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Super Secret Agent Spy

I am a writer. And a doodler. And an eater of Twizzlers. And the mother of MuShu, the wonder puppy. I love long walks on the beach, fast cars, fine din. . .whoops. Wrong website. . ....

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Tuesday Night. . .Sigh

No Twizzlers for me tonight.

No dancing to George Michael.

I’m exhausted.

I did it again. I shouted down seven levels of hell at my husband. I get sick like this for days after we fight. And by “fight”, I don’t mean a mild disagreement. I mean. . .sometimes, he says things that, no matter what his intention, erode the fragile levy that holds back pain of old wounds. . .wounds both he and others have inflicted. When we fight like this, it’s not fair. It’s not me fighting with him. It’s me fighting with him and everyone who has ever hurt me. It’s not right. It’s not fair. I’ve gotten better at it, but sometimes, I don’t know if I will ever let a loving heart win out over rage.

It’s difficult for any man to live with me, I’m sure. If you were to open the top of my head and peer in, I have no doubt that you would see a hurricane-season weather map – a doppler radar of Category 5 abandonment issues and tropical storms with eyes that stretch across love and loyalty. Up in the corner, Jim Cantore would be screaming “Would you look at THAT! I haven’t seen a weather pattern like this before! Oh my GOD, it’s so. . .” and then he would be gone. I would tsunami him with grey matter and inky-black thoughts.

What makes my husband different than most men is that he, above anyone else I know, understands that (whether they were warranted or not) any argument we have is never THE END. It took him a while to get me wired before he understood why every blow up between us ended with me packing bags and running away. Once he caught on, he learned to remind me that the ugliness of any situation was temporary. A novel idea to me.

Oh! By the way, I’m drinking wine and listening to the great ELTON JOHN. (please excuse me while I genuflect):

Dont wish it away,
Dont look at it like its forever.
Between you and me I could honestly say,
That things can only get better.

No matter how awful the argument has been and no matter how many unwarranted, emasculating insults I’ve slung in his direction, he really tries as hard as any human is able, to reflect on where the rage came from. . .to pin point the exact moment where the fuse is ignited and a simple disagreement becomes an all out assault on him and everything he stands for. Sometimes, it’s just because he is an arrogant ass. . .and arrogant asses really chap my fanny. Other times, I receive a surprising education about the innerworkings of my psyche.

And while I’m away
Dust out the demons inside
And it wont be long before you and me run
To the place in our hearts where we hide

Thankfully, my husband has been able to master  recognizing the moment during an argument when I stop seeing him as my husband and look at him as an enemy. A solid eighty-percent of the time, he is able to step back and give me all the space I need. He realizes no good will come of actually engaging in an argument with me at that point. But he NEVER forgets to remind me that he will be back; that he’s not running away from me. . .he’s only running away from the rage that comes when the ghosts of my past cloud my vision and eclipse all that is good in the world. (Oh! So dramatic, no?)

And I guess thats why they call it the blues.
Time on my hands could be time spent with you.
Laughing like children, living like lovers,
Rolling like thunder under the covers.
And I guess thats why they call it the blues.

My husband always reminds me that he is eternally grateful for the good times we have. . .that he accepts that sometimes, my body chemistry, damaged psyche and anger issues drag me down to a place where I am impossible to console. He doesn’t walk on eggshells, but he is mindful of my malaise and works with me on it. As loathe as I am to give anyone credit for the progress I’ve made in recent years, I have to give him what he is due – appreciation for understanding and staying with me anyway. No matter how many times I’ve childishly yelled “I hate you,”he never believes it. And he just waits for me to get better. And I do.

Just stare into space.
Picture my face in your hands.
Live for each second without hesitation.
And never forget I’m your man.

Though I’ve always wanted a searing, passionate love affair of “The Notebook” kind, I have to say that the love that I have for my husband and the love that he apparently has for me (who would put UP with this shit for so long?) is a greater love than I ever thought I could experience. There is something VERY freeing about being allowed to f**k up and have the safety net of someone’s pretty-damn-close-to-unconditional-love waiting right there for you.

Wait on me girl.
Cry in the night if it helps.
But more than ever I simply love you.
More than I love life itself.

So, another few weeks of the “low season” has passed and here I am on the upswing of things. I’m not out of the dark woods entirely.  Not yet. I’m still rather irritable, having impulse control issues (hide the credit cards), nothing I write seems to make sense to me (if it makes sense to any of you. . .halle-friggin-liuea. Looyah. Booyah. Amen.). . .but he’s still here. And he still loves me.

When I’m happy, depressed, loving, hateful. . .he still loves me. Doesn’t always like me. . .but who does? (Cackle.)

And I guess thats why they call it the blues.
Time on my hands could be time spent with you.
Laughing like children, living like lovers.
Rolling like thunder under the covers.
And I guess thats why they call it the blues.

Alrightie. . .no more drinking and blogging!

xoxo