Dear Hearts,
I just woke Angel with a start because I vocalized a full-on howling while I was sitting on the couch. Why? Because I can.
Because I am alone. G-Pa went with Aunt Faerie and Bugsy to some Audubon event today. Boring!
So I get the house to myself until like 4:30 p.m.
It is different being here when G-Pa is here and when I am alone. Even though G-Pa, by his choice, does his own thing at night and I do have “alone” time, it’s not the same as having a house all to yourself. I could run around naked if I wanted! Which I don’t. It’s a “cool” 50 degrees outside.
How did I get chocolate from my Peppermint Patties on my socks in the exact same place?
I did not go to Mass yesterday. I chose not to. Instead, I stayed home and prayed on the couch with Angel and worked on a Bible Study about The Sacraments. This Bible study by the by—by The St. Paul Center for Biblical Theology is mind-blowing. I had no fucking idea Moses, Noah, Isaac were a prefiguration to Christ. I certainly didn’t learn this stuff in Sunday School as a kid and I never took any RCIA or Confirmation Classes. No, I don’t think that God purposely one focused insulting and destroying the Egyptian Goddess Hecate with a motherfucking mess of live and dead frogs. God is not that petty or insecure.
I found two little white, fluffy feathers yesterday on the ground. I take them as a “Hello” from Saint Therese of Lisieux. Someone else might say they are just feathers from one of the many springtime birds. No one has ever seen Mother Mary in toast—come on, really?—but I do believe in signs from God. And like any good teacher, he would have to be repetitive with those signs.
So, I learned about the Scriptural Foundation for the Catholic Eucharist yesterday. The Eucharist is the point and reason for Mass. Does receiving the Eucharist every week make you a better person than if you were to receive twice a month? I don’t think so. I don’t go to Mass for God—he doesn’t need me. I go to Mass for me—I need God. But I can also connect with God eating Dad’s Buffalo Meat—just as, if not more powerful than the Eucharist.
I talk to God throughout the day. He, Mother Mary, St. Jude, St. Therese—they are in my head all day long. What should I do…what did I do…was this right…was that wrong…
Last night I dreamt about teaching. I was back at School and I knew that I was leaving teaching. When I left that October day in 2014, I had no inclination that I would never return to School. I’m glad I didn’t know. The dream last night was heavy—looking at the kids and making a conscious decision to walk away.
I did make a conscious decision to walk away, but there was some distance between…I miss teaching “The Crucible,” “A Streetcar Named Desire,” The Great Gatsby, “Raisin in the Sun.” I miss standing on desks and acting out Cheever (The Crucible) with a Transylvanian accent. Or getting goosebumps on my arms when I would read the last paragraph of The Great Gatsby with what can only be termed ecstasy.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
We interrupt this programs with breaking news: planes, trains, and automobiles. Mom is coming out after Easter and I going back with her to start on…packing…up…My…House.
I lost my thought. The dream last night was weighty and bitter-sweet.
I went into teaching to inspire kids…I gave it my best…
(Shhh. Day 4 no panic attack. Shhh)
T. went to Mass every weekend. I remember when I first met him and I was still a little more Pagan than Catholic—I was impressed with him.
“He really buys all this stuff,” I said to Dad. “He really believes it.”
Yeah. Maybe. I dunno what’s in his head or heart. But I know for Goddamn sure that his going to weekly Mass did not preclude him calling me a “fucking cunt.” If the fucking bishop can just change the rules about meat-eating for St. Patrick’s Day—then I will go to Mass when I damn well please.
Angel lays beside me sleeping peacefully. She curled up with her tail across her face and her belly slowly rises and falls. I wish I could be in her head for a day, or even just five minutes…
It came to me—Mom asked why I liked wolves so much and I couldn’t really answer her. Why is man attracted to dolphins, wolves, bear, eagles, buffalo…why can you see your own soul reflected back in theirs? They are the most like us. They are predators who do have not any natural predator. We share a connection with them. Yes, my Angel pussycat is so precious to me and so is Maddie. Dogs and Cats are right up there with wolves, et. al. But, they are domesticated—however, they do come from the top of food-chain animals. There is something wild, untamed, and raw in the eyes of a wolf or Buffalo.
