I stand corrected.
Oh, now you want to know how I stand corrected? Fine. I suppose I could insert some stupid joke about "sitting corrected" or something, but I'm sure there's a chiropractor out there readying a mail bomb or some such for just such an occasion. He's got no sense of humor.
Anyway, my folks called me last night. They left a message on the phone while I was eating dinner; said they didn't call on my birthday because they thought I'd be out doing something. What they thought I'd be doing IN THE MIDDLE OF A DIVORCE, well, I have no idea. But there ya go. Sorry for the leathery sarcasm; I'm standing corrected. I apparently overreacted. People who know me will be so shocked by that bit of news.
Here's just a sampling of Testimonials:
"Rob? Overreact? Who knew?"-Anonymous friend #1
"Not Rob, Rob's the most levelheaded person I know."-Friend under psychiatric observation.
"Rob is a simple soul. He takes things at face value, and slowly analyzes all the facts before coming to a well thought out, rational conclusion."-Voice in my head #5 (I call him Sammy)
Sammy's got other friends, and so do I, but I think you get my point. I don't overreact anymore than I rely on sarcasm as a crutch. That's why I feel confident in telling you about when I first realized my wife no longer needed me.
It was 2005. I don't know if it was shortly after we bought the house, or when she got her new job, but before summer, she changed. It was like she had a list of all the things she needed from me, and either the house, or the support I gave every time she missed the promotion was the last thing on the list. Once she completed the list, she completed her time with me.
"How did she fall away?" you might ask, "Maybe you're just paranoid?" Both are valid questions. I've been thinking on them for years, and the answer is still hard to explain.
I guess it's best described like this: Imagine two people playing with a set of blocks. Each block represents something different. The one with the truck on it, it's for emotional support. The Yellow one with the ampersand, it replaces time and attention. Then there's the red one. It's got the doll embossed into the side. That one is planning. There are a several other blocks too. Each one has a special meaning in this metaphor, but I think you get the idea. Email me, and I'll break down the whole set for you.
When we first got married, We'd sit across from each other, legs spread toes touching with the colored cubes strewn between us. We'd lean forward, and sweep a space clear with our arms, then each take a block, place it in the center, with the other person's block, and build. Both of us placing bricks on top of the others, each supporting the other, each complementing the other, each setting a foundation for another level of blocks. We built really cool towers. They were simple, strong, and aesthetically pleasing.
In 2005 she crossed her legs and drew the block pile into her lap. I'd hand her a shape, she'd put it with the others, but never offer anything in return. She wasn't building, just gathering. I'd give her another brick, and she'd gladly take it. This went on until I had 2 cubes left. Holding a block in each hand I looked at them, then up at her hoard, then back to my hands. I tried making things with them but there are only 2 things you can build with 2 bricks: small tower, and short wall. I opted for the wall. (Yes Pink Floyd fans, rejoice…)
Melodramatic?
Yeah I thought so. I also thought "maybe I'm just depressed." It's something you have to watch for when you work at home alone. At that point, I wasn't even attending church. My only social contact was my writers' group, and we met twice a month.
So sure, I thought it was an appropriate concern, and one night I tried talking to her about it. I thought, "I'm crazy, and she'll tell me everything is ok."
It was December '05; I'd been working through these feelings for quite a while by then. We sat in the Old Spaghetti Factory eating dinner and half way into the cheese bread, I looked at her saying:
"I need to talk to you about something. I'm feeling alone. I don't know how to explain it, but it's like I have no human contact." I was starting broad. I figured I'd work into the relationship aspects next. Gradually. I didn't want her to feel attacked. That's when she said:
"What do you want me to do about it?"
I'll press "pause" here. Without hearing it, there are a few different ways you could interpret that statement. This is one of those phrases where the meaning is in the inflection. Let me interpret what you weren't sitting in a festive dining establishment filled with lovers to hear.
"What do you want me to do about it?" ≠ "How can I help you? What can we do to work this out"
"What do you want me to do about it?" = "Suck it up."
Up to this point, I always assumed she had my back. We were a team, I still had 2 blocks to prove it. I sat shocked. The word-bomb splayed marinara shrapnel across my face and chest. I rose from my seat and dropped the conversation. She'd just told me what I needed to know, "Yes, as a matter of fact, Rob, you are completely alone." I went to the bathroom, recomposed, returned, and ate in silence.
That was when I first noticed that she'd fallen away. Ask her, and she'll point to a later event, but it was this one or something earlier. Sure, it's my fault; I did something that brought her to that point. I don't know what it was, but there's always something, isn't there? Always some prior point we can look to and go "See? It's your fault!"
No, that’s not the acerbic leather snap of sarcasm in my voice. That's the thread-worn terry cotton towel of surrender.
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