell phone.  I had a phone to test as part of the study, so I called my friend Kelli to see if she was available to dinner that night.  She wasn't home, so I got on the train and headed back into town.

As I was walking to the train, I got a phone call.  It was Jack.  He had scored two tickets to the Bulls game for that night and asked if I wanted to go.  He was working part time at a running shoe store and the owner had season tickets in row 12, center court, right behind Michael Jordan's father's seats.

I said yes.  And things were fine.

This was not some "I am going to be a total doofus and bring my angry girlfriend to a lame sporting event to make amends."  The Bulls were the hottest thing in town.  These tickets were a huge score.  Jack later said when the boss gave them up for grabs, he thought, I really really need these tickets.

Above and over the top seems to win me over, although I'd prefer not to get an iTunes gift card for Christmas or to watch my then drunken boyfriend get in a fight and puke in my sink.

Fast forward to the New Year's Eve party, 2013/14.  There was a new neighbor there, and he listened to both stories.  At the end, he said, "In one story, you said you were really pissed, and in the other you said 'I don't need this.'  As a guy, I'd like to understand the difference between the two.  I can understand pissed off, but at what point does a woman say, 'I don't need this'?"

Note again from today: I didn't finish the story, which is probably why I didn't post it.  When I wrote this back in the winter, my thoughts for an answer were simple:  Now we have two kids and a mortgage.  It is much harder to leave.  But now that I have been and am going through a much harder test, saving a marriage just for the kids and mortgage doesn't seem reasonable when you sincerely question your spouse's commitment to the marriage.  "Should I stay or should I go?" becomes much more complicated.  Yes, kids and house are two big factors.  Economic disparities are another.  Back in the 1990's, I was his rich girlfriend and later rich wife.  I really wasn't rich, but relatively so.  I had a reasonable income and had almost no debt except for a very affordable and manageable student loan payment, while he had a small income and oppressive student loans.  We had no kids and other liabilities, so I could easily choose independence.  Aside from not having a steady companion, the day-to-day part of my life wouldn't change.  Divorce at this stage would be an altogether different animal.

So, at what point do I stay or go?  What are the decision points?  A week or two ago, Jack asked me what I wanted.  "I want to love someone and be loved in return."  He was stunned and shocked by the simplicity of my request.  Chris, the same Chris who went out drinking with Jack in 1992, gave me some advice in recent days.  I told him the status quo was intolerable.  How would I know when to call it quits?  His reply: "Will he change?  If he can't, you know your answer."

Things I Wish for that Cannot Be, and What I have Instead

Dear Laurie,*

Here are some thoughts based on the past few days.  Please take care of yourself.

Love,

me

What I wish:  I wish I was born a man so I would not have the responsibility of raising children.  I wish I was a man because men rule the world and women ask permission.  

Do I have the power to change this:  No.

What I have instead:  I am a woman.  I have a womb and I have carried children.  I have a tribe of wonderful women friends.  Men aren't so lucky.

What I wish:  I wish Ada hadn’t died.  I had beautiful baby girl who died and robbed my innocence.

Do I have the power to change this:  No.

What I have instead:  I have two wonderful children who are smart and passionate and challenging and stubborn and alive.  

What I wish:  I wish my brother was sane and did not have schizophrenia.

Do I have the power to change this:  No.

What I have instead:  A great sense of empathy for all people, including myself.  I used to be the golden girl: smart and fun.  Then tragedy after tragedy came.  I have dear and loyal friends.  Bad things happen, no matter how hard we try to be good.  A loyal and supportive spouse and friends  helped me through difficult times.

What I wish:  I wish I had a husband who put his family before his job.

Do I have the power to change this:  I do not have the power to change Jack.  I do have the power to make a decision and take control over my life, either with or without him.  I can determine what I need, tell him, and see if he is willing and capable of change.

What I have instead:  A husband who has made his job and work a priority over his family for the past few years.  I have been impacted by his workaholism, as I have single handedly taken care of the kid while he works.  I need to move forward on my own life while I am waiting for him to pull his head out of his tuckus.

* Laurie is my childhood nickname.  Jack, my parents, high school friends, and a few college friends call me Laurie.  My given name is Lauren, and I started using it in my sophomore year of college.  

A Note from a Friend: Disaggregate and Blaze Your Own Trail!

My friend Jane wrote me a note last week.  (Jane of "The M-Word" post.)  These themes have been kicking around in the back of my mind.  

Lauren:

I say disaggregate (what we always tell the school district!).  It is so daunting to address the John-as husband-as workaholic-marriage-self confidence-job marketability-mid life questions about purpose as a single monolithic challenge!  It always makes sense when people say break down a problem into smaller pieces.

Recently, nearly everything is focusing like a laser beam on John (his workaholic tendencies, his choices, his emotional availability, etc.) and what impact his behavior and choices have on you, your marriage and your family.  This is a central relationship and person in your life, so of course it--and he--deserves a significant amount of your attention, but perhaps only a portion!

