purplelara

Protected: pass the flashlight

the great mashed potato war

Did I ever tell you I had an earlier blog? No? Hmm, really, I can’t think of why. But I did, it was short lived and secret and it was when I was going through the separation that led to my divorce and I was kind of a mess. Hey don’t you wish you could have read all about that?

I am always, always thinking about writing again. I never stick with it and I’m not sure why. I write at work, all day, every day so there’s that. I’m also told you should write about things you are passionate about, right? So, I should start a cheap wine blog? A pizza blog? AN AMERICA’S NEXT TOP MODEL BLOG? (I’m kidding about one of those).

As everyone who knows me knows, I do love technology and using tools and services on the web to share and communicate and so on, and I may have an opportunity to write about those things coming up, but more on that later (TEASER).

I’m getting to the point of this post.

I started thinking the other day about the writing I did in the past and I wondering if I could remember the password associated with the account or even the email address I had at the time. Turns out I’m an awesome geek and I’d saved the info and last night I went and poked my head into, well, my own head all those years ago and ohgodwow.

I’ve hidden the old blog, but I thought I’d share this post. I wonder if people question how things fell apart for us so quickly. Before it happened to me I questioned how two people could go from “let’s promise to be together all forever-like” to “I hate you so much DIE ALREADY” in just a few months. I stopped wondering pretty quick.

I forget myself how bad it was. I’m not posting this to remember the bad parts, I’m posting it to remind myself how much better things are now and to be thankful I had the strength to leave. What I put up with was ridiculous and humiliating and killed a part of me.

Some people don’t understand how damaging it is, how the horribly hurtful things said and done to you by someone you love makes it harder, not easier to leave. It damages you and when you’re damaged you hate yourself. You hate yourself for putting up with it, for not being able to stop it, for failing to be the person he wants you to be, and for being the person he tells you you are. Your self-esteem is shattered, daily, and with no self-esteem, you do not have the courage to leave. Until one day you do.

What follows is just one day in the approximately 450 days I was married.

(It’s not well written, a little heavy handed – I was a little heavy hearted at the time, but I’m not going to edit it, but you’ll note I did change his name (and, subtle hey?), even in the original).

Hard

Our condo is for sale. It’s over. The life we shared in this home is over. I’ve been packing and cleaning today. Again. And sobbing frequently. Again. These, here, these are chopsticks from our honeymoon in Thailand. And this, this “Press ‘n’ Seal” cling wrap. He told me it was too expensive, a rip off…yet a few days later he brought it home from the store Here honey he said with a goofy smile. Silly, yes, but everything, everything, reminds me of the life we had together. Even saran wrap.

This is so hard.

And this here. What is this? This crusty mark on the wall? What IS this? Oh. This is a remnant of the Great Easter Mashed Potato War.

I can’t even remember how it started, other than I remember being annoyed with him all evening. He hovers over me, critiquing at every step the smashed turnips and carrots I’ve been making for years. Yes John, I know they need more butter. YES, John I know I need to mash them a bit longer. NO John I DO NOT THINK THEY NEEDED TO BE BOILED ANY LONGER.

It continues with the gravy…and the turkey…and the potatoes…and the…everything.

He drinks too much, par for course, at dinner. He is obnoxious, as per usual. He embarrasses me in front of my family, as always.

During clean up time, my frustration boils over. The precise reason why, I can no longer remember, but at some point, angry words are exchanged, and all of a sudden a spoonful of mashed potatoes is flung. At my head. By my husband. My 39 year old husband threw a spoonful of mashed potatoes at me. Then a handful. Then another handful.

What the hell. I start screaming at him to STOP STOP STOP WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM WHAT IS YOUR POINT STOP IT.

“I’m going to bed”, I scream. “I’m ending this. Now. I’m.Going.To.Bed.”

“Oh no you’re not”, he screams back. “You.Will.Clean.Up.This.Kitchen. NOW.”

“I will not. I will NOT clean up this kitchen because you order me to. I will NOT.”

“Oh yes you will…if you don’t clean it up RIGHT NOW, you are NOT.SLEEPING.TONIGHT. I GUARANTEE you that.”

“Fuck You John”.

I go to bed. Seething.

[BLINK]. The lights go on.

“I told you. CLEAN UP THE KITCHEN NOW or you are NOT SLEEPING TONIGHT. I’m not kidding. I will keep you up until 6:00 am. GET IN THERE AND CLEAN UP YOUR MESS.

DID YOU HEAR ME??

GET UP!!!!!!!!”

He climbs on the bed and pokes me with his finger [poke poke poke]

“I SAID GET UP.

GET UP NOW.”

I try desperately to ignore him.

“OK”, he says. “OK…”

He turns out the light, gets in bed, gets comfy.

And again [poke poke poke].

“You think I was kidding? I’ll keep this up all night!” [poke poke poke].

[poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke]

[poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke]

[poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke]

[poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke]

[poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke poke]

[Giant ELBOW in my side] “YOU THINK I’M KIDDING??????”

<snap!>

“FUCK YOU JOHN FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!!!!!!!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!!!”

He smiles.

I’m in full on rage now. I’m sobbing hysterically, I’m screaming at him “LEAVE ME ALONE IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED YOU WANT ME TO SNAP YOU GOT YOUR WISH!”

I run to the bathroom. He stands outside. Now his voice is calm. As calmly as can be, he says:

“Wow. Freak out much? Fat fucking crazy bitch.”

There is a smirk in his voice.

“Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, I’m going to a motel.”

I start throwing clothes in a bag. He lies in bed, hands behind his head, relaxed as can be. Still smiling.

“Motel huh? You leave now, don’t come baaaack”. Now he’s sing-songing.

“No problem” I say.

“Well”, he says, “have a good sleep!!”

It’s 2:00 am. I have to work in the morning. I drive towards the local motel-row. I picture the desk clerk thinking Oh hey single young woman checking in alone in the middle of the night, how convenient I have a key to your room…

Fuck, I think. I pull over to the side of the road. Sob. Why, why is this happening to me? Oh, I over-reacted. Yes, I TRIED to walk away when it got stupid. No, he would not leave me alone, but still. I should have handled it differently. Why can’t I DO this?! What is wrong with me, with us? I’m going home. I’m calm now. It will be OK.

I call him. “I’m coming home, OK?”

“No you are NOT”, he says. [Click]

oh god oh god oh god oh god

Call him back. Repeatedly. Same thing, over and over.

I try to reason with him. “Look, I say, this is ridiculous. Let’s stop this NOW. It’s late. C’mon? Please?” (I hate myself a little more).

“Fine”, he says. “Come home…

…

…

…

but you’re still not getting any sleep tonight.”

I cleaned up *my* mess, yet I still wasn’t allowed back in the bedroom. I tried to sleep – on the couch, but it was hard, having the lights turned on every 10 minutes or so, just as I dozed off. It was hard, getting poked in the arm constantly (although not as hard as the time he pushed me right out of bed). It was hard not being able to understand why my husband treated me like that.

Today wasn’t that hard.