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That's Not Important, now.

oh, moment is over.

Hi there, new year. I should have probably started this on the 1st. It would have been good, symbolically, to being a new project on a new year… that way I feel bad about how many days I’ve gone without typing out my nonsense thoughts because I can see it in real time. Or if I accomplish a whole year of updates I can look back and see… growth? Who, knows.
I certainly don’t know what I hope to accomplish, starting a new blog, but here is an attempt.
I need to change. I know that, I can see it in myself. There needs to be a change because, I think I’m unhappy. I’m actually pretty worried about myself. I find that each time I go a little dark, veering into my place of depression, I step further into that hole I’m worried one day I won’t walk away from. The length of time I spend in the dark place varies and the triggers are many, so I don’t know what to do other than this.
I mean, sure, I could be talking to someone or dealing with this in a healthy and constructive way but… who has time for that? Not me, I’m still in the state of pretending I’m “ok, for the most part” and I can ignore the problems until I hit a bad patch.
Today, while doing the dishes with a head full of bleach – no joke, it was my hair’s third dousing in 2 days and I feel fine about that – “Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves” came on my phone, a classic song I usually enjoy. Instead of blasting it, as is my normal response, something broke in me. It’s not uncommon for me to cry while doing the dishes, there’s something so painful about doing the dishes and making dinner while my husband sits in the living room playing video games that makes me question my existence. And that’s why I found myself sniffing snot and holding back tears today.
In that moment, of classic domesticity I hated him so much. I feel like his maid, his mother, and his cook and not his wife. Do you know I can’t remember the last time we had sex? That last night, at the stroke of midnight, we didn’t kiss? I fear our marriage is falling apart but I don’t know how to feel about that. Part of me is fine, I’m sick of being his servant but another part of me is terrified because I do love him. And we’ve been together long enough that I don’t know what my life would be like without him. And, of course, there’s the guilt.
I feel bad about being angry at him. I’ve got a good life. I don’t have a “real” job… I write patterns all day and play with yarn. I mean, sure, that takes up like 80 hours a week or something (ok, if I’m being realistic it’s probably about 40) but I like it so it’s not “work” work and I don’t leave the house… and I make shit money. And I’m the only one who cooks, who cleans, and who plans but that’s not really work, that’s just what I do in the house. Ok, see there, I’m being passive aggressive to even myself. I know that I work hard around the house and that I feel like he doesn’t appreciate a damned thing I do. Even when he says “thank you” I scoff at him, as much as a part of me wants to believe him I feel like he is only saying it to keep me from freaking out at him.
I don’t need the words, I want the actions. I don’t like coming home from the rare occasions I do work at BBW and seeing a sink full of dishes. To me, that communicates that its my job, not his. He takes out the trash – after it starts to fester – and the recycling – after it’s so full you can’t put anymore into the can – but everything else is my job. Today he folded the laundry and I mentally whipped myself in penance for assuming he would leave it for me, like he usually does. But he has a job, he works hard and he makes all the money that supports the family while I toil with yarn. It makes me feel guilty. I know you’re not supposed to keep score but I do. Against myself, I keep score. I’ve lost.

So now I’m just a 30 year old woman, with vibrant pink hair, trying to figure out where I lost. This isn’t the life I thought I’d live and I’m not sure how to make peace with that. I could talk to someone, I suppose, but we’ll be moving sometime in the coming year and I don’t want to get comfortable only to leave. Or maybe that’s just a convenient excuse. I have lots of those. That’s why I wanted to start writing. I need to express this shit, I think, more than I have been previously. I don’t care if anyone reads it (although, as a Millennial I wouldn’t mind the validation from strangers) but I need to say it. Oh, and it’s my fault we don’t have sex. I have intimacy issues… don’t want to forget to say that. I just want to make it clear I’m no prize and I should consider myself lucky he stays with me. I’ve never had a lot of close friends, people who stick around for more than a couple years, and I never thought I’d get married. Of course, when I had the former thought, I was 15 and then I met my first boyfriend – whom I later married and here we are.

And I’m coming to terms with my sexuality. At a teenager I identified as bi, to a couple of friends and myself. But I got a boyfriend and bought into the idea that, nah I’m just a straight girl. I’ve read, recently, that’s not uncommon and complete bullshit. I don’t know what it means, because part of me feels like I’m acting at it… performing the “cool chick” thing or, as I do so often, identifying my sexuality as it relates to my husband and only him. I’ve said it, a bit, to him and make a joke at BBW the other day about “don’t make me hang it, I don’t I could do anything entirely straight,” so who knows what’s going on with me. Perhaps I need to work through that a bit too.

So, at 2am I think this is a good place to stop. I’m going to go back to reading Postcards From the Edge and brush my teeth before bed. I’ll be back soon, I hope.


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