There are plenty of other pieces to this puzzle that have more to do you with you and just you than they do with the people with whom you live, and I think that part of this deserves as much--and, really, more--attention.  It seems like you are finding yourself in a somewhat unexpected place: you are a stay-at-home mom and you aren’t sure if the dividends have been what you anticipated or wanted or thought you agreed to.  You have been an extraordinary volunteer, but again, it isn’t clear if that is the right fit for you going forward--does it produce the outcomes you want?  In both cases, maybe this is a good time to take a new look at what is right for you.  What do you want?

There are a number of potential outcomes.  You could, for example, decide that you want to be the primary care provider at home and you want to stay out of the work force until the kids are in college.  If you made that choice now, you would be doing so with a clear understanding of what the “returns” are.  You might have new demands of the people involved if you were to make a conscious choice to do this.  My primary point is that the choosing would be in your power, and you would have some influence over the terms.  And, knowing what you know now, you might negotiate a little differently!

Similarly, you might choose to go back to the paid work force.  That might become a priority focus of yours.  It would involve different trade offs.  You would derive some of your “returns” from different sources (co-workers, bosses, etc.) and in different forms ($$$, different types of satisfaction re: work products, etc.).

I hope you will feel empowered to stop and consider the choices before you and not feel that John is calling the shots on all of the above.  He has a full plate of things he has to work through.  Those things don’t have to dictate how you feel about yourself and your choices.  You deserve to be your number one priority right now, Lauren.  You have been through an incredibly rough experience.  With the help of your friends and people whose opinions you respect, you can put the pieces back together and craft a way forward of your choosing.

Your friends are one source of that support.  I just said to someone today, “if you aren't feeling confident about yourself professionally, perhaps you could borrow some of the confidence that I have in you”.  Similarly, a friend of mine is at a major transition point where she wants to change jobs (and coasts), but she doesn't expect any support whatsoever from her husband (he is content in his situation and doesn’t really have an incentive to make changes).  I told this friend to look to others that will support her in this endeavor (if not her husband). 

Rather than thinking of you at a dead end, I think of you at the beginning of a totally new and different road.  Terrifying not knowing what is around the corner, yes.  But, the opportunities are plenty.  You are smart, you are capable, you are caring.  Even more than recreating your trust in John (which is important; just a separate issue), I hope you will recreate trust in yourself.  Believing in yourself will help put some of the other stuff in perspective, it will give you a strong foundation from which to navigate these complicated waters, it will help give you the strength to move forward.

How?  By doing exactly what you are doing.  Borrow some confidence from your friends.  Remember that these are people whose opinions you value and respect (know that we are right when we tell you that you are awesome and capable and that you can do this).  Put yourself first in a way that you have not done for some time.  Allow yourself to think about what you, just Lauren, wants and not what the other people in your household need or want.  And, go after it!  Blaze your own black diamond trail.

Fondly,

Jane

Burned by the Flame of Love

This is actually a funny story.  (It has been a very up and down week here.  Mostly down with a few ups, but more on that later.)

Last night, I went and bought a steak for dinner from Bill the Butcher.  I had never been there before, but a friend recommended it.  My daughter and I went to the Farmer's Market on Saturday and bought Swiss chard and shiitake mushrooms.  The Big E (nickname for my daughter) looked up a recipe and made the chard by herself.  She started the mushrooms, Jack cooked the steak and the Boy helped with the mashed potatoes.  I put the dining room back in order after painting the walls yesterday and then set the table.  Jack had calmed down from his usual drill sergeant self in the kitchen, and the kids were happy.

Earlier in the day, I had asked Jack to write a letter telling me why I should stay with him.  He said he didn't have time.  It was 6:20 a.m. when we were talking, and I said, "You have time now.  Start writing."  And he did.  He produced six handwritten pages of why he loves me.

I was feeling nice after several days of deciding whether or not to kick him to the curb.  As the dining room was taken apart for the painting, I saw our wedding candle and decided to light it and put it on the table during dinner.  The candle is about ten inches high and maybe six inches wide.  We have been married for eighteen years.  We burn it once in a while, but there is plenty of room to go.  There are pressed flowers in the outer layer of wax, so it kind of glows when the candle has a good flame.  Sometimes, the flame is small as it sinks into its pool of wax.  It needs to get going for awhile in order to get a strong flame.  (I am kind of a pyro, but that is another story.)

After dinner, I grabbed a steak knife and started poking at the burning wick to raise it out of the pool of melted wax.  I sometimes use a knife to move the melted was around a candle, and wipe the melted wax off with my fingers before it sticks to the knife.  Last night, the knife tip was covered in wax, and I wiped it off with my thumb and forefinger.  Usually, I am fine.  This time, I got a blister on my thumb.  The knife was much hotter than I expected.

Oh well.  Burned by the flame of love.  Literally.  Not a metaphor.  Otherwise, we had a nice evening.

