Who Wants the Well Done Portion?
Driftwood, by Justin Hayward of the Moody Blues . . . .
Heaven to my ears. I feel like I am going to break out of something soon.
I listen deeply, my fingers feel upon the keyboard of computer more like fingers upon a piano. There is a descent, it always leads to light.
I have been telling my husband my latest version of our relationship, and as painful as it is, I can only see the way out of this through doing so. As time passes, I understand things differently. My understanding is hopefully more accurate, it may not be, I am the one sitting here by my self in the middle of the night puzzling over it. If I did not, who else would? Through the Eyes of A Child, Moody Blues, written of course by Justin Hayward.
My former husband is not a nice man. He is, in fact, cruel. He has a hollow pride. He feels good when he dominates and controls others. He loves the fact that I pay palimony, our childrens' health insurance, their daycare, all school expenses. I held all but the first sacred, because I want to know for sure my children are provided for. But he has more than exploited my doing so, even mocking me that he is the one to take them on exotic trips, never once acknowlging that I am the one to fund these endeavors of his. And I certainly will not to my chldren. They ask me when I am going to take them to places, I take them to family events, to the local town. But I am present, wholly present, and we laugh and we have fun. There are no disney distractions. Take me to court, asshole. Let a judge review your insistence that I take the children upon airplanes to places that require passports. And let me tell you what it felt like to travel the town and find all the hidden messages to write down about child abuse awareness, get all of them so they each get to be part of the classroom icecream party. You tell me where real life lives, you stumped up dick.
My ex husband has done everything imaginable to end my career, which my lawyers have never understood, as I am the one who writes the checks every month. It is a deeply personal thing for him.
He holds a hatred for me the likes of which I've never seen, I suppose other than my second husband's ex's hatred toward him.
It is hard to not just abandon this keyboard and go outside. I most love the nights of rain coming down, surrounded by the circle of trees around my house and soaking in the stillness.
If I'm not careful, that old fucking poet self may come out. Shit, I'd have to go back to doing the poetry readings and answering questions about my poetry, do all that shit again, I hated the after the reading questions, I was always so glad for my mentor's presence. She'd been through it, you see.
My ex spends his time coming up with ways to upend things for my children and I spend much of my time righting them again.
What I desperately needed, and trusted, is that when I placed my faith in my second husband, it was by definition safe to do so.
I would not have done it if I had not believed it. I did believe and I did give him what no one has ever had from me, an openness that I did not know I was capable of expressing to another. I felt drawn to give it, I let myself run along its currents. I was, in deed, swept away. I love him past words.
As a client said to me the other day, "the hurt goes as deep as the love."
She is so right. She and I, so strangely share the same date of birth. What are the odds? But what you need comes to you, in all ways.
There is no safe thing in this world, nor anywhere. My own children are not safe from their father. Still he threatens they will be without care during his custodial time this summer unless I pay for it. Why is it always this way? My first instinct is to protect my sons and give them security, all the way from their knowledge that the socks they put on their feet are always soft and clean to the eagerness that what they put in their mouthes will always taste good and feel nourishing. Why does their biological father not have the same impetus? Why does my second husband do what their own father does not do for them yet leave me until I put a stop to it to the the strange ministries of his daughter? Why are these things the way they are?
Why does he trust me with his sixteen year old son, knowing I will mother that young man as best I can, and pee knows it, too. Why are these things the way they are?
He asks me not to speak of princess. Okay, fine, you asshole. I won't. But here's the deal. I trusted you, gave myself to you. You withheld knowledge from me knowing I held nothing from you. I gave you what no one else has inspired me to give. You knowingly let me do it, you knowingly let me walk into this sinkhole. You let that dumb girl disrupt us in every way, and I don't know why. I trust my sons with you, I would not let you nor anyone interact with them without knowing things imperative to the interaction being as true and good as possible. You let me walk into a morrass of manipulation and I don't know why. So I will not speak of her to you, but I will continue to excise her from me. Had I been a guarded woman, a jaded woman, a not good woman, a woman whose heart was not wholly open, I don't believe I would have been affected nearly so much.
I am open to him, and am openly angry with him, he never knows when he wil be faced with a dose of it. I have told him that we are livng what see in my office. I don't care how old the conflict is, until there is satisfactory resolution to it, it alive and present within a relationship.
I do not understand what he has allowed or why. Why he spit life in the eye.