Jumping Ship

Yesterday was the closest I have ever been to ending my marriage, really ending it.  Not with a screaming match, but with a calm, normal, regular, rational voice.  (Okay, there would be crying and tears of sadness, but not rageful tears of anger.)  I've thought of several metaphors/cliches: jumping ship, throwing in the towel, cutting bait.  I was ready to cash it all in, put the chips on the table.  Yes, there would still be fear and uncertainty.  I was ready to call a friend who has been through a divorce to ask her how she knew it was time to end things.  What did her gut tell her?  What did it feel like?  Was she relieved?  Scared?  Ready?

Tuesday night, started out as a normal evening but ended as a family meltdown, quite by accident.  Everyone's temper must have just been at 210 degrees, because it didn't take much to push us all to boiling.  And we fell like dominos:  first the Boy, then me, then the Big E.  Jack was the big, heavy caboose.  Not a night I would choose to relive.  No one was at their best behavior.

At the end, Jack threatened to leave.  "I can't take this anymore.  I am going."

I have to admit, I was terrified, but not surprised.  The last two weeks have been better, but a slight uphill after five months of cratering didn't generate enough momentum to get us over the hump.  Jack has said he has been holding on for the both of us, and I can see him being tired.  Hours before the meltdown, we had heard some bad news:  a good friend's marriage had hit a crisis.  While it was good that we discussed the situation and we both felt bad for them, discussing the situation was slightly polarizing.  I took the wife's side and Jack the husband's.  I wasn't a little on the wife's side, I was her barking, screaming coach.  Think Burgess Meredith in Rocky on amphetamines.

He did take it back, said he didn't want to leave.  His frustration had reached the point of no return.  I could understand, having been there myself so often these past few months.  We have so much to fix, at times it seems insurmountable.

Nevertheless, the next morning I woke up in a foul mood.  Aside from the meltdown, I was thinking about the next few weeks.  Jack is taking a big trip, a binge fest for a workaholic with meetings likely starting at breakfast and finishing after dinner.  This will be immersion: surrounded by work people with nothing else to do except talk about work.  I am dreading this time.  While he is out advancing his career, learning new things, having an adventure, I will be staying home holding down the fort solo.  Every meal, every activity, every minor bit of planning  and family management will have to be done my me.  Yes, I am resentful.  What sacrifices has he made for me?  Will I always be the giver?  Will he always be the taker?

Aside from that, I will be lonely.  Given all of the family tasks that will need to be done, I'll lack adult companionship.  This trip covers two weekends,  and I foresee Jack working nineteen days in a row.  Sure, I know this happens once in a while, but once in awhile seems to be a monthly occurrence.  With his long stretches in September and another in October, it is hard to bounce back and recover, especially with another stretch coming up November.

I am tired of being lonely.  It is ironic that being lonely in a marriage would make me want to leave it.  Wouldn't I just be more lonely?  I guess I would then be lonely on my own terms, not his.  A friend of mine always says, "The light bulb has to want to change," meaning change from an individual has to be internal, driven by their own desires.  I see that Jack wants to change.  He wants things to be different.  I can understand that he doesn't know how to make these changes.  At the same time, wanting to change isn't in itself sufficient.  At some point, the light bulb needs to change, not just wish it to be so.

When he came home, I told Jack I was worried about being lonely while he was gone.

Last year, he would have shut down.  Last year, he would have gotten defensive.  Last year, he would have said, "I am doing the best I can."  He would not have acknowledged how I felt.  He would have deflected the charges and changed the subject.

This year, he said, "I know.  I'll be lonely, too.  I don't know how to fix this.  I don't know what to do."

Progress, progress, progress.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step.  He thinks he is hanging on for both of us, but I am hanging on, too.  I need reassurance that he sees what I see.  Maybe then I won't have to jump ship.