Memorable Quotes

The other day Jack asked me what I wanted.  I replied to love and be loved in return.

"If you want a friend pal, buy a dog."  -- Gordon Gekko.

While I am lucky to have a great dog, I am lucky to have wise, insightful and caring friends.  They understand that life and marriage are hard, and are not calling Jack rude names.  (I get the prize for that.)

"The only thing worse than dogs are dog owners."  Jack's dad

"Death by a thousand cuts will sabotage your recovery."  -- Susan

"You can't lose what you never held in the first place."  -- Michelle

"You can't undo the past, but you can avoiding fucking up the present."  -- Susan

"Go at it with grace."  -- Michelle

Quotes from a website my dad found on the meaning of "I Love You" by Dave Willis

http://davewillis.org/the-4-meanings-of-i-love-you/

1.  I am committed to you.

2.  I will protect you.

3.  I will believe in you even when you struggle to believe in yourself

4.  I will prove my love by actions.

Dave Willis is a Christian blogger, which is fine.  Here is the final quote from my friend Susan:

"Come to Jesus or go to hell."

My writing teacher said I should try to post a picture with each blog post.  She is right, but I couldn't find anything for the most recent posts.  Anyway, here are some pictures.

A piece from the Berlin Wall on exhibit at the Pacific Science Center.  Hey, if East and West Germany could reunite, is there hope for Jack and I?

A tree in my neighborhood.

Something The Boy made out of random Legos at BrickCon last October.

A blurry picture of Fox.

A view of a pineapple island in Vancouver, B.C. Picture taken on the bike path in Stanley Park last summer.

Finding my Tribe

Note:  I am doing some blog maintenance and finding old posts that I never bothered to publish.  This one is from May 7, 2014.  As I mentioned in a previous post, this is my mid-life crisis happening.  I talked to a dear friend today about the collapse of my marriage.  She asked, "What are you afraid of?"  Not in a bad way, but in the philosophical sense.  This is a question for me to ponder.  It turns out, I am becoming less and less afraid of life in general.  

I suppose I can also add "Workaholic Husband and Subsequent Collapsing of Marriage" to the list.

+ + + + +

What happens when you don't belong in the tribe that you aren't sure you belong to?  Technically, I am a

Mother.  Daughter.  Sister.  Wife.

I am also

White.  Upper Middle Class.

In many ways, I've lead a charmed life.  I friend of mine was giving me shit the other day about it.  I recently applied for a job and I didn't get it.  I was crushed because I thought I had a decent chance at getting it.  Before she gave me shit, she gave me a pep talk.  She asked to me remember other times I failed, thought the world was ending, and picked myself to get back on the horse again.

"A good friend of mine from grad school said to expected to be rejected twenty times before you land a job," she told me.  "You've not gotten a job before, right?"

"Before I graduated from college, a consulting firm found my resume, interviewed me and then gave me a job," I replied.  "That job found me.  And when I left that job, I went to my college alumni office, and looked for who was hiring.  And I got a job again."

"Okay," she said.  "Think about a time when you were dumped by a guy."

"There was one guy in college, but I am not sure that counts as an official break-up because he moved to another state.  So it wasn't like I was really dumped.  He just moved away."

"You have never experienced rejection before," she said.  (This was the giving me shit part.  She was otherwise empathetic about not getting the job.)  She was kind of shocked.  Another hard part is that also really don't need a job, so I really can't cry too hard about that.  I would like something meaningful to do and to accomplish something, but my family doesn't need the money.  We could always use more to save for retirement, who couldn't?  My husband has a good job with long hours and we are fairly frugal and live within our means.  (Frugal to a fault, but that's another story.)  My being gainfully employed is optional.  Before I let her think of me as some kind of sheltered princess, I reminded her of the piles of tragedy and challenges in my life.

My first child died.

My brother has schizophrenia with a tragic outcome.

My mother has Alzheimer's.

So where do I belong?  I grew up with a bunch of lovely feminist elementary school teachers (thank you, Sharon Kolin) who taught me girls can do whatever they want.  Hellen Keller, Sally Ride, Susan B. Anthony and Eleanor Roosevelt were my role models.  Nancy Reagan was not.  Yet, here I am, 45, and my life is closer to Nancy's than the others. 

What the hell happened?

I married a doctor.

My first child died.

My brother has schizophrenia with a tragic outcome.

I had two kids.

My mother has Alzheimer's.

I sank.  I would never say I was depressed, because I wasn't.  I was able to escape the hell of losing a child and move on.  I withered as I watched mental illness ruin lives.  It took everything I had not to fall into the abyss, to stay sane.  My life shifted into neutral.  I am dog paddling in purgatory.  I got tried to write a book about my daughter and one about my brother.  I got a volunteer job to keep me busy, but also as penance.  Or maybe restitution or an offering to the gods.  I knew I couldn't make things back to the way they were, but maybe I could make or find peace.

Where do I belong?

