Love or Money; or Failure to Thrive

I ran into a friend in the bookstore yesterday.  I hadn't seen in him ages.  He didn't know the story about Jack and I, and didn't I really want to tell him.  I had been avoiding him for the past several months.  But then I was in a bookstore after I dropped Jack off at the airport for his twelve day trip overseas, which he insists is ten days with two days of travel.  (To me at home alone with the kids, it is twelve days.)

With this friend, I got on the topic of Jack's workaholism.  He could relate, knowing quite a few workaholics himself.  He had previously heard about Jack's grueling work schedule, and never questioned how difficult it is.

(By the way, I think of this guy as an old woman.  If you knew him, you'd understand why.  He is a friendly, chatty, curmudgeon.)

This friend encouraged me to stay in my marriage, and vigorously so:  "You have kids!  If you get divorced, you'll be broke!  You have kids!  There are no other good men out there!  It is like musical chairs and the only chairs left are the broken ones!  You have kids!"

I tried telling him this marriage had gone beyond sustainability, that it is impossible for two married people to live independent lives and pretend that everything is normal.  Our marriage had died, and now it is on life support.

"Do your own thing.  Find something you love.  You don't need the money, so get a small part-time job.  Start your own business," he replied.  He is right, yet I still have this nagging feeling of being trapped and/or paralyzed.  I don't know why.  I should move on and find my own happiness.  I should do things that I love, with or without Jack.  And that is the scary part for me.  Somewhere deep inside, I still love him, but it hurts to love someone who isn't present.  I am a writer and introvert.  I need a quiet, constant companion.  I am not thriving with a partner who works this horrible schedule.

"Nature abhors a vacuum," I said.  I didn't say the loneliness is crushing.  I didn't say that I tried to live independently, but it was a miserable failure.  Emotional needs need to be met.  Humans aren't programmed to live with out affection, admiration and attention.

Which got me to thinking.  Most people get married for love, but stay married for money.  We get married for companionship, love, affection, attention, fun.  Some people can keep this going for decades.  Other marriages slide into an easy comfortability, or ebb and flow.  Others die from lack of oxygen.  All marriages need regular tending to, and need a balance of give and take.

Earlier today, I read on a blog "Givers are happy.  Takers are miserable."  This is not entirely true.  Givers are often happy because they get something in return for spreading joy and happiness in the world.  Often, their gifts are reciprocated.  But what happens when they are not?  What happens when the person or people they give to aren't appreciative?  What if those people just take, or do all their giving to other people?   Doesn't that make the first giver a little testy or put out?  Having been there, I would say yes.

So love dies in a marriage.  When it dies, it often isn't planned, like a murder, but through failure to nurture and tend to the garden.  The plants aren't watered, and they fail to thrive.  They might grow a little bit, but do not reach their full potential.  The plant might be reasonably alive, but it might not flower, bloom or bear fruit.  So here we are, in a marriage that was not thriving, where loyalty, honesty and trust were not present, where one party lacks introspection and self-awareness.  Yes, he is working to get them back, but then he disappears for ten days or twelve days or whatever.

So we stay married for economic security, and emotional security is an afterthought.  But I am too high maintenance to live like this.  I need emotional support.  I need companionship.  What happens when my companion isn't present?  I would like to think I am like those pioneer women who can go it alone, but I am not.

Actually, the pioneer women didn't go it alone.  They were part of a team.

A picture the Boy took of me when we were walking Fox last night.  This has nothing to do with the story above, but I thought it was a nice picture.  We are on the footbridge over the ravine in Ravenna Park.

Love is like a Rechargeable Battery...

I was thinking that love is like a rechargeable battery.  There are lots of metaphors for love.  Some people think of it as a vessel, others a bank account.  I like the idea of a rechargeable battery.  If you don't continually plug it in or nurture it, it will die.  I suppose one could die of thirst if a water container was empty, or one could be out in the cold if the bank account zeroed out and you couldn't pay rent.  But a battery just stops.

One nice thing about batteries that love doesn't have is a meter.  I can read my phone and laptop to see how much charge I have before it runs down.  (I rarely let my devices get below 70% of a full battery.)  Love doesn't come with a charge level.  It would be nice if it did.

