No one’s priority

He said he was sorry for not being able to show up.  He wasn’t able to get away.  He is married and he has small children.  Did I fall in love, or is it lust with this man? I was drawn in by the soft gentleness he exhibits with his children. He is so kind and loving; I wanted to feel that kind of love, I wanted to be one of them.  And for once, feel that kind of attention. But life is way more complicated than that. I told him not to worry about it. I never want to add stress to his life. In fact I never want to add stress to anyone’s life. I have been accepting apologies and enabling people my whole life, allowing those who are close to me to hurt me. I had an epiphany that day when he said he was sorry as he often had said before. The epiphany is that I am willing to be seconds or even thirds because I have never been anyone’s priority.

That makes me an amazing wife, since my husband can put work, the kids, his parents…anything ahead of my needs. How easy and carefree for him, to have his personal attendant, who requires nothing back. Oh, and the kids, the ones I pretty much raised alone, since dad was so busy at building his ego with the accolades of his job. Well, any parent knows raising children is thankless. I don’t really even want them to make me their priority anyway, but if their dad would have shown some to me, maybe they would know how to care about me, not just want something from me. But it doesn’t matter, because they are grown now and they are givers like I am. I hope they find givers back.

I suppose I can thank my parents in some way for the role I have played.Stuck between the beloved older sister and pampered little brother, I was the classic over achieving, peace keeping, ”please look at me” middle child. After a while you start believing there really is nothing you can do that IS good enough. Not the good grades, not the starring role in the school play, which no one came to see, not even marrying the man they wanted me to marry. Then the cycle of family life began. The kids, the job, the house, the bills.  I was in it, good!  So I did it, I did what all I had to do. This was most everything. She is so capable!

Fast forward and the kids are grown, but nothing else has changed. The result of being no one’s priority is a desperate loneliness with which I have a hard time putting onto the page. The feeling is so strong, at times, it consumes me. My only escape from it is to distract from it, such as in the form of my sweet friend, who when he is not being a dad, is often times texting me with indecent thoughts. For hours we chat, and speak about nothing. The rare times we can see each other, we hardly say a word, and the energy consumes us both, with quiet inhales and intense holds of tangled arms and silent breaths. I am filling his void, just like he fills mine.

Why do I let him? You would not ask if you had understood the desperation I feel. One is willing to take a corner of moldy bread when they are starving.

Can’t find a replacement

…and it sucks. I cheated on the almost-ex with two different men, because he didn’t give me the attention that I needed. Just ONCE, I wanted to be at the top of the list. I never was with him. So, I cheated, and I felt alive again, even if it was just for a short weekend away with the first guy.

I miss him terribly. I screwed up. I didn’t actually “lie” to him, but I was not 100% forthcoming in the information I chose to share, or not. He was my friend. We talked, ALOT. I miss that. I miss his gorgeously chiseled face. I miss his height. I miss his gorgeous blue eyes. I even miss sending him the dorky “good morning, have a nice day” texts as I was walking into work every day. I miss the way that he paid attention to me. He listened to me and made me feel like what I had to say mattered. Even though that weekend was three years ago, there isn’t a single day that passes that I don’t think about him.

I just want to know WHY he stopped responding to me? Why did it have to end with him ignoring me from across the country. We talked about me moving out there to be with him. We discussed schools for my kids. It seemed like he was my true soul mate. And now, I sit alone–drinking away the emptiness, wondering what could have been if I had been 100% honest with him.

Reflections of a young, strained marriage

I’m not sure what I expected out of my marriage.  Fireworks?  Love? Romance 24/7?  I may have gotten love, but not the other two. I get down on myself for possibly knowing (albeit subconsciously) before we got married that I wouldn’t have fireworks and romance, but willfully chose to ignore it under the guise of possibly being happy/living “happily ever after.” I blame myself. I blame myself for our sexless, strained relationship. I get angry with myself for not being clearer to myself on what I wanted out of a husband and honestly evaluating him more closely. I criticize myself for not opening up my eyes wider and realizing the situation.

