Sunday, November 22, 2009

when tiny dribbles become giant waves

So apparently The Husband was tuning me out the day I told him the secret of living peacefully with me. Big surprise there huh?

I laid it all on the table before we got married and told him to pay special attention to two keys points that were the keys to, not only understanding me, but dealing with me on a daily basis.

Point #1: I need to be loved. That's the only reason you're here. I don't need someone to pay my bills. I don't need someone to fix things when they're broke (although that would be a really cool benefit.) I need someone to love me. And since I'm a needy bitch (and this is important,) I need to be constantly reminded of that love. Don't ever, ever, no matter what else happens, allow me to believe that you don't love me or care about what happens to me because once I get that thought in my head it will be very difficult for me to shake it.

Point #2: I don't bitch about the little shit. Or at least I try very hard not to. If I'm bitching about the toilet seat being left up or the fact that your aim is horrible, consider yourself warned, there is something else bothering me. I'm not going to call you out every time I feel unloved, unappreciated or am royally pissed about some asshole thing you've done because believe it or not, I don't want to argue with you. But, (and this is important) I will lose my patience and begin nit-picking and bitching about all the stupid, inconsequential shit that grates my nerves. So pay attention, if I'm bitching about little shit, start asking me questions if you want to know what's wrong with me because I'm probably really steaming over something else.

To his credit, The Husband has at least been making a concerted effort to be attentive and to demonstrate, in his own way, that he loves me. Of course that's directly linked to the fact that his biological clock is ticking like hell and he's thinking he might just want to have a baby, but that's another post for another time.

I've been bitching about his aim for months now. I've been bitching about the dog hair all over the floor. I've been bitching about his grunting and groaning and moaning. I've been bitching about the amount of room he takes up when we sit in a booth at a restaurant.

He hasn't yet asked me what the hell my problem is. I guess he assumes I'm just pissy. I know part of him is certain I'm crazy and that my moodiness has something to do with whatever is not quite right in my head.

Perhaps he is simply trying to avoid the same argument I am. Perhaps he is just clueless. Or perhaps he just doesn't give a shit.

Either way, he's known for almost a year now that the cancer has returned. I mention its presence every so often as a reminder, hoping that somehow this time will be different. When I first mentioned the recurrence to him, I was hopeful. A few weeks passed and I mentioned it again and he had the good grace to ask if it was getting any worse. Since then? Nothing. Nada. Not a word, not a question, nothing said in response to comments I make about it.

A friend of mine offered that maybe he just doesn't want to deal with it. Maybe he doesn't want to talk about it because talking about it makes it real. Maybe.

But we've been here before. And when I asked him the first go around why he refused to talk about it his answer was very simple..."you've got to understand, I know you're probably thinking about this all the time, but that's just it, this is happening to you, this isn't happening to me so I'm not thinking about it all the time." I haven't quite been able to shake those words.

No, that's not a conversation I want to have again. The last time we had that conversation it ultimately led to me asking for a divorce. For now, I'll just keep bitching about the pissy dribbles around the toilet.

3 comments:

  1. I can kind of relate to this. Bing is the healthiest person on the planet (she has never even had a HEADACHE for fuck sakes) and she has a really hard time dealing with sickness in anyone. When I am sick, she just stays the hell out of my way. We don't talk about it unless I bring it up. The one time she had a cold, I kid you not, she was the biggest baby that I have ever known. But, I differ from you in that I seriously DON'T want to talk about my illness, ever, unless I absolutely have to. So, we are a good match.

    I think that instead of sitting around waiting for him to bring it up, you should just tell him that you are scared and need to talk. Maybe he is assuming that you don't want to talk about it.

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  2. I think what bothers me about it so much is that even when I bring it up, he has nothing to say. He has nothing to say when I talk about how worried I am because I know I need to go back to the doctor, but I have no health insurance (the premiums were too high and I had to drop the coverage.) He has nothing to say when I comment that I need to hurry up and get the oncologist paid off so I can make an appointment. (Nor does he offer to help get the bill paid down.) He has nothing to say when, on the rare occasions we have sex, I comment afterwards that it hurts or has started bleeding.

    And he has nothing to say when he sees me wracking my brain trying to figure out a way to make things work financially and I finally get all frustrated and say "to hell with it, what's it matter if I go back to the doctor, they're just going to want to do more surgery and I'm not sure I want to have another surgery."

    *sigh*

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  3. I really like when people are expressing their opinion and thought. So I like the way you are writing

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