Good Enough

I went to my hairdresser today.  He is a good marker in my relationship with Jack, as Jamie sees me once every few weeks.  I was a wreck of epic proportions when I saw him in early June.  Later in the summer, I was still a mess.  Today he said I seemed almost positive and hopeful, which is ironic since last week I was ready to bail on my marriage.  I was ready to say it was over.

Which leads me to the question: what is good enough?  Jamie pointed out -- and rightfully so -- that is seems that Jack in changing for the better, that he is trying.

But when is it good enough?  He can make small improvements, but how much improvement do I need?  Do I need big, radical changes, or small incremental ones?  I can see that small, incremental changes might be more sustainable, more realistic to maintain than some giant personality overhaul that doesn't stick.

A friend suggested that perhaps I stay in the marriage but find outside companionship.  I would keep the family together, and I would potentially get my emotional needs met.  Win-win, so to speak.  Other societies, like the old British aristocracy, have arrangements like this where marriages are designed to join to households instead of building a romantic and familial partnership. I've read about the times in which Winston Churchill's mother lived.  Companionship outside of the marriage was almost a given.

For me, I don't think this would work.  I don't think I am so self-righteous or moral that I couldn't have an affair.  I have seen the ugly underbelly of affairs, the messy cleanup.  I have a few friends who've had an affair.  For a majority of them, the affairs ended badly.  There was no "happily ever after."  Either their marriages ended up in need of significant repair, or the emotional burden of living a lie was too much.  Regret and remorse were deep.

Part of the idea for me to have an affair--whether an emotional affair or something more--is that it would then be okay for Jack to have an affair.  That is not something I could easily accept.  I've read stories by two women who've had open relationships.  It sounded fine to them until they were left home alone many night knowing their partner was out philandering.  Their misery was profound.  I came into marriage with the expectation that Jack would be my companion, that we wouldn't need to look elsewhere.

I can't live in a relationship where my emotional needs aren't met, nor can find a way to get those primary emotional needs met outside of my marriage.  And I am not talking about the basic needs I have that would be met by friends, family or my kids.  I am talking about the needs that for most people are met by their partner.

Here I am, pounding on my thesis: when will this be good enough?  Based on my own argument, good enough is when my emotional needs are met.  And what does it mean if at the end of the day I still feel lonely in my own marriage?  Then what?

This would be easier if I flat out hated him.  If I hated the way he chews his food, brushes his teeth, or talks to the neighbors.  It would be easier if I disagreed with his political views, how he spends money or if he were a racist.  It would be easier if he were abusive or hostile.  I would leave, no looking back.

But he is not.  Minus the workaholism and its is effects--which by no means are small, he is generally a good guy.

And therein lies my problem.

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.

Important and Help

Last week for the first time in ages, my husband made me feel important. Last Wednesday, the evening was scheduled to be a nightmare: four people in our family had six different places they needed to be. I had a PTSA General Meeting scheduled for Wednesday night, which had been on the calendar for a few weeks. I am the President, so I couldn't bail unless there were a bona fide emergency. Jack was double booked with a night of call and interview of a potential hire over dinner.  Jack had moved the call to go to dinner, but our usual sitters were unavailable. The Boy has Rocket Club and soccer practice, and the Big E had a Cross Country potluck dinner the night before the meet. Leaving the kids home alone to settle down, finish homework and get to bed on a school night was not possible.

In the recent past, Jack did not help much around the home. As someone on Huffington Post wrote, there is usually a Default Parent in each couple who takes care of all things kids. That would be me. I also take care of almost all things house. I was talking to a friend about some gardening that needed to be done, and she recommended Jack and I hire someone to help around the house. Which is a reasonable solution. Sometimes. Except it is all of the little crap I need help with, like filling the cars with gasoline. Jack never does this. When one car runs out, he just takes the other one. Unless I hired a butler, I don't think I can pay someone to fill my car with gas. (I wonder what really rich people do about this. Does Bill Gates fill his own gas tank?  Seriously.)

The night before Jack's scheduled dinner, he started to panic. He said he could skip the dinner, so I took him at his word. Very often when we are less than 24 hours from an event without a sitter, a miracle occurs and a babysitter appears out of thin air. What looks like a miracle to the uninformed is me making a thousand phone calls, tapping into friends and asking for huge favors. This time I didn't.  Around 9:00 p.m., Jack resigned himself to not attending the dinner. He emailed his colleagues and asked if one of them could step in and help. His Admin had figured this out earlier in the day, and had emailed Jack's team herself. Someone had already volunteered, and he didn't even know.