My husband makes me laugh almost every day, but there’s no physicality to us.  I have to solicit hugs and kisses. I’ve done it so much I’m starting to seriously resent it and not care if I get a good night/good bye kiss, hug, etc. anymore.  We’ve been married for almost a year and have had sex once in the last 4 months. I wonder if the spark is gone, if he’s not attracted to me anymore, if it’s something I’ve done. If it’s none of these things, which may be even worse. If he just didn’t have a reason. Just a lost desire. I’ve tried well over a dozen times to initiate intimacy with no success. It’s started to wear on me. It hasn’t started; it HAS worn me down.

Is this my fate? Will I be in this relationship limbo for the rest of my life? Will I end up divorced and just a statistic? I don’t want to hurt anyone, but at what point do I realize I’m hurting myself too much? If I had to rate the percentage of the time I am happy it would be less than half. I either am worried about my husband (what he’s thinking, feeling, doing, etc) or concerned with my actions and what he’ll think of them, or the like.

Am I legally bound to live with regrets for the rest of my life? Should I have made a different decision? Is this REALLY what life is supposed to be like? Walking on eggshells and hating myself for it and the reasons behind it? Me cow-towing to his every request and whim, hoping and praying it will make him like me more? What kind of sixth grade logic is that? That’s like doing your classmate’s homework hoping they’ll notice you or ask you to the dance afterwards. It doesn’t happen. Why can’t I remember that when I’m an emotional wreck? Why can’t I just take care of myself first and best? Why can’t he be more responsive when I try to address our problems?

In an effort of self-preservation, I’m wondering about the possibility of seeking physical gratification elsewhere. My husband has once joked that if I’m so sexually needy maybe I should hire someone to take care of my needs. I think he was joking. Sometimes I think he wasn’t, though. However, joking or not, the situation has recently presented itself. An old flame. One of those “we almost had sex but never did” partners. If we would have had one more time together it probably would have gotten that far. However, he’s not “the one that got away.” Just someone I was/am fiercely attracted to (and he to me) but never went “all the way.” We were never devoted to one another, it was a fleeting relationship of convenience, but a powerful one. More serious, long-term relationships and statuses got in the way of pursuing something further than just making out, unfortunately. He made a last plea to me in the months leading up to my wedding last year: asking me if there was any chance I wasn’t going to get married, if there was some room for him in my life before I did, that he’d be willing to travel to me if I could spend even one night with him. I easily wrote him off and said no. I hadn’t thought of him much since the wedding until he emailed me about 10 days ago. Several flirtatious emails later, we have a date set to meet. We don’t live in the same city (or time zone) but he is making a special trip to where I live for one day only. After all, we only need one day.

I’m trying to rationalize if sleeping with him will make me feel better about my life. Will it fill one of my voids? I feel like I have so many and I’m desperate to plug them. I just want to feel better. Will meeting this person, whom I don’t know very well but feel semi-strongly toward, make me partially whole? Will it make me less resentful to my husband for neglecting me? Will it make the lack of sex and excitement more palatable? Will it make it OK?  Is it worth risking? Is there in fact any risk involved? He really has no risk, his wife (he also is a newlywed, but only of two months) will never know, she has no potential of “catching” him. He’s away on business, something he regularly does. It won’t raise any alarm bells with her. But with me, there are hazards.

What will I tell my husband? I can’t exactly tell him “hey hon, I’m fed up with your bullshit and lack of any sex drive or feelings towards me, so I’m going to go spend a (what definitely promises to be) blissful Friday with this man who is physically superior to you in almost every way?” Instead, I’m already coming up with a lie. A situation that won’t raise eyebrows and that’s plausible enough to get me a day to myself without any contact for 8-10 hours. I want to be selfish, something I’m never afforded. I want to enjoy myself. I want to be pampered and appreciated. I want to be touched. What I don’t want is to be reminded I’m in a crappy marriage with no possibility of children (a whole ‘nother issue, for sure) with no hope of anything changing. And if I do get caught, what will the repercussions be? If you neglect someone for nearly a year, what can you honestly expect to happen? For them to stop what feels natural to them and deprive them of physical pleasure?