I miss the Spring Room in my House. My Tea room. The room is part of the original house and it has always had a special feeling…
I scared the shit out of myself last night watching The Conjuring. I loved it! I stayed up until 1 a.m. Tonight is The Conjuring 2. I know, right? What a creative title!
Martha and I were talking about where I was five years ago, one year ago…compared to now. That’s a whole other post. But, I did come across some submissions I wrote for grad school last night. I took this Memoir Class—and the Teacher/Writer was dreadful. He could not abide me writing that my 12th Grade English teacher said Toni Morrison only got the Pulitzer because she was Black. That statement was a revelation to me! I didn’t have to like all “anointed” literature! I read 100 Years of Solitude, Brave New World, and then some in high school, but I couldn’t get past the opening of The Bluest Eye. The deficiency wasn’t in me! It was okay to disagree with the politically correct majority! Anyway, this Memoir Jag-Off would not allow me to write that scene into my memoir submissions, because it was racist.
But, I am writing about what really happened to me. Hence, a memoir. But…okay…whatever you want Jag-Off.
That was the year Asshole and I bought The House. I had forgotten so much…so many of those details. Things were so bad even in 2005 and only the tip of the iceberg was uncovered in these paltry submissions.
Here is part of it. Understand that some is redundant and I have cut out parts that are irrelevant. But, I think reading this also kept me up until 1 a.m., not just the movie. And, it will because of this that I have an episode later. And My House
SUBMISSION START:
Asshole wasn’t home. I was thankful. I sat in my car and looked at it: crouching, looming, waiting to consume me, waiting for it to suck me into its depths and crush me to death. My new house was daring me to enter.
“We’re going to start looking at houses after the first of year,” said my husband as we drove to the movies.
I don’t remember what I said, but I felt excited and nervous and ready. The house we rented was charming with its three bedrooms, deck, full garage, and burbling creek in the back—but we had outgrown it. Asshole had nowhere to spread out and make his pottery or fire the kiln. My collection of books, Barbies, faeries, and stuff was putting the urban sprawl in our area to shame—we called it Kate Sprawl.
I knew Asshole would be mostly in charge of the house hunting. He was mostly in charge of everything. I was happy to be taken care of and Asshole, twenty-one years my senior, was happy to take charge. Besides I was going back to teaching high school English after winter break and he was taking time off to develop his pottery and car restoration business. (SO NO JOB. NONE. UMEMPLOYED.)
We were happy then. Pure, naïve, unadulterated happiness. I thought I had the perfect marriage. I thought that no one in the world was as lucky, blessed, or in love as we were. I thought I had the perfect husband. I thought together our lives would be perfect. After all, I dreamt of the perfect fairytale since I had gotten my first Barbie doll when I was four years old.
Now, all we needed was the perfect house. I had only two absolute conditions: it had to be big enough so that Asshole and I could each have our separate rooms—in addition to the shared bedroom; and I had to be able to walk outside naked and have no one call the cops, or whip out a picture phone.
A year earlier Asshole bought me a 1995 Jaguar on Ebay for Christmas. It was a total surprise. I knew he had some surprise he was working on—I thought a Mont Blanc pen, a first edition of a F. Scott Fitzgerald book, a house...that is how much I trusted him. I was actually hoping that like Santa on Miracle of 34th Street Asshole would buy us a house.
Some days I would give up all we have now—a six bedroom house with 4.7 acres, a small pond, a nineteenth century barn, four car garage—to go back to our charming little renter and my blissful ignorance that my marriage was perfect.
I did not want to get out of the car. I wanted to drive home to my parents’ house. I turned around in the driver’s seat and looked at the two trailers occupying a few acres across the very close road. I would never walk out this front door naked.
The first breech of trust came when Asshole told me that he had applied and we had been pre-approved for a three hundred thousand dollar mortgage and he’d already talked to a realtor. The night he shared this information with me I was surfing the web looking at houses.
“I am not trying to do anything without you, Katie. I just know that you are going to be very nervous and anxious about this process. You have no idea what an undertaking it is to buy a house.”
An unfamiliar feeling grew in my gut. If he had just told me two days ago that he was going to talk to a realtor and broker. . .if he had just shared with me. . .asked my opinion. . .even if he didn’t really mean to take it into consideration.
I thought then, Asshole was right. Asshole always did the right thing. Like an oyster with a bit of irritating sand, I muscled the ill-feeling, the feeling that resembled betrayal down into my gut, and smoothed it over with the knowledge that my husband would make everything right.
