Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
That's What She Said
You can also find Monica's writing here:
Search The Girl Who
« Slowly, But Surely | Main | Take Stock And Two Smoking Barrels Part Deux: Back To Basics »
Wednesday
Jan032007

Marriage Is Our Last, Best Chance To Grow Up

132882985_4019c7848f.jpgWedding Day

Love seems the swiftest, but it is the slowest of all growths. No man or woman really knows what perfect love is until they have been married a quarter of a century. - MARK TWAIN

If that's the case, if my favorite American author is indeed correct, then I s'pose I'll stay married. The Surge and I have hit a rough patch. We're just not getting along. At all. I'm disinclined to share the details, not because I worry about what y'all will think, but because it's not only my business to share. It's his as well and so it's not for me to tell. But man, oh man... We've bickered (read: screamed) so much that we've reached the point of not caring. There is no excitement in proving oneself correct or winning an argument - and if I'm too tired to prove my point and win an argument then you know it's bad. We just plain exhausted, yo.
FOR EXAMPLE:

"YOU!"
"YOU!"
"YOUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!"
"YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!"
"BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK!"

That last bit is Max telling us to just shut the fuck up, he can't hear his favorite programs (The Dog Whisperer or South Park) although I have a sneaking suspicion I bark just as good or better than my black buddy.

I think what is most traumatic for me is that I feel such hopelessness about our situation. Oh sure, we talk, we make promises, things get better and then we default to our usual behaviors. Him floating along and me yelling about RESPONSIBILITY! BILLS! FUTURE! BENEFITS! MONEY!

Perhaps we are just too different. He lives an uncertain, nomadic lifestyle and I suffer anxiety attacks about BILLS and THE FUTURE. Sometimes I think his way is so much better. He doesn't worry too much and somehow, everything turns out all right. Other times I feel that, if it weren't for me and my anxiety attacks, nothing would get done.
"WHAT THE FUCK? If I didn't get this job we would be so fucked!"
"It's going to be fine. We'll be okay."
"You just say that. You don't know it's going to fine. That's just something you say. It doesn't mean anything." When I argue I speak in italics. You can see them, the slanty words, forcing their way from my mouth, hanging on my lips for that enunciated vowel before leaping, comando-style, into the air.

Thing is, at the very core, I love the fucker. He is such a beautiful person. Such a passionate, creative, caring, kind-hearted soul. I see beyond all of our madness into the darkest caverns of his heart and God bless him he's such a tortured blaze of agony, a gaping wound of hurt that hemorrhages anger - and I love and hate him for it. Yet underneath it all he's oozes tenderness and exhibits such eagerness to make me happy.

Still - I can't live like this, on a wing and a prayer, forever. It's filling me with a molotov cocktail of rage and hopelessness. Add alcohol, light my fuse and I will explode! I need something to hang my hat on. Some kind of plan for the future. But all he knows is his music, which means what? I'll be the 9 to 5 gal? (or in my current case, the 12am - 9am gal) Forever? What if I want kids? I wanted to be a stay-at-homer? Or at least a part-timer. That will never happen now. He's more likely to be the stay-at-homer. I don't want to burn my ever increasing thighs and pinch my fingers climbing some walloping corporate ladder that keeps slipping, a ladder rife with rusty nails and the dirty fingerprints of those who went before. I don't have it in me. Getting to the top of that? It holds no reward for me. Family and a big, lamplit kitchen; a crockpot full of carrots, onions and pot roast filling the house with yummy; those are the trophies I am after. A safe place accentuated with scented candles and cozy throws and soft pillows and two or three dogs and a coupla kids. They can be discounted from Wal-Mart, I don't mind. The candles and pillows, that is. Not the dogs and kids.

Anybody out there? If you are, can you maybe do me a favor? Here is what I need, if you're inclined to oblige. I want to hear about your relationships. The worst moments, the most hateful you've been with your lover. Hate/Love/Hate/Love. Please, tell me about your worst fights, how you survived, how you came out the other side - or if you didn't. If you have something worthwhile to say, I'll post (anonymously) your sentence, paragraph, story here so we can all see we aren't the only ones locking ourselves in the bathroom, turning on the shower and bawling into a bunched up towel so no one will hear our pain.