The Toughest Job in the World

Note: Here is another blog post from April 23, 2014 which I didn't post at the time.  My marriage was in mid-collapse, but I had no idea at the time.  Welcome to watching my MLC (mid-life crisis) appear in real time.  I was looking back at the fourteen years of being a stay-at-home and trying to re-enter the workforce. 

+ + + + +

You might have seen by now the viral video from American Greetings on the toughest job in the world.  As of now, 15 million people have watched this on YouTube.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HB3xM93rXbY

The toughest job in the world is 24/7, no breaks, standing, lifting things, little sleep, and knowing medicine, finance, and culinary arts.  This job requires extra work on holidays, "with a happy disposition."  It requires giving up your old life.  All for no pay.

** Spoiler:  The toughest job in the world is being a mom.  **

Like anyone else with a heart, I cried when I saw this.

This video was circulated amongst a group of stay-at-home moms who are now deciding how and when to return to the paid workforce.   I have no intentions of debating whether or not to stay at home with kids.  I know many women have little to no choice if they work.  Other women choose to work, that this is fine, too.

I belong to the camp of women who "decided" to stay-at-home with my kids.  "Decided" is a tough a word for me.  My husband works night and weekends, and the job I had at the time my daughter was born required extensive travel, at least three days a week out of town three weeks a month.   One year I traveled so much that I paid income tax in California even though my home was in Chicago.  Given my husband's and my combined schedules, either one of us needed a new job, or we would need overnight childcare several days a week.

Before all of that, my pregnancy history was complicated.  I had a full-term stillbirth followed by a miscarriage.  My third pregnancy with my daughter was complicated.  While she was fine, the pregnancy had its problems, including a subchorionic hemorrhage, which meant I bled throughout the first trimester.  At the end of my third pregnancy, I had been pregnant for 92 weeks with no baby.

Dogs & Honesty

Note: This is a post written on April 23, 2014 which I never got around to posting.  At the time, I didn't know my husband was keeping secrets from me.  My brain didn't know, but my heart did.  I thought I'd post this as is, in its incomplete state.  Even though this is about a job I didn't get, honesty (or lack thereof) was a theme in my life at the time.  Interestingly, I never considered honesty an issue to ponder before now.  For my first 45 years, most of my life was face value.  Since then, it has become increasingly more complicated.  

+ + + + +

Dogs are honest.

When Fox is content, he wags his tail.  When he is scared, he barks or hides.  When he is hungry, he does the hungry dance.  When he is tired, he sleeps.

People are so much more complex.  Oy.  People have to act happy when they aren't.  They drink coffee to stay awake when they are tired instead of taking a nap.  I am not saying I want to be dog, but life would be simpler.

I applied for a job that I didn't get.  I know the hiring manager, and friends say I should call her and ask why I didn't get the job.  I trust the woman, but I am not sure I'll get an honest answer.  I don't think she would lie to me, but I am guessing she might try to spare my feelings.  I don't think she'd say:

"You are overqualified!"
"You haven't worked in 14 years!"
"Some people in the organization think you are a pest!"

Dad

Happy Father's Day, Dad!  Better late than never.

In addition to being a dedicated father, my father is a dedicated spouse.  He is working so hard to take care of my mother during her decline into Alzheimer's.  My biggest fear is not that something will happen to my mom -- I've read about the downward spiral and am expecting it to be bad.  Death by Alzheimer's is a slow death by a thousand cuts, with minor and major insults and injuries along the way.  This weekend, my mom got in a car and drove off to visit her friend.  She isn't supposed to drive, but she did.  She was lost for an hour, which caused panic in my father.  No one was hurt and no damage was done except to my father's nerves.

My biggest fear is that taking care of the woman he loves will kill him, wound his heart, break his spirit.  What they were looking forward to as their golden years will be much less, marked with challenges and difficulty.  I hope he takes care of himself.

Workaholism - Living in the Crack House during Recovery

As I've previously posted, my husband is a bona fide workaholic.  This is an addiction like any other: alcohol, drugs, or shopping.

So, what happens when your spouse's workplace--nay, profession--is workaholism central, a figurative crack house where he or she can get their fix?  What is a spouse to do?

This weekend Jack and I went to a party for his work this weekend.  It was interesting to see these people he spends so much time with, and to chat with their spouses.  If Jack and I hadn't had our recent collapse and efforts towards recovery, this party would have been thirty times worse.

A conversation with one of the docs turned to Father's Day with one of the few docs in the room who is probably not a workaholic.

"My daughter is taking me to see How to Tame Your Dragon, Part 2."

"I read that got three and half stars in the Seattle Times," Jack replied.

"It doesn't matter if it is good or not," said the doc/dad as he smiled.  "My daughter will love it and that is all that matters."

Three weeks ago, I would have burst into tears.  The Boy had wanted to see the new Godzilla movie. He is eleven.  What eleven year old doesn't love a monster movie?

