The Backstory
Today I prepare to take empty moving boxes out to the garage, finish emptying my suitcases back into my closet, and find my necessary toiletries to place back in the bathroom.
Two weeks ago, I was moving out. I had found a cheap one-bedroom apartment, had almost everything packed up and ready to go, and was doing a lot of crying over the end of yet another relationship. Now I'm staying, but still doing my fair share of crying.
The Happy Hunter had been away most of October, and is away again now, and will be away again the week of Thanksgiving. He's gone a lot. Too much. And he's always incommunicado because he's always hunting, far from cell towers and email portals. Before he had gone on one of his trips, he became furious at me because...wait for it...I hadn't done my dishes that day. I had gone to a movie.
The week before, my grandfather had died, and instead of accompanying me to his funeral, HH had opted to go hunting in Montana with some rich guy who had a private jet. Which told me my emotional well-being was pretty low on his list of priorities. So I took myself to the movies instead of doing the dishes one day. It might as well have been the end of the world. HH was enraged, the silent, cold anger known to serial killers and scorned women.
When he left the day after the dish incident, he informed me (via text message) he had hired a housekeeper and I should show her how to care for the houseplants. I said, "Houseplants? That's my department. Should I be looking for another place to live?" There was no response. I figured that meant "Get the hell out, bitch." Which was maybe a tiny overreaction on my part, but the anger I'd felt radiating from him the day before was so extreme I convinced myself it was hatred, and started packing.
Once he got back from whichever hunting trip he felt compelled to take that time, he was shocked. He had no idea I had interpreted his anger as a message to get out of his life, and said we ought to give this all thirty days and see what happens.
November 20 marks thirty days. In the meantime, I have decided to unpack at least enough of my things to have a somewhat normal and functional life, even though HH has told me in no uncertain terms that I should not unpack until the deadline. Which is ridiculous. He doesn't have to go digging through boxes in the garage to find underwear and shoes every day. And as of today, neither do I.
Who knows if this will ultimately work out? All I know is I'm tired of dating, tired of moving from place to place. But at the same time, I'm already tired of being completely alone in this relationship. I tell myself that once the startup company is up and running, I'll have no time to feel alone and will welcome HH's bimonthly excursions to parts unknown. I guess "we'll see" is the only answer that makes sense.
Meanwhile, HH has said he doesn't know whether we'll be able to re-establish a comfortable level of intimacy. Which I interpret to mean, "Hey, during the week I was actually at home you were on your period and dealing with the unreasonable amount of pain your as-yet-undiagnosed ovarian cyst or endometriosis was causing you, and we didn't have sex, and now I'm worried we won't have sex again." Men. Intimacy my ass. The way most men do it, sex has absolutely nothing to do with intimacy. Sigh. This means I should probably fuck him every day he's home until the 20th gets here. Problem is of course, there's usually no time to fuck him. He jumps out of bed in the morning and goes tearing around the house in an orgy of Morning Personishness. At night, if his sons are here we can't do it because sound carries so easily in this house, and if they're not here, he's usually asleep before I get done washing my face.
And then there's the dream I had. I dreamed he was killed and I was so far beyond distraught I didn't know what to do with myself. I have yet to figure out whether I was distraught because of how much I love him, or because, since I have no legal claim to anything in our relationship, I'd be out on the street without so much as a thank-you- for-all-the-sex-and-gardening. Both emotions were highlighted in the dream.
It's a pain in the ass to have a permanent sense of disillusionment about love and relationships. Ah, to be young again and feel as though the kind of love one grew up reading about actually can exist if one works hard enough at it and voluntarily puts blinders on.
Two weeks ago, I was moving out. I had found a cheap one-bedroom apartment, had almost everything packed up and ready to go, and was doing a lot of crying over the end of yet another relationship. Now I'm staying, but still doing my fair share of crying.
The Happy Hunter had been away most of October, and is away again now, and will be away again the week of Thanksgiving. He's gone a lot. Too much. And he's always incommunicado because he's always hunting, far from cell towers and email portals. Before he had gone on one of his trips, he became furious at me because...wait for it...I hadn't done my dishes that day. I had gone to a movie.
The week before, my grandfather had died, and instead of accompanying me to his funeral, HH had opted to go hunting in Montana with some rich guy who had a private jet. Which told me my emotional well-being was pretty low on his list of priorities. So I took myself to the movies instead of doing the dishes one day. It might as well have been the end of the world. HH was enraged, the silent, cold anger known to serial killers and scorned women.
When he left the day after the dish incident, he informed me (via text message) he had hired a housekeeper and I should show her how to care for the houseplants. I said, "Houseplants? That's my department. Should I be looking for another place to live?" There was no response. I figured that meant "Get the hell out, bitch." Which was maybe a tiny overreaction on my part, but the anger I'd felt radiating from him the day before was so extreme I convinced myself it was hatred, and started packing.
Once he got back from whichever hunting trip he felt compelled to take that time, he was shocked. He had no idea I had interpreted his anger as a message to get out of his life, and said we ought to give this all thirty days and see what happens.
November 20 marks thirty days. In the meantime, I have decided to unpack at least enough of my things to have a somewhat normal and functional life, even though HH has told me in no uncertain terms that I should not unpack until the deadline. Which is ridiculous. He doesn't have to go digging through boxes in the garage to find underwear and shoes every day. And as of today, neither do I.
Who knows if this will ultimately work out? All I know is I'm tired of dating, tired of moving from place to place. But at the same time, I'm already tired of being completely alone in this relationship. I tell myself that once the startup company is up and running, I'll have no time to feel alone and will welcome HH's bimonthly excursions to parts unknown. I guess "we'll see" is the only answer that makes sense.
Meanwhile, HH has said he doesn't know whether we'll be able to re-establish a comfortable level of intimacy. Which I interpret to mean, "Hey, during the week I was actually at home you were on your period and dealing with the unreasonable amount of pain your as-yet-undiagnosed ovarian cyst or endometriosis was causing you, and we didn't have sex, and now I'm worried we won't have sex again." Men. Intimacy my ass. The way most men do it, sex has absolutely nothing to do with intimacy. Sigh. This means I should probably fuck him every day he's home until the 20th gets here. Problem is of course, there's usually no time to fuck him. He jumps out of bed in the morning and goes tearing around the house in an orgy of Morning Personishness. At night, if his sons are here we can't do it because sound carries so easily in this house, and if they're not here, he's usually asleep before I get done washing my face.
And then there's the dream I had. I dreamed he was killed and I was so far beyond distraught I didn't know what to do with myself. I have yet to figure out whether I was distraught because of how much I love him, or because, since I have no legal claim to anything in our relationship, I'd be out on the street without so much as a thank-you- for-all-the-sex-and-gardening. Both emotions were highlighted in the dream.
It's a pain in the ass to have a permanent sense of disillusionment about love and relationships. Ah, to be young again and feel as though the kind of love one grew up reading about actually can exist if one works hard enough at it and voluntarily puts blinders on.