I went to my meeting, and Jack took the Big E to her dinner. He picked the Boy up from soccer, swung by the PTSA meeting-book fair-bake sale, picked up the Big E after her dinner, and then ordered Thai food for the rest of us.

This was the first time that Jack has made me feel important in a really long time. Thinking about it is bittersweet. I was happy that he put me first for a change. The downside was thinking about the past.  The old Jack would have gone to dinner and left me to fend for myself. Or, he would have complained that I made him cancel his meeting. I didn't realize how much help I need, and how nice it is to be taken care of.

Practice Quilt

Last fall, I was going to make a quilt using the Big E's old dresses.  I started taking her clothes apart, and now I have a giant pile of raw material.  I own six or seven books on quilting, plus I've borrowed a bunch from the Seattle Public Library.

Yet, I was terrified to make them into a quilt.  I have a hard time picking a pattern, and fear I will get a third of the way through it and decide I can't sew straight or the schematic that I've picked looks stupid.  I am also worried that I have a large collection of random sized scraps that might not lend themselves to an easy, beginner pattern.

This weekend, we went shopping at the fabric store to get the Boy material to make a Halloween costume.  I picked up two sets of fabric squares and decided to make a few practice quilts.

I sorted the blocks by color.  The pink and lavender ones will make a pillow, and the turquoise ones will make another pillow.  The navy, red and gray will make a quilt for Fox.

I got out a book, and read how to sew the squares together.  Yes, I had to read a book on how to sew together squares.  

And here is my first full effort!  I did it!  I can sew in a straight line!  It was much easier than I thought.

Now the downside: Like my aunts who are far more talented when it come to sewing, knitting and making things, I'll have to find an outlet for my new little projects.  How many quilted pillows does one house need?  I suppose I should finish one first before I worry about that.

"Let's Do Nothing"

One year for Christmas, the Boy got the Big E the book Let's Do Nothing by Tony Fucile.  (Or maybe the Big E got it for the Boy.  Either way.  I forget.)  Both kids thought it was hilarious.

Jack is ending a stretch where he worked twelve days in a row.  The weekends were completely full days for him.  On Saturday, he started at 7:00 a.m. and met me at the U District Food Bank Auction when he got off of work around six p.m..  When we got home from the auction, he worked until midnight.  I was in bed and asleep by ten.

Working twelve days in a row wasn't as bad as when he worked nineteen days in a row in September.

Part of the deal of him working on his workaholism is that he would take one day off during the week when he worked on the weekends.  Even the Bible gives people a day of rest, and that is one very old book.  Is he so special that the rules that apply to the rest of humanity for thousands of years don't apply to him?  Did he take a day off when he worked nineteen days in a row?  No.  If he did, then it wouldn't be nineteen days in a row.  Is he taking one off now?  Not really.  He went to work this morning, and I am supposed to meet him for lunch.  The plan is he takes the rest of the day off.

The question is: What will he do?

I propose: "Let's Do Nothing."

What does nothing look like?  When you are a workaholic, all you do is work.  You work so much that there is no time to do nothing--no time to relax, chill, think, ponder, rest.  For a mind to function optimally, it needs a rest.  Kids do better on tests simply with a good night's sleep because their mind is rested.  How can the mind rest if all it does is work?

So, let's do nothing.  Let's sit and read a magazine, bake cookies, putter with the bike, pull a few weeds from the garden, lop back the ivy, go for a run, take a yoga class at the YMCA, walk the dog.  Part of that sounds like a "Honey Do" list.  All of this is no-brainer work.  It requires no special skills or is especially taxing.  The body is occupied while the mind can take a break.

Let's do nothing.

Nail Polish

The Sunday after my marriage blew apart, my friend Susan took to me get a manicure and a pedicure.  It was fun.

Okay, it wasn't.  My nails looked great for two weeks after they were done, but I cried while they were painted.  Susan was telling me about a conference she attended that in a normal world I would have found fascinating.  In this new crazy, upside down world, my brain was flipping out.  I turned around and broke down sobbing.  The next time Susan went to get her nails done, the manicurists asked her how I was doing.

It was that bad.

