She wants him to leave for work early on her weekdays off. After all, she spends her whole weekend day off with him or him and his family, every waking moment, practically. Isn’t it fair that she should have some time to herself? Except she misses him when he’s not there—thinks about him, calls him just to say that she loves him, even as she yearns for infinite amounts of time to herself.
She wants him to do more around the house. Clean the bathroom more (she hates cleaning the bathroom). Swiffer sometimes, do the dishes more often, something beyond the twice-a-year mildew scrubbing at the bathroom walls because the fan isn’t strong. (It’s bull, she tells herself at the same time. He’s swiffered, and he washes the towels and sheets more often than she does.) After all, she buys the groceries, does all the cooking for dinner. That she likes cooking, loves that he (and his family and her family and their friends) loves what she cooks– they each take care of their own laundry—that they make their own breakfasts and lunches (he doesn’t like leftovers at lunch ,he wants a sandwich, an insistence she thinks is peculiar)– somehow doesn’t count. If she’s lousy herself at opening the bills, avoids picking up the phone when the caller I.D. says it’s someone she doesn’t want to talk to right now (not that she doesn’t love them, although sometimes she doesn’t, it’s just that mostly she’s tired), well, she still dusts more often, still wipes down the sink and the stove and the back of the toilet and cleans out the fridge (which she fills, by the way—did she tell you that yet?).
She wants to be let alone when she first gets home from work. She’s tired—been talking to people all day, paying attention, meeting their needs. She wants to veg—with a book, on the internet, have conversations with people whose claims on her are less than her family, than customers, than the man she loves and is married to—she wants not to have to produce or perform. It’s unreasonable for him to expect conversation, entertainment, interaction, until she’s ready again—except sometimes that’s a matter of months, not minutes or hours. (That’s unreasonable, too, she would admit.) And it’s not a constant—she has the need to be needed, too. She needs to please, to create laughter, to fill bellies and make people smile or impress them with the things that she knows. And if she doesn’t always just come out and say what she needs—ask for the things that she wants—expects the poor only humans who love her to somehow read her mind—well, is she really surprised to be disappointed? (Sometimes she says what she wants– or thinks she does– on her blog. It’s easier than a real conversation.)
She always understands and often suppresses as useless because it’s nothing she can change (serenity may be a goal but it’s elusive and illusive as hell), the realization that much of this is all about working and having to work—about being taken care of rather than being the one making the effort—all that formative trauma shit that she has to let go of if she’s going to move on. If she didn’t have to—if they had all the money in the world—if—if—if. There’s a world’s worth of if’s, in the end, and she’s not—quite—ready to let go of her hurt, whether the people who hurt her meant it or not. (She’s getting old enough to see that mostly, they didn’t, and she doesn’t like that at all.) It’s two sides of a coin, light and dark, up and down, much like her mood states, the definitive irony. She’s wistful—angry—lonely—happy– in love– and she’s utterly, naturally contrary.
Started a new mood stabilizer last night, topamax this time. We shall see how it goes.