And no, this isn’t just about sex. It’s about the emotionally gratifying responses that sex brings. I’ve been in a better mood since I started emailing with my “friend” than I have been in the past two months. When we finally set a date I was ecstatic. I bounced around all day with anticipation and excitement. Our date is in two weeks and I fully expect to be in a happy mood until then. After all, half of the joy of any big event is the anticipation leading up to it. I’m thinking of what I’ll wear to meet him, how I’ll do my hair, if I should get it cut, etc. I feel giddy, something I haven’t felt since before I got married.

If I do cheat on my husband and it does satisfy part of whatever’s missing inside me, what happens when it’s a long time until I get it again? Will I delve into a deeper depression? Will this tryst become a “gateway drug” of sorts and just make me want more the next time? Where does it stop? Should I even worry about it?

picture courtesy of Google Images

I let you…

The pieces of your broken heart are tearing me apart, shards of stolen words and empty sentiments.

I wish our lips had never met, I wish our tongues had never danced.

Your taste still lingers in my mouth; your hands still roam my flesh.

I thought I could use you and no one would get hurt.

I told you to protect your heart, but it was my heart that needed protecting.

It made me sad when you said you had to stop, but it felt worse to think of what I had done.

This played-out game of miserable desperate need, while we both belong to some one else.

I let you talk to me………I let you think of me…….I let you see me……I let you touch me…..I let you taste me……

How could you get me out of your mind?

Tell me so I can get you out of mine……………

It’s right, but it sucks.

imageAbout two weeks after my son’s 18th birthday, he decided, after much mental and verbal preparation ("When I turn 18, I can do whatever I want to."), to turn in his house key and I haven’t seen him since. The rules (simple ones I assure you), were too much to bear. Here’s what happened:

The day he turned 18, he got laid off from his job of nearly two years. At least, I thought, he will have the safety of home, the support and encouragement to get out there and find another way to pay for gas and his expensive phone. School work will be easier to complete with more available time. Wrong thinking. Not only did he seemingly not crack a book, he proceeded to blow through his remaining funds even faster than before, and began asking ME to fund his extra-curricular life (did I mention that he does not eat at home…and yes, I can cook). I refused.

I began to see less and less of him, and had to resort to calling the various parents where he typically "hangs." Yes, he had been there. No, not EVERY night. Yes, we’ll keep an eye on him when he’s here, etc. But that was then…now it’s different. I don’t know where he is. He doesn’t answer his text messages (phone calls? Are you kidding me?). He did manage a text the other morning, asking me to call the school because he "forgot" to do an important assignment. I refused.

"I’m screwed," he responded.

So am I.


Smartly Comment policy: Comments are not needed if you are going to bash, be critical or name call. We are not here to be judge and jury. We are hear to read. To listen. And to hopefully allow the writer to tangibly express emotions that have yet to be fully articulated. Remember you do not HAVE to comment, so if you do Smartly asks that you comment responsibly. Thank you.

Staying for fear of leaving.

imageI daydream of divorce.

Like fantasizing about winning the lottery, it’s the kind of vision that feels so very unlikely it’s quite fun to map out in my mind. I’m uncertain exactly how long I’ve been feeling this way.  I’m pretty sure now that more years of my marriage have been spent wishing I were single than those I can count where I was content.

I can recall vividly distinct moments when I vowed to myself I would get out by a specific time.  During a particularly ugly argument in our first home I remember my husband saying something about how things would be in our "next house."  In my head I distinctly retorted, "There won’t be a next house."