I looked back at the looming demon that I was parked in front of. I felt betrayed. I married a man who never yelled out me, tolerated my every eccentricity, lack of domestic skills, and preoccupation with work. Since the house search had begun the man I married was a stranger. I used to pull up our rented driveway hoping to see his truck; now I pulled up our mortgaged driveway hoping to not see his truck…
…I turned my attention back to the yellow-brown monstrosity in front of me. I thought about Albatross and wondered how we ever thought that we would live in such a cramped space and afford all the repairs and additions. But, I also looked at the six-bedroom house that had my name on the deed, and wondered what had possessed me to say, “Yes, I want to mortgage my life for this house.” I fucking hated it. I fucking hated the neighbors. I fucking hated what my marriage had become. I fucking hated myself.
I never believed that the fights between us would also begin.
Laying in bed one night after our weekly trip to the movies, he asked me as I rolled over, “Do you have any desire at all for me?”
“I desire you, but I don’t have any desire for sex,” I said wishing he would just let me blow him and get it over with.
Sex. I am twenty-nine year-old woman. Then I was twenty-seven. I was healthy and basically normal. I struggled with depression, obsessive compulsive rituals, and general anxiety, but medication helped. However, I would rather watch television, smoke a cigarette, read a book, or play a video game, than make love to my husband. This was not a new situation for us. I did the best I could. Asshole dealt with it the best he could. That night we both dealt badly with it.
Until three a.m. we argued. I was distant. How could he think about buying a house with a wife who didn’t even want to be touched? And, why was I such a lousy housekeeper? I came home from school, worked, and fell asleep, sometimes too tired to do the dishes. It wasn’t fair to him. He was not there to be my servant. On the weekends, I slept late, worked on school stuff, watched television, and slept. The house we were going to buy was going to require a lot of work. He needed to have me be with him. I had failed him as a wife. I had to change or forget the whole thing. I didn’t say much except apologize and promise to change.
Our first fight in four years. (I KNOW THAT THIS PART WASN’T TRUE.) I felt so badly about my failures that I wanted to cut myself. I actually wanted to make myself bleed, just so that the pain would be something on the outside of my body that I could focus on—so that the bloodletting would release the self-hatred and confusion I was consumed with. I didn’t cut myself, but for the first time, I understood why people do that. (I TOTALLY FORGOT THIS PART)
In the days after The Fight, the anger and yelling faded. I didn’t forget, but it seemed as though it had been an anomaly. I was going to change, I was going to change, I kept telling myself. Then, the rash started. Yes, I am a nervous person. If I were a dog, I would be one of those little Chihuahuas that hides under the bed and shivers and pees whenever there is a loud noise. My whole body became enflamed with what I could only explain as a stress rash. My students were actually pretty tolerant as I stood in front of the room explaining the symbolism in Macbeth and itching my arms red. Then, there was the shooting pain in my eyeball. It was as though an ice pick were permanently driven through my eyeball. The eye doctor, my general practitioner could find nothing wrong. Stress.
We had made an offer, had it rejected, made another offer, had it accepted, paid a down payment and signed preliminary papers—but we still had not actually gotten into the house. The keys to the house were broken off in the realtor’s special door lock. The seller’s realtor was not expedient in getting new keys to Ed.
The universe throws signs at us all the time. But, I never saw the signs with Albatross. I never thought that not getting into the house, scratching myself raw, and being in constant eye pain were signs that perhaps the house wasn’t for us. In our imaginations we had already lived there a lifetime. In our hearts, we built a magical life in Albatross. All would be right with the world there….
(WE LOST THE BID ON THE HOUSE AND IT WAS DEVASTATING. I ALSO BELIEVE IT TRIGGERED ASSHOLE’S PSYCHOTIC BREAK.
…Nothing was right here…(MY HOUSE)
SUBMISSION END
At the time Asshole and I shared an email address. And, I had to warn Jag Off to only correspond with me via attachments (Asshole couldn’t open those). Because, if Asshole knew I were writing this...well…I’d be in a lot of trouble.
About this time I started using my MAC email address in secret. And, that’s the email address that carried me through the divorce and that I use today.
Wow. Just wow.
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.
Grateful For:
Amish Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls
Walks
Alone time
Health
Springy Days
No comments:
Post a Comment