She’s finally gone to bed meaning I can get the lap top out and jot down a few thoughts I’ve had over the last few days. I’ve poured myself a glass of wine, there is some trivial crap on the TV, peace, quiet, getting back into blogging.
I’m not going to look, but I don’t think I have blogged anything since before the house move; other than a youtube video I posted when I was stalling for time one day. I had promised myself to blog more often. Daily, I think I said at one point. And I did have intentions of doing so but, like the best of, they fell by the wayside and were replaced with other things. Another forum idea, some playing games, watching movies, walking up giant hills, doing anything but jotting down thoughts, which is why I decided to start and persist with blogging in the first place. What am I so afraid of? Is it the chance that I may say something that I don’t want to hear? (or write something I don’t want to read, to be more precise.)
Possibly, is the answer. But this is my outlet. I mean, I don’t really have anyone I can talk to, and certainly not her ladyship. My friends, yes I can talk to them, but doing so is largely irrelevant as they don’t give me the answers I need. Nobody can, except for me, and I don’t want to listen to what I have to say. I have got myself, at 33 years old, into a difficult situation and, to compound matters, there is no obvious, easy, realistic way out. I’m trapped in my prison of ideal home, ideal family, token affection, bitterness and resentment, disappointment, financial dependency, expectation, sexless misery, same bed frustration, relationship dysfunction and alcohol induced freedom.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
Someone who I hold an unexpected deep affection for asked me yesterday, ‘[are you] still living the “Christmas” situation?’
Yes. Things have not improved since Christmas when I actually considered ending this but could not because, after all, it was Christmas. Instead things have got worse, and I have plunged deeper into the misery of modern life. Willingly, insanely, I willingly entered deeper into this mess of a relationship. Even knowing the mess we have been through, and knowing deep down that it would never get better. Why? Why did I do this? The honest, decent, sensible thing to do was to end things there, and to stop messing about in a sham relationship. But I went deeper. What the hell is that all about?
The situation as it stands, we have a house which everyone but me seems to love. Yes, it’s ideal; Big, roomy, spacious. Beautiful garden perfect for entertaining, and perfect for the kids. Close to work, close to Tom’s school. It is somewhere that my son can grow up safe and happy. A place he can love to be. How the am I supposed to rob him of that? Am I prepared to live in this loveless relationship, knowing there is something and someone out there which will give me more than I have now, and ruin the boys childhood in the process? Am I really that selfish? Is it wrong to be that selfish?
How long will I accept this situation? At what point is it safe for me to extricate myself without causing irrevocable damage to my son? Try putting yourself in my shoes and try justifying destroying his life for your own happiness. It really ain’t all that easy.
Christ, am I angsty or what? I’m so desperately unhappy, frustrated that there is nothing I can do about that unhappiness without hurting the one I love the most. It’s a truly, truly, awful status quo, yet it is one I am beholden to.
Can you imagine what that is like?
Cards on the table time: I want nothing else more than to pack a bag and leave this place.
I can’t. And that, to be perfectly honest, sucks.
So yeah, I’m gonna get back into it. It might not be pretty, but it’s me.