But there was.

As I approached the age of 30, I held that landmark up as the date by which I fully expected to be out of this marriage.

But I wasn’t.

Other age-based milestones came and went with similarly unkempt promises to myself.  One holiday, I wrote all his relatives sentimental notes letting them know how much I cherished my memories with them through the years.  They were intended as farewell cards – as explanations.  Instead they were just overly sappy greetings followed by standard fare on the next family occasion. I’m a people pleaser, always have been.  I’m deathly afraid to disappoint.  (Except my husband, apparently, whom I’ve become quite adept at letting down.)

For a spell I convinced myself that only after my grandparents passed away should I be allowed to leave.  I was determined to hold it together while they were alive.  To be honest, I simply wouldn’t have been able to withstand their judgment.  Or more likely, the judgment I imagined they’d have.

Deep down, I LIKE being part of the esteemed group that has managed to defy the odds and stay married.  Other characteristics of our courtship and ourselves (too personally identifiable to include here) made our chances of success even more slim; hence, our feat appears all the more remarkable from the outside looking in.

My husband is not a bad man by any stretch of the imagination.  A good wife; however, I haven’t always been.  In an unhappy, immature phase of my life I acted out with a love affair, both extended and emotional.  He begged me to stay and pledged to never speak of it again.  Predictably, I stayed and he spoke.

The leverage over me this misdeed has created in the half dozen years that since passed is overwhelming.  Initially it took the form of guilt.  Frankly, it has morphed into bitterness.  And I still live in fear that if we part, the lurid details of my past will be told.  To my in-laws, to my pastor, to my parents, and – in the absolute worst case scenario – to my children…

Once I was ready.  REALLY ready.  Then I happened to flick through the channels on late night t.v. and witness a young man confess that his life of crime and addiction was clearly attributable to his parents’ divorce during childhood.  It terrified me.

And so I stay and play the part.  It’s not that hard.  Better that I manage in this ho-hum state than turn my kids’ worlds upside-down.  Better their happiness be preserved than my own, which was already so selfishly sought after in the most inappropriate of ways years before.

Anyway, there’s no compelling reason to depart calling my name out from afar.  The daydreams I entertain are of independence, not of another man.  I have nothing to escape except the absence of bliss.  So goes the status quo…


Smartly Comment policy: Comments are not needed if you are going to bash, be critical or name call. We are not here to be judge and jury. We are hear to read. To listen. And to hopefully allow the writer to tangibly express emotions that have yet to be fully articulated. Remember you do not HAVE to comment, so if you do Smartly asks that you comment responsibly. Thank you.

Hope at the Hard Rock

imageThings weren’t going well.
They hadn’t been going well.
But there was hope at the Hard Rock Hotel.
Even though shoving 24 hours’ worth of clothes into an overnight bag had somehow reduced me to tears.

There was hope.

The Carbide & Carbon building was his favorite in the city; the Art Deco architecture in polished black granite shimmers in the sunlight and reminded him, I imagine, of a time when the Political Machine was still sexy.
The lobby was plush — I want to remember deep pile shag carpets and purple velvet sofas, well suited to the rock-star lifestyle. There was a crowd of F-listers holding court in a lobby alcove while their agent, a bear of a black man, negotiated with the Eastern European woman behind the desk.
We waited for what seemed like hours for an elevator; when it arrived, we huddled in the corner like unwitting concertgoers who had stumbled into a mosh pit, held our breath to ward off the day-drunk stench of cheap vodka.
There’s a stash of Gibson Les Pauls behind the hotel’s front desk. We had one delivered to the room, the body still smudged with someone else’s fingerprints, and I danced dreamily around the bed as his fingers crawled around the fret board. He’d stopped playing the guitar at home, especially after we moved in together. The quiet hurt my ears and my heart.