At the salon, they put on a shellac nail polish.  The good thing about it is it last forever.  The bad thing is it lasts forever.  I was too cheap to get go back to the salon (and mildly embarrassed) to have them take the polish off and redo my nails.  Since the middle of June, I've covered my nails with a different color to hide the remaining shellac.

This week, my nails finally grew enough that the last bit of shellac was gone.  Yesterday was the first time in almost five months I haven't had nail polish on.

It is interesting to have such a visual marker of time attached to my body.  I have a whole new set of fingernails since my marriage imploded.  How much I have grown and changed during that time? How much has Jack?  Have we made progress or are we just treading water?

Last night, I had a little meltdown.  It wasn't really a meltdown; rather, it was me uncovering what I was feeling in the past year before our marriage imploded.  I wasn't feeling respected.   I wasn't feeling like an equal partner.  I felt taken for granted.  I was feeling a power imbalance, where with his job he had it all and I had none.

Last night for the first time since the implosion, Jack just listened.  He didn't argue.  He didn't get defensive.  He didn't tell me at the same time what he was feeling or that the reason I was ignored was because he was overwhelmed at work.  He just listened.

And I felt better.

Maybe there was some magic in taking off the nail polish, watching my nails grow out.  Maybe the sorrow and anger is slowing growing out of me, too.

Photo by The Boy.  It is impossible to take a picture of your own hands unless you have a timer on your camera.   I never really thought of that before.

Erudition

The other night, the kids came home from soccer and cross country practice and we sat down to dinner.  We ordered a pizza because our new kitchen counter just installed and our kitchen wasn't fully functional yet.  Roy was there plumbing the sink and installing the cooktop as we ate.

"Did you hear Whistler is going to use RFID this year to get on the gondolas.  And one of the lines is getting new gondolas," the Boy said.  "Did you hear a second nurse in Dallas came down with ebola," he said.

"That's interesting..." I replied.

"I was talking to Claire today and she told me all about her trip to Thailand this summer.  She visited an elephant sanctuary there," the Big E chimed in.

"Did you know the Euro dropped today?" the Boy said.

"Really?" I asked, dumbfounded that he even knew what a Euro was and that it could drop.

I couldn't believe this conversation.  The children were civilized, polite and talking about global events.  WTF?

Then, Roy left.  As soon as the door shut...

The Big E made a rude comment to her brother.  He replied, "Suck it up, Buttercup."  He had been saving this comment all day to he could come and tell his sister.

"I think this is going to be my phrase now,"  the Boy said.  "I am going to use it as much as I can."

So much for the dropping Euro and discussions of elephant sanctuaries in Thailand.  I am going to have to ask Roy to hang out in the kitchen during dinner more often.

Olive Kitteridge

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout won the Pulitzer for fiction a few years back.  My friend recommended I read it, and I loved it.  It is a hard book to read.  Olive is not likable, but she is compelling.  Frances McDormand is making it into an HBO mini-series and will play the lead role.  The New York Times has a nice article about it.

Olive is a horrible mother and wife.  She is incapable of being happy.  Strout gets inside this woman's mind and we learn why she is so awful, and how she turns minor insults into major catastrophes.  I remember one scene where Olive visits her grown son in New York.  While she is there, she spills food on her shirt.  No one tells her, and she is convinced they are laughing at her, when no one really noticed.  Olive flips out, and starts screaming like a lunatic.  Seriously -- she is a bona fide lunatic by then.  I was surprised that I felt sorry for her.

Why did I like reading about this miserable woman who takes her anger out at the world?  It was painful and cringe inducing.  I read it a few years ago, and saw the article about the mini-series in the paper, and it brought up a lot of emotions.  Maybe the book felt like a cautionary tale -- don't turn into a bitter crone.  Lately, I feel a little bit like Olive: a mad, pissed off angry woman.  Anger has taken hold of me, and yet I feel completely justified.  It is not that I enjoy being angry.  It is one of my least favorite states of mind.  I think some people might thrive on righteous indignation, most of which is directed at my husband and the challenges we've faced in the past few months.  I'd rather be calm.  Yet, I am still angry.  I thought I'd be mellowed out by now, but no.

Nevertheless, when I feel like I have been wronged and misunderstood, me and my anger are like a dog and a bone.  I can't let it go.  When I get to this point, I feel like something needs to change.  I need to take a new direction, find a new path.  Right now, anger is taking up a corner.  I don't need it to take up more space.

