Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Happy Valentine's Day To Me
I slept until almost noon today. I haven't done that in years, but I had a crappy time last night. So did HUBS, and it was his birthday.
He wanted to build a new computer. We'd done our taxes and were getting a pretty good refund; but there were other pressing issues. The plumbing in our kitchen is shot and we need to pay his property tax from last year. I talked to him about it and told him I didn't like the idea of him spending so much, right now, on a computer when his isn't blown out. And I know his parents talked to him about it.
HUBS is angry. He's angry that he's 42 and can't just buy what he wants he wants to. He's angry that I don't have a job. He's angry that he feels like our whole financial life rests on his shoulders. He's angry that he has a job he basically enjoys, but where they've told him outright that he won't be able to move ahead if he stays there. He's angry that every time he comes close to getting a higher paying gig...he doesn't. All of that makes sense to me.
So last night, instead of enjoying his birthday, he told me how angry he was, is and will be about things until I get a job. It took a few hours. And when he took a break to shower I sat watching Access Hollywood, with a growing headache, and considered just walking out the door and getting into my car and not telling him where I was going or when I was coming back because I didn't know.
I stayed. When he came back into the room I apologized for being a depressed, unemployed and ambition-less loser. I apologized for leaving my job at exactly the wrong economic time, letting the process of applying for and not getting jobs demoralize me and giving up over and over again. I apologized for not knowing how to make working for myself work and for hating whatever office or retail job I might get in the future until I can make real money writing. I apologized for not caring about sex enough to do it when I don't want to and not even trying to find a job for the past seven months.
Then, we went to dinner. We drowned our sorrows in food and booze, and I, for one, felt no better.
I realized this morning, laying in bed trying to go back to sleep, that none of the things I want seem even remotely real or possible for me. For other people, sure. But not me. Whenever I try moving toward those things, I feel good only on the surface. Deep inside, there's a tight ball of tense fear that forms and says This will never happen, but you just keep on keeping on.
I don't feel special enough to have what I want. So, I stop trying and the fear of wanting goes away. I think that's why I sabotage myself so much.
The only way to get through the fear is to feel it and do the things I'm scared of, but I haven't mastered that. At all.
Clearly, I have some things to work on.
What's the scariest thing you've ever done? How did you make yourself do it anyway?