My Nikon sat on the bedside table, forgotten as his version of Keith Richards filled the room. But as I started to change into my pajamas, he tossed the guitar aside and grabbed the camera. "Stop," he said, fumbling with the lens cover. He was an artist in many ways — a musician and a painter — but not a photographer.
He snapped the shutter once, twice, and I stood there awkwardly, uncomfortable, in a sweater and the baby-pink mesh thong I’d packed for the occasion. I fought the urge to dive under the covers and pleaded with him to put the camera down. I hated how I looked. The only thing worse than "fat and happy" is fat and miserable.
"Lie down," he pleaded. "Take off your sweater. Just let me take a few."
It was a special occasion. I let him.

Looking back at the images, taken in rapid succession, I try to ignore the ones of my ass, centered in the frame and bordered by a ruffle of cheap black lace. I’m not used to seeing so much of myself, an expanse of snow-white bare skin against crisp white sheets, pillowcases embroidered with tiny guitars, marked by a mountain range of tiny vertebrae.
It’s easier to pretend the photos are of someone else. But those bedroom eyes are mine, mascara smudged, peering out from behind a chaos of hair. Looking back at him — both behind me and into the past at a different him, a different us — with total adoration.
The we’ll make it work, if only we try just a little harder look. Two against the world.
Pictures tell a one-sided story. That’s the difference between him and me. He’d rather remember what’s in the pictures. I remember everything.
I remember that the bedroom eyes turned stormy, suddenly. Our wild night at the Hard Rock, the one that was supposed to bring the fire back, backfired without warning.
He was certainly ready to go — his readiness was never the problem, fueled tonight by the thong and the camera and the quiet acquiescence of my bedroom eyes. We tried, but I started to cry again.
I just wanted to put my clothes back on.

I cheated and I am so very sorry.

imageI married young.

And I married for a terrible reason: homelessness.

I was 19 and I’d been fired from the job that was paying for the room I rented. I felt that I couldn’t go home again as my parents were renting out my room to a college student. Having dropped out of college to work full-time, I had very little extra education to put on a resume.

So I married my boyfriend of a month-and-a-half. He was in the military and would receive extra pay to afford an apartment if he was married. We decided that if it didn’t work out, we’d just get a divorce. Just like that. We waited until we had $100 between the two of us and went to the local courthouse for our wedding. I didn’t tell my parents until two weeks later.

Seven months later he was deployed overseas to fight in the war. We didn’t even get to celebrate our first Valentine’s Day together.

I’d frequented the base "club" before I’d met my husband, so I returned there to be among friends while I was a "single wife." A mutual friend of my husband and mine would also go and we’d hang out. Sometimes he’d come over to our apartment for dinner and movies.

But one night it was more than dinner and a movie. In the bed I’d received at my belated wedding reception, I slept with him.

Feeling remorseful, I faked a mental breakdown to get the friend out of my house. I never saw that friend again.

When my husband returned from the war, I confessed only to kissing another man and lied about who it was (I told him it was a new person who’d since been stationed elsewhere). My husband told me that was my one allowed screw-up, and if I’d slept with the man, we’d be getting a divorce.

2 years later he did ask for a divorce, though he never really explained why. We’d been having money trouble and he seemed to withdraw from just about everything.

I never told him about the affair, and I never got a chance to apologize to the friend.

I haven’t had a serious relationship since the divorce and every time I do get close to a guy, I wonder if they’ll ever ask if I have cheated or been cheated on, and I wonder how I’ll answer. I try to chalk it up to the fact that I was young and lonely, but I just can’t seem to forgive myself for cheating on my husband. And still it seems that I am being punished after all these years.


Smartly Comment policy: Comments are not needed if you are going to bash, be critical or name call. We are not here to be judge and jury. We are hear to read. To listen. And to hopefully allow the writer to tangibly express emotions that have yet to be fully articulated. Remember you do not HAVE to comment, so if you do Smartly asks that you comment responsibly. Thank you.