Twenty

I have not been blogging lately because I have been in deep, grief-filled mourning for Michael Jackson, and have locked myself away since his death, trying to make sense of his untimely demise. Hah. Sorry, I have a sicko sense of humor, he was a loser and it's all now being treated like a head of state passing away. Makes me ill. No, I'm back from a few days spent on the warm and sunny beaches of Florida, where A and I met up with all of my immediate family. There were a total of eight of us. I managed to act normal the entire trip, although I had my moments, but I kept them all inside. A and my father have become good friends over the years, and they have a lot in common and are very much alike in many, many ways. When we get together with my parents, A and my dad have a tendency to go off and do things together, which in a way I appreciate because my parents always hated X, and he equally did a lousy job of tolerating any time spent visiting with them. But, as much as I am gladdened by my parents' love and adoration for my newer husband, vacationing with them leaves a bit of a sting in my heart. A and I barely spend time together, which annoys me because it is our vacation as a couple as much as it is as a big family. While A and my father went off every afternoon and evening to do manly activities together, I was stuck mostly with my boring but sweet mother and sometimes my snobby sibling and her children. Not to say that I didn't enjoy seeing them. But while I was trying to be a good daughter and sister, I was inside a wilting tree that was needing attention from A. I got very little of it, although one afternoon we did manage to spend a few hours together at the beach, taking in lunch on the water. But that was it. I would sit around with my mother talking, or go shopping with her, or to lunch with her, or trying to smile when my nephews did something funny, or politely listening to my sibling's advice to me about my life. It even got to a point where my mother and I were sitting around doing puzzles out of the newspaper, and I just wanted to excuse myself and go into my bedroom for a few minutes, by myself, but I was too afraid of upsetting my mother so I stayed attached to her hip. There was not a moment of quiet on this vacation, as I was never alone for even five minutes, unless it was at bedtime and by then it really didn't matter anymore. I know A had a good time, and while I inhaled the warmth of being surrounded by a loving family that I only get to see two or three times a year, I tried to exhale and to let it all go and have a good few days. I guess I just have a different opinion of what a perfect vacation is, and it's not having someone in your face every minute of the day. A is not the type to slow down, even on vacation, so he had to be doing something all the time, and usually it was with my father because he is the same way. I am happy to sit in one place for long hours, doing nothing, taking it all in and trying to find a centered place in my mind to throw away all of my issues, at least for a few days. But, short of buying my own island somewhere, I don't see that ever happening. I did come back home with less anger in my heart, less hatred for the world, and I know it won't last, as much as I will fight against it overcoming me again. But I also came back to the great, empty nothingness of my home. A got up before dawn and headed off to work, and I slept a miserable 13 hours, refusing to get up and face the day, back to the old routine. Errands awaited me already today, errands that A was depending on me to take care of because he doesn't have the time, so I spent hours driving about town. Everything I did, every place that I stopped, I felt empty inside, with no thought or joy in my actions, I was mechanical. I am "not living in the moment" as they say on the talk shows. My head is somewhere else, and not focusing on the grocery list as I wandered the aisles of the despicable entity that is called Wal-Mart. I stopped at five places around town today, only hours ago, and I can't recall a single thing about what I did, I can't give you one detail about any of it. My mind is already blank, the pressure of a migraine already building on my first day back home. There are things here at the house, calling out for my attention now that I've returned- the cats, the garden, the laundry, the whole home itself. Today I am doing my best to block it all out, to ignore it for as long as I can. I do not want to load the dirty dishes into the dishwasher right now, and I don't want to wash the dirty clothes we brought home from the beach, and I don't even want to go out in my own yard to tend to my dying flowers, my wilted vegetables, my empty bird feeders. They reflect how I feel now. Today I opened up all the shades in the house. We recently installed two-inch, real wood blinds on all the windows, the expensive ones because A thinks that nothing is too good for his wife, and the last few weeks we've kept them closed to ward off the unmerciful sun that beats down on our house and yard, day after day. Trying to keep the house cooler. But the last few weeks have also kept me shrouded in gloom, in darkness, the blinds closed so tight I can't even guess as to the weather or time of day outside. I can't stand it anymore, I had to have the sunlight in my house, the glare in my eyes, to let me know that yes, it's another day, and yes, I'm still alive. My mother had a long talk with me, about keeping up with my housework and taking care of my husband, now that I'm at home and unemployed. She told me to be a dutiful wife, that's her exact words, she is so old-fashioned. So I will come back to this life now, and I will do what is expected of me, what A needs me to do so that our life runs smoothly. I will vacuum up the cat hair, I will haul the newspapers off to the recycle center, I will take his dress clothes to the dry cleaners, I will water the house plants, I will chop fresh vegetables so we can eat a healthy dinner. But I will not want to do it, and I will find no love in doing any of it, and I will do it with anger and resentment in my heart, and I don't understand why. I love A, but I do not love our life together. It would break his heart in a million pieces to know this, so I still wear my phony smile and I hug him as hard as I can and hold on as long as he'll let me, and while my heart rages, his heart can remain intact and full of love for me, ignorant about the truth, my truth. I do not deserve his love. He deserves a better wife.