Health Assessment and Sixteen

Note:  This will likely be a downer post.

The Boy brought home a letter from school about the Washington State Healthy Youth Survey.  The survey is given on October 15 to all 6th, 8th, 10th and 12th graders in Seattle Public Schools.  

October 15 is Ada's sixteenth birthday.  She would have been in 10th grade and taking the test on the same day as the Boy.  I read about the topics, and thought about how she would have addressed them.  

Feelings about school and community: no answer, dead

Relationships with parents, friends and neighbors: no answer, dead

Eating habits, physical activity: none, dead

And so on.

She would have been sixteen.  I was talking to some friends once about raising a teenage daughter.  They all have children the Boy's age and younger, so they have yet to experience the professional level of sass that a teenage girl can emit.  One of the dad's said, "She is in band.  She has to be a good kid."

"She is a good kid but an awful person,"  I said.  They laughed.  I didn't.  Those with daughters will find out for themselves one day.  Of course, I love the Big E, but that doesn't make having a teenage daughter easier.

Later, one fathers approached me.  "My brother has an older daughter.  He said they call it 'Sweet Sixteen' for a reason."  

So this would have been Ada's sixteenth birthday.  She would have been in 10th grade, a sophomore. Based on the laws of averages, she would have come out of her slump and re-emerged as a civilized human being.  I'd be out of the weeds.

I would like to say that I have thought of her everyday since she died, but I haven't.  I have a ring in her memory, but I don't wear it everyday.  I don't have long, thin, fingers and wearing two rings feels bulky.  (The Big E has beautiful hands.  Her hands are the size of Jack's, but they are perfectly proportioned.)  But there are times when I think about Ada a lot, and October is one of those times.

One of my friends at a soccer game asked me how I got to be solved involved in PTA.  How did I become such a leader?  Did I have prior experience?  The real question isn't how, but why.  I didn't get involved because of the Big E and the Boy.  I got involved because of Ada.  Because there was a time in my life when I didn't know if I ever would become a mom.  Because my brother has schizophrenia, and I know that there are kids out there who have parents who aren't capable of taking care of them, for whatever reason.  Mix the two together, and I turned into a crazy volunteer.  In fairness, I met some of lovely people and some of my dearest friends.  For that I am grateful.

Each year, I think of Ada in different ways.  Sixteen years ago today would have been the last day she was alive.  The doctors think she died on the 13th.  I learned she died on the 14th, and she was delivered on the 15th.  I was thinking that this was the last day I was ever happy, but that's not true.  It was the last day that in my life before I knew what sorrow meant.  It was the last time I was innocent.

Low Expectations

I was at coffee today with my friend Sarah.  When Jack and I had our separation a few months ago, I stayed at Sarah's house for a week while I settled down.

"Maybe staying with Jack is the best of all of your possible options," she said.  "There are other alternatives out there, of course, but maybe as you consider them, you should see that Jack isn't the worst thing out there."

She has a point, and I generally agree with it.  Here is where my brain and heart start duking it out.  Before I get into this, let me tell you something else Sarah said to me ages ago, before the shit-hit-the-fan in my marriage.  At the time, I was feeling lonely in my marriage.  Why did this hurt so bad, and would be I better off single?  If I were single, I would be even more lonely.  Or would I?

Sarah said it was all about expectations, and not in a bad way.  When we are married, we expect to have companionship and not be lonely.  So when we are married and lonely, we have the disappointment of having our expectation not being met.  If we are single and alone, our expectation are not being dashed.

Also comes into play is the ability to change.  When someone is single, they have the opportunity to go out and find ways not to be lonely.  They can be open to new relationships.  When someone is lonely in a marriage, the opportunities to find non-platonic companionship are different.  Of course, men and women need friends outside of the marriage.  I am not talking about relying on my spouse and kids for all human contact.

So I could go with Sarah's idea that Jack is the best of all possible options.  But what I were still lonely and Jack didn't change?  Would I then be falling back to the position of low expectations which got me in this position in the first place?  He started working way too much.  I expressed my frustration, loneliness and disappointment, which met with his resistance.  I stopped complaining, I just lowered my expectations, which allowed him work more, which everything even worse.  I was in a lose-lose spot where no matter what I did, there was no positive change from my perspective.

Jack maybe the best alternative, but low expectations are not an options.  Brain, meet heart.  To be continued....