Blog posts written in 2012 =0
Marriages of mine ending in 2012 =1
I need to say it aloud a few more times in the hope it may sink in… My husband no longer wants to be married to me.
He told me this on Boxing Day 2011 and again on New Year’s Eve 2011. Well, he actually said he married me out of pity and felt trapped but you know, we plodded along into 2012.
‘It’s a confusing situation,’ I unsuccessfully tried to explain to him. It’s been blatant that I annoy the fuck out of him and his contact with me is limited but there has been glimmers of goodness. A weekend away, sex and very occasionally, laughter. There was even talk of mortgages and moving and deposits and stuff. But the eye contact was getting less and less frequent until last week, I just vanished from his gaze altogether. Conversation dwindled down to yes or no answers. Affection evaporated but sex was still present.
Standing at the side of eggshells, to frightened to even attempt to walk on them is how I’ve spent the last six months. Not saying anything through fear of ‘THE MARRIAGE IS OVER’ repercussions. Trying to be nice, attentive, a bit more organised, a bit more energetic, a bit more domestic and avoiding confrontation at all costs. It’s not paid off.
A row was provoked over nothing in order for the following words to be shouted by him.
‘I’ve enough money for a deposit to move out.’
‘You fat fuck!’
‘You can’t even clean a spoon properly.’
‘You fat fuck.’
‘How hard is it to just wash a spoon under the tap when you’ve used it?’
<retard noises were made to accompany the spoon issues>
‘You fat fuck.’
‘I’ve put on weight since I’ve been with you. You’re trying to make me fat so you don’t feel as bad about yourself.’
<He mimics me crying as an attempt at humiliating me but sounds like Buffalo Bill when he mimics the cries of his victim…making me laugh INSIDE>
Other words were said.
<Cries self to sleep>
I had an inkling last Wednesday. Because of Lord Sugar. All we have is Lord Sugar. It’s the only time we spend together, watching The Apprentice.
‘It’s on!’ I mouthed to him through the conservatory window, beckoning him to the sofa.
‘I’ll watch it on iPlayer,’ was the reply.
I knew then.
So yeah, the marriage is over. He understands it will take months to sort out and he’s giving until the end of the year to save up enough to remove myself from his life.
And that’s it.
If anyone has read this and feels like commenting or sending me a tweet to see if I’m okay.
I’m not okay actually.
I’m far from okay.
I’m the furthest I’ve EVER been from okay.
I don’t particularly want to think about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to have to acknowledge it, or tell people. I’m just taking time out here, sharing in secret, while I get my head around the fact that he’s tried family life and it’s not for him, so he’s leaving me to pick up the I’M NOT OKAY pieces.
There is upset, anger, upset, crying, frustration, notions of begging and pleading for him to please love me, fear, nausea, sulking and then back to anger.
I’m not okay at this moment, but yanno…time and shit.