Jack's reply: "That movie looks stupid.  I don't want to see it.  You can take the kids to see it when I am working Monday."  (Which was Memorial Day.)

I didn't reply.  I just took the kids Monday.

While I was gone for eight days, he had no choice but to deal with the kids and their good moods, bad moods, too much homework, not enough homework, doesn't like what we are having for dinner, and needing to drive them places.  This past weekend, The Boy and Jack watched World Cup soccer, streaming it from Univision, hearing the play-by-play in Spanish where the only words they understood were a few numbers, Messi and GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!  It took a disaster for him to make an effort to meet the needs of The Boy.

The other parts of the party were hard. One spouse came up to me (she is a second wife of one of the docs) and said she realized for her husband work would always come first, family second.  It was like that in her family growing up, so she was used to it.  She was used to it, but she apparently didn't like it.  She was looking for me to commiserate, but I couldn't say anything.  What could I say without giving it all away?  My husband--and likely yours and 75% of the docs in this room--would pass a test for that would meet a clinical definition of workaholic?  That the culture breeds thinking about the work all of the time?  And it reinforces what important work it is.  What could be more important that saving the lives of children?  Honestly, not much.

Jack told me once about a line from House of God.  The surgeon was heading back to the hospital for an emergency procedure and his daughter was home ill, probably with the flu and not a ruptured spleen.

"Daddy is going to the hospital to take care of a sick kid," the mom replied when the child asked where her father was.

"But I am a sick child," the child replied.

One of the signs of workaholism is going to work when you family is sick.  I remember on several occasions when I was sick when the kids were little.  I was doubled up on the floor between visits to the bathroom.  Jack left me there as he went off to work.

The other part of the culture that Jack is immersed in that makes it hard to break out of is the "I don't do anything in my life other than science or medicine."  I was talking to one of his colleagues about a writing project I am working on.  She looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.  She didn't know how to reply or what to say.

I begin to wonder what we have in common when all he thinks about is science and medicine, two fields so far from anything I've ever done or studied.  And he is in a work environment where most of the other folks have an equally similar narrow focus.

Any thoughts on how to help him break his addiction while living in the crack house?

Older

Note:  This is not the most interesting post, but it is the first post I've come up with since May 27 that does not revolve around the struggles in my marriage. 

We moved to Seattle ten years ago this August.  This milestone begs me to look around.

I see my neighbors who I have known for ten years.  Our next door neighbors are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary today.  Just before we moved in, they celebrated their 40th.  Another neighbor who used to organize neighborhood Halloween parties and Easter Egg Hunts for the kids has a son in college.

Last night, Jack and I attended the annual graduation party for the fellows in his department.  Many of the faculty members have been there since we arrived ten years ago.  I've thought, "I've known these people for ten years.  Everyone looks older."  I suppose they say the same about me.

The kids who were in kindergarten and preschool when we arrived are now in middle and high school.  Like the line from the song "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof,  "I don't remember getting older.  When did they?"  We have gone to open house events at the high school my daughter will attend next year.  All of the parents looks so much older than the parents in elementary school.  The scariest thing is that they are reasonably close to my age.  The other scary part is that I will have at least one kid in high school for the next seven years.  Surely I will age in that time, too.

I watch television or movies and see people who were big when I was in my twenties.  Hugh Jackman looks old.  Hugh Jackman.  He is not old.  He is my age.  (Just googled to check: He is 45-- six months old than me.)  Oy.  David Spade is performing at the Tulalip Casino.  That is where people who used to be big perform.  People past their prime.  And he is...49?

I suppose the world will soon belong to my daughter and The Boy, when people their age lead the way.

Wisdom

When a ninety-three year old woman who has seen the world offers you advice, you take it.

I had gone over to Eleanor DeVito Owen house for lunch to discuss our writing.  After we had our chicken soup and discussed her work, she offered me some hard advice on dealing with Jack.  Of course, she said it in the most polite and cheerful manner ever.  Nevertheless, it was hard.

"Tell him you need him.  Tell him you love him.  Tell him you want him all for yourself.  He has been on a journey for the past two years and you want him home."

Oy.  I was still slightly (okay, not slightly) in the rage stage.  I was mad.  I didn't want him to fix these problems with a tweak and nudge when I knew he needed an overhaul.

"When he comes home tonight, you are there and you give him a hug.  Then you recite this speech.  He will come back."

Oy.  No, I thought.  I can't do this.  I am too hurt and injured and I am not sure he can change.

"Tell him this is the most meaningful relationship of your life."

Well, that was true.  Was.  I wrote a few days ago that our past held some meaningful moments, with Ada and Michael where he carried me through.  But that was then.  I need someone now in the present and hopefully in the future.  Where was he now as I am struggling with my own midlife crisis?  Hiding, avoiding me, afraid.  Not afraid of me, but buried so deep in his job that he couldn't see his way out.  He couldn't look up.  He describes himself as a racehorse with blinders on, only racing forward, not seeing what was on the sides.

