And then she… ooooooooo!
And I can’t believe that! With the stuff??! Then!!!! What the hell was she thinking???
When I had my wisdom teeth yanked many years ago, I remember taking the pain meds for a few days and thinking “what’s all the fuss about? This is fine. I mean it hurts. But its a dull ache. Don’t need to take that much of the Tylenol 3’s to keep it in check, this is totally manageable.”
Then about 5 days later, it was a Sunday, I had a weekend job and was working and it really started to hurt. And I’d run out of meds. By the time I got off work it was Sunday night, everything was closed and my parents were going around to the neighbours to see what they might have tucked away in their medicine cabinets.
I was in agony.
And I remember, it was a different sort of pain. I felt like all the nerves in there were suddenly waking up out of shock and screaming themselves to life.
So I got through last week all pumped and well self-satisfied. I’d got the kids to camp every morning, breakfasted, lunches packed, dinner every night. I came home from work on a Wednesday, saw the kitchen and had to snap a picture. It looked ordered, clean, tidy — exactly as I left it.
The rest of the week, went just as well — laundry finished, extra projects moved ahead with, work all caught up on. Going to the gym — I am Superman, hear me roar. I am balanced, ethical, invincible, nutritious and delicious and blah, blah, blah.
This week the kids went with grandma to a cottage so I’m all alone in the house. No breakfasts, no lunches, no cleaning, nothing to worry about except myself.
This week I am overwhelmed, frustrated and deeply pissed off.
I had to spend… what? …10 minutes with the Leaver yesterday to deal with some practical stuff. First chance I got, I let vent. She said something sarcastic about money to get me started. But it was the equivalent of me retaliating to a training exercise just across the border with a full on artillery barrage; my response was completely disproportional to the provocation.
All week I’ve been thinking about it all. Ruminating. The immediate past, the distant past, the future. And the present around my house; all the dust and dirt revealed by the removed furniture and clothes. All the little projects and chores that she promised she’d do — whether that was a year or 2 weeks ago — and never completed. But now, I don’t want her to finish what she said she was going to do. I want to get them done myself, so that I can self-righteously declare (to no one in particular, just to myself, in my head) “ah ha! You see! I did it. And it’s not because I’m Superman. It’s just that I care and you don’t. You failed and I…..” et cetera, ad nauseum, ad absurdum.
I think with all the tumult, momentum and necessity of focusing on the departure now behind us, I am now finding the space and time to take a deep breath and afford my self some high-test fury.
The fact is, I was dumped. And as well as being a father, provider, husband, I am also the boyfriend. The dumped boyfriend. And I was dumped and left with a big mess to clean up (well, you make the mess as big as possible in your head to feed the fury). The Leaver has to rebuild her life, of course, but she’s starting from a clean slate with a lot less stuff and a lot less day-to-day responsibilities. And I have to remake my space and my place in it with all the left over bits.
Often I think how gratifying it would be to just ditch the house and move to a completely different neighbourhood or city. Just start again. Not going to happen because of principal #1 (do what’s best for the kids) and I know it probably wouldn’t really fix it, but it’s tempting.
So there’s some envy there. She can pursue the building of her identity and her life plan and all that. I have to build sandwiches and figure out where to hang the towels in a family bathroom little bigger than the linen closet, used by a ten year old going on seventeen. And that really sucks because this is just like our relationship always was. I should have known that this would happen when, oh it must have been the late nineties, when we were planning to have kids and she…. et cetera, ad nauseum, ad absurdum.
“Anger is an energy” belts Mr. Lydon, and calorie packed anger certainly is. As is a Double Down or a Krispy Kreme Burger (burger with two KK donuts for a bun). The anger inspired by the Leaver is high energy junk food for the spirit. I know it doesn’t get me anywhere, it’s very difficult to digest and it can be very bad for me. I don’t indulge often. But it doesn’t need much of an “in” to trigger a binge. Just like junk food: you have some, it fills you up, you want to nap, and in a few hours you feel hungry again.
I have not only fallen off the anger wagon, I have dived off with a double somersault and a half twist. I am on a full-on piss binge. I have bile for breakfast, lunch, dinner and the occasional between meal quencher. My spleen vents generate enough heat and energy to launch me into orbit. I am an angry man.
It has to stop of course. It will. I’m thinking when my kids come back this weekend. But it’s probably a necessary part of the process. I have to ride it out a bit. Let it go. Be honest to this, while the kids aren’t around. They don’t have to see it.
Then sing a few verses of Kumbaya, reintroduce the phrases, “her truth, my truth” back into my vocabulary (although we all know that “her truth” is a truck load of horse manure, with Satan at the driver’s seat and… et cetera, ad nauseum, ad absurdum), and then move on.
Because you just have to? You have two little kids to worry about and you can’t be mad at their mom.
But for another twenty-four hours…..
Yes, I’ll have the combo with the spite and the envy, please.
And Super-Size that sucker!