I practiced my speech.  She made me.

"No, no, no!  Do not give him chores or tell him what to do!  Keep it simple and one message."

This was going to be hard.

The night before had been difficult.  I was in a bad mood.  In the morning, I was more reasonable, but more like a wet cat is more reasonable that a cat being chased by a bear:  better, but not good.

"You need to hug and hold him while you are saying this, not sitting across a table from him taking notes like you are in a business meeting."  She raised her eyebrow at me.

I've been guilty of that this week.

I argued that the books told me and the therapists agreed we should...

"Ack!  Ack! Ack!  Don't listen to the books!  You have to tell him you need him.  He needs to be needed."

I paused.

"You are not allowed back in my kitchen until you do this."

Sigh.

Before I went home, I responded to a few texts he had sent me during the day.  "I had a lovely lunch with Eleanor.  I'll see you when you get home."  I went home and did as I was told.  I had warmed him up with the text so he knew I wouldn't be loaded for bear when he walked in the door.  Over the past few weeks, I'll admit my mood was unpredictable.  Sometimes, I'd be in a good mood and kind.  Other times, I'd read something in a book that would set me on edge.  In fairness, these past two weeks have been traumatic.  Just when one wave of grief would pass, another would crash.  I've been thought the cycles and stages of grief before.  I know that the mind can only process so much information at once, and the heart has its limits, too.  I had been overwhelmed.  Unlike other traumatic experiences like when my first child died, this one I actually had some control and choice in terms of the outcome.  Jack did, too.

Nevertheless, Jack and I kept getting deeper and deeper into the pit.  Just when we gained some footing, it slipped away.  I was also uncovering much of the anger I had storing away for the past few years as he slipped away into work.  It was coming to the surface.

"I am not sure I have the strength to pull us both out of this," he said the other night.  I knew he needed me, but I questioned why I needed him.  And that was a legitimate question in my mind.  Why did I need a man who ignored me on and off for two years?  Who was self-centered and self-absorbed?  Would he change?

When I left to stay with my friend Susan, it was the best decision I had ever made.  When I laid in her guest bedroom, I was relieved to be alone.  I was and am grateful she and her family gave me a safe place to stay.  This eight day absence hit the reset button for Jack.  He was forced to reconnect with the kids and take responsibility.  His backstop who took care of everything was gone.  I was also mad that I had to leave for eight days to get his attention.  Why did he have to turn me into a bitch to change?  I was annoyed at that.  I don't like being a bitch.  Really, I don't.

Which was Eleanor's point.  Stop.  Get off the anger cycle.  Yes, you were right to be enraged, but you have his attention now.  Tread carefully.  I needed to do an about face.

Jack and I had been sliding deeper into the pit.  I started my speech, but he wanted to tell me about how he had managed his day.  He was excited to tell me how he was fixing things.  I interrupted, and said my three sentences.  He listened, and seemed to relax.

It was as if I had gotten out my ice ax, and slammed it in the glacier to stop the free fall.  We still have a long way to go, but hopefully we can get out together.

To Love

One night during an unpleasant conversation, my husband asked me what I wanted.

"I want to be loved.  I want someone to love me."

He was slightly shocked by my answer.  I think he thought I would ask for something unreasonable, like pink ponies and unicorns.  In other words, the impossible.

"I want to love and be loved in return.  Isn't that all we can hope for in life?"

At the same time, I am learning to let go.  Recently, I thought that I could never replace Jack.  He was there when our baby Ada died.  Ada was a full-term stillbirth delivered on her due date.  She was beautiful, looking more like Jack than me.  It didn't look like I was even involved in the process.

When Ada was delivered, I held her.  My amazement at holding and seeing the baby inside of me for nine months was overwhelming.  I was filled with joy, with some part of my brain hit with the trauma suppressing my grief for a few minutes to partake in her beauty.  While I was rapturous over this small wonder, Jack was crying, sobbing into my lap.  He was carrying the burden of grief while I glowed.

And then there was Michael.  My brother has schizophrenia.  My dad called Jack after Michael fell apart and changed the direction of my family forever.  Jack was a rock and stable.  Jack was such a part of my family that my father called him first, told him first, before he told me.  I will forever be grateful to Jack for that.

But a real relation needs a past, present and future.  I need to make sure this relationship has forward movement, a pulse that keep us going.  If I need to let go of the past to take care of the present and the future, I will.

Uncomfortable

I am pondering writing about the recent difficult times I've had in my marriage.  These past few weeks have been exceptionally hard.  There have been ups and downs and sideways and flips.  There are times I am not sure how things will turn out.  Will we stay married or not, and how will I know what call to make?

All of these things are uncomfortable.  Part of writing this blog is for me to explore the comfortable and the uncomfortable.  Life is hard and sticky and messy at times.  Why should we pretend otherwise?  And how many of us go through the same things, but just suffer in silence?

Yet, we need to be careful.  My intention here is not to air our dirty laundry or say hurtful or mean things that could cause further damage to the fragile state of the relationship.

If I only wrote about the comfortable, that would be boring.  It would also be a lie.  The goal for me to share an experience, to bring light to the dark corners of the closet.  Trust me -- there are loads of dead spiders and dust bunnies.  I don't need to show you all of them for you to understand the process.

So, here is to exploring the uncomfortable.  Wish me well.

Sex, Money and Physical Attraction

Before my husband and I got married, we went to a pre-Cana class.  The session was all day on a Saturday in the fall.  Several dozen couples met at a local parish where we talked about marriage.  I am thinking in was St. Mike's in Old Town in Chicago.  Most of the couples were in their mid-twenties and early thirties, and had been together to a reasonable length of time.  John and I had been dating for more than seven years before we got married.  The general response from family and friends:  "It's about time."

For one of the exercises, each table of four couples needed to create a list of the top three things they thought were important in a marriage.  I volunteered to speak for the group.  One of the guys offered me a buck if I said sex, money and physical attraction.  I was in.

When it was my turn, I stood up in front of 50 or 60 people.  When asked what are the three most important things in a marriage, I replied, "Sex, money and physical attraction."

There was a pause before the room exploded into laughter.  I understood comedians desire to make people laugh.  It was awesome.  The guy handed me a dollar, but I refused to take it.

But there are other things.  Trust and honesty are to marriage like wings are to an airplane.  If it doesn't have wings, it isn't a plane.  Without trust and honesty, it isn't a marriage.  Yes, marriages need more than trust and honesty.  Wings are necessary, but sufficient.

After my husband's workaholism has come to light, there are more things that need to be rebuilt, including trust and honesty.  Honesty takes many forms.  First is the plain old not lying.  But there are other parts, too.  Part of being honest with a partner or spouse is being honest with ourselves first.  When things are falling apart, we need to tell the other person so they aren't surprised when things explode.  They can brace, prepare and perhaps prevent the explosion.  He needed to tell me he was overwhelmed and didn't know how to stop.  But he didn't.

While I dread the handwork in the months to come, I am at least thankful our marriage was stable on so many other fronts.  We have generally been three for three in the list I presented at St. Mike's eighteen years ago.  At least we have something on which to rebuild.

Anti-Depressants

As I am uncovering the debris from the explosion of my marriage, I am trying to figure things out.  One of my dear friends offered me some anti-depressants.  She highly recommended them.

I paused.

I have nothing against medicating for mood disorders or mental illness.  Sometimes people's emotions can leave them debilitated.  If a pharmacological solution makes them functional, so be it.

Yet, I didn't want to be medicated.  I wanted to feel the pain of this trauma.  Pain is our bodies way of saying stop.  I needed to feel the grief.  How will I know when it is better if I first don't feel the pain?

Change

My husband has just discovered he has a case of workaholism.  Like many other addictions, this one consumes all of his waking thoughts and attention.  He would check his email before he made his coffee in the morning.  He would sit in out office behind the kitchen while I made breakfast and lunch  for the kids.  I would feel like I was imposing to ask him to wake the boy while I was getting muffins or scones out of the oven.

As far as workaholics go, Jack is a successful one.  Bryan Robinson in his book Chained to the Desk describes the typology of workaholics.  There are levels of work initiation and work completion.  John scores high both, placing him in the "Relentless Workaholic" category.  These are the high performers who get shit done.  Family gets the little that is leftover.

As Jack dove himself deeper and deeper into work, he pushed me further and further away.  I would try to reach out and connect, and he would step away, thereby exacerbating my loneliness.  When I told him I was lonely, he would further retreat.

My life began to revolve around his work schedule.  I accommodated him with little show of appreciation or support form him.

But then it wasn't all that bad.  At times, we had fun.  What I didn't know was that he was always thinking about his job.

Jack and I each called a friend of ours -- a friend of Jack's from college.  This friend has since been divorced.  I asked him how he knew when it was time to give up:

"When I knew she wasn't going to change."

He bailed when he knew she wasn't going to change.  That the status quo would remain forever.  That she wouldn't or couldn't fix her problems.

Silence

A week ago Saturday, I was staying at a friend's house.  I needed a break from my husband while he pulled his head out of his ass.  I needed sometime where our conversation did not consist of me yelling "You fucking asshole."  I am sure the texts traced backed to Seattle saw a measurable uptick in the count of those two words.  The CIA might be alarmed.

In the case of who should have left, me or Jack, it had to be me.  The man needed to be broken from his addiction to work.  If he left, he would have holed up in a hotel and worked.  Checked his email and text messages 24/7.  It would be like leaving a boozer at a bar to sober up.  Nope.  I needed to go.     Our heated conversations needed a break, and it wasn't healthy for me, him or the kids to have to experience the rush and flooding of emotions.  The kids needed a break when they were getting ready for school.  They didn't need to leave on a note of acrimony.

The night I left, we talked on the phone.  "Talk" here is a misnomer.  I mostly screamed.  He was mostly defensive. 

"What should I do with the kids?  I have to work," he said.  "I have call of these nights..."

"Figure it out yourself," I said. 

"But..."  

"Figure it out," I said.

Silence.  

Since the day our daughter was born, I have been the one figuring it out.  I have been his backstop for all things work.  I have been the one waiting at home with the kids while he is on call or working over night at the hospital.  Out of town for conferences. 

He is a smart man with great organizational skills and executive functioning.  He needed to figure it out.

+++++

The second round of silence was far more painful.  I left Thursday night, and Saturday I met the Boy for breakfast.  We went to Specialty's Cafe, his choice.  Since Tuesday, I had been talking non-stop about the situation of my marriage and try to figure things out.  It was a roller coaster.  I'd settle, then a new wave of understanding and then anger and heartbreak would flush through.

The Boy was different than talking to all of my friends.  For the previous few days, it had been all about me.  This time, it was all about the Boy.  In the car to the restaurant, I asked him a few questions about the past few days at school.  I had seen him Thursday before I left, and I talked to him Friday night.  

At the restaurant, we sat in silence.  While we were waiting for the food, he had his back to me, looking at the counter, waiting for the servers to call our food.  When the food came, I asked a question or two to start conversation.  He shrugged, and I let him be.  His sadness was palpable.  He needed to be quiet, and I let him.

When we got home, he showed me his new lego train.  He showed me how he used a piece with the wrong color in one spot, and had to take it apart and rebuild it.  Later in the afternoon, he insisted I watch Parks and Recreation with him.  He knew I needed the distraction.  He told me he loved me first, before I told him I loved him.  At the time I appreciated his tenderness and attentiveness.  

And then I was haunted.  He was taking care of me.  Yes, children need to learn responsibility and need to learn to give love.  That is why we got a dog.  But I am the parent.  Until he is grown, I need to take care of him.  Not the other way around.

Separation, and What is my Blog About?

Last night, I returned home after an eight day separation from my husband.  Thursday was my daughter's fourteenth birthday, and last night we took a handful of her friends out to see the movie The Fault in Our Stars.  It is love story about teenagers living with cancer.  I stayed at home after the party.

The movie and the birthday party are not the point here.  The point is that I got fed up and left.  The shit hit the fan Tuesday night.  I realized the status quo of our relationship could not and should not hold.  Jack was unaware that this was the case.  I was able to hold it moderately together until Thursday, when I friend saw my anguish and offered me a place to stay until I could recover. I knew I was taking a break during this time.  The main question I need to answer is: "Should I stay or should I go?"

(There are lots of details as to what drove me out.  Lots.  While I wish to write about it, I will grant my husband and I some privacy over the details as we try to make sense of them ourselves.)

One of the main themes that has come out is my husband is a workaholic.  Addicted to work.  He took a survey in U.S. News and World Report, and answered 17 out of 17 for questions that suggest he is a workaholic.  I am starting to understand the impact this has had on our family and myself.  Reading Chained to the Desk by Bryan Robinson is simply terrifying.  He describes workaholism as the best dressed addiction.  It beats down the other family members.  I felt a sharp pang of recognition when a woman writes about being ill and home with the kids while her husband trots off to work.  I looked back a few bouts of violent stomach flu while my spouse carried on while I tended to toddlers.

The good news is Jack identified this himself.  The hard part will be fixing it.  It is not as debilitating as drug addiction, but it will likely be as hard to kick.  As Jack said, he tried to solve the work problem by working harder.  That is like the drunk trying to get sober by having another beer.

Which leads me to an interesting point.  I was working with my writing teacher, Theo Nestor.  I asked her to take a look at my blog and to see what she thought and to get some advice and direction.  She recommend I develop a unifying theme for my blog, a few topics that hold it together.

After the shit hit the fan, I took a look back at my blog, and I understood the theme.  It was theme of a woman barely holding on, barely holding it together.  A woman who looked to her dog for unconditional love.  A woman whose rage is starting to boil below the surface before she even knows what is wrong.  A woman who cries for no reason.  No, there was a reason.  My heart knew something was wrong before my head figured it out.

And yet, I pray for hope.  I think of two things I wanted to write about but didn't.  When I was in Columbus, I visited the Columbus Museum of Art with my mom and dad.  There was a beautiful exhibit of Judaica, showing the art of the marriage contracts, created as art.  It was lovely.  I spent a decent portion of time looking at the contracts.

And then, the night before the shit hit the fan, we were all driving the car going past Kidd Valley, a hamburger restaurant.  They were selling Pina Colada milkshakes.  When we got home, Jack showed the kids a video of the Pina Colada Song online.  I checked the browser history to confirm the date.  Perhaps that is something subconscious, too, perhaps a plea for help and connection from him via the song.  Maybe he would rather be married to me than his job.  Time will tell.  As my friend says, guilt and admission are not sufficient.  He needs to change.