Dec 142007

I love my friends. Some of them ask if I have written anything this week. They are not greedy, they just think it is a healthy sign that I am getting better. They want to know that I am still writing and that everything will be okay. The fact that it has been less than a week doesn’t seem to sink in because it is so surreal.

Of course I haven’t written anything yet.

But I have some ideas. I have one story banging around but I’m not writing it because it is really sad. I don’t want to be that blogger. You know the one, who undergoes a terrible life change and then starts writing stories about characters who go through the same life change and shit plays out. Christ, you’re my readers, not my therapists.

I want to write something funny. I want to write something with a lot of action. I want to write a summer movie with big explosions and bigger breasts. I want to write amazing sex with even more amazing dialogue. I want to go blow your fucking socks off.

So we’ll see what happens this weekend. This weekend I get the rest of my stuff. I get boxes and boxes of memories and coping mechanisms. I’ll get stuff that was either bought for me by my wife, or bought by me trying to make myself happy in a unhappy marriage. Bleh, I am not looking forward to that.

That cheap meaningless light story is looking more and more attractive.

Dec 122007

One of the first things I did when I left my parents’ house was get a shitload of porn. Man, I wanted it all. Back then I only had access to magazines and over priced videos from mail order companies but I just tore through it all. My parents viewed sex as a dirty thing and I was eager to see what all the dirt was about.

When I got married, my porn buying slowed down. Part of that was the Internet and it’s wonderful vast collection of free porn. I really liked the text stories and started writing my own. The more I wrote, the more I treated porn as research material. I got porn that excited me, but a lot of it was just that same insatiable curiosity I had as a young adult. Sex fascinates me. It’s something no two people can readily agree on. Well, they do if they want to have sex, but I almost consider that a statistical miracle. You can grab two people off the street and ask if they like a certain flavor of ice cream and you stand a good chance of these random two people saying yes. Grab two random people and ask how they feel about oral sex, you have no telling how they will react.

This is all my way of saying that my porn collecting didn’t bother me in the least.

But now that I am divorcing, and I am able to talk to my friends for the first time about the sheer lack of intimacy I have had in my marriage for the last 10 years, holy shit. I’ve moved in with a friend and as I unpack I am just stunned by how many breasts, asses and acts of submission I have visibly around me. It’s impossible for me not to see how dysfunctional it all looks.

Take my video games. My wife hated going anywhere. She much rather stay home and rest from throwing herself at work. So I bought a beach volleyball game for the XBox that has all bouncy half naked chicks who you buy swimsuits for. I got my summer vacation I didn’t want, a bunch of giggly video girls who lay in the sun and I got to dress them in the swimsuits my wife always rejected wearing.

I have a pillow with pinup girls dressed in Halloween costumes. I like it because it is done in a 50’s carefree style. My wife made it for me, after I found the fabric and asked her to do it. She made it for me, but it was what I wanted. You know what I mean? It wasn’t her desire to make it. It was me, surrounding myself with something sexy to remind myself that I like sex.

Fuck. That’s how I look at all my little sexy possessions. Art books, posters and figurines that evoked desire in me were precious things I bought and treasured because it was validation that I was a sexual being. For many reasons, my wife rarely had sex with me and damn it, I just couldn’t ever give up on sex. I surrounded myself in sex like I was living in a bachelor’s apartment. Maybe all that sex around us was too much pressure. Maybe it turned her off. Maybe because I wanted it so fucking bad and she realized my objects were my substitute for her. I don’t know.

I can’t throw them out though. I see them as reminders and maybe emotional crutches but I can’t let them go. Being sexually frustrated is a part of me I know so well that right now when my world is so upside down, I don’t want to let it go.

Dec 092007

This is going to ramble a bit but you’ll understand because I’m getting a divorce.

My wife and I take care of each other. We adore each other in spite of those thing we hate about each other. Over the last few years, the hate outnumbers the love. There is no need to say what the breaking point is because over time the breaking has been going on for years.

I didn’t understand this till Friday night. She was mad. She was upset and she unloaded on me. She said that she felt like I split my attention between my writing, my readers, my play partners, my friends and her. She said that all her attention is on me. She said that I hurt her, and for the last 8 years, that I have not taken care of her and that I am too selfish to really care for her.

Then she took it all back. She was just upset. She didn’t mean it.

The thing is, this was a continuation of the same fight we have had for ages. We were picking right back up from the last time we had this fight and this was years old. She resents that so many of our friends like me better. She resents that I do not want to live like a hermit just with her on some lonely mountain. She resents that I don’t submit to her tastes and interests.

So this really tore me up. I realized how unhappy she was for the past decade. See, I thought that no matter how unhappy I was, at least she was happy. I thought I took a good job taking care. I feel like I break my back taking care of her and now I knew that I sucked at it. The question became, if I was doing such a bad job as her husband, why was I making myself miserable for so little results?

We talked about it and we both agreed that we were both working really hard for so little happiness. We love each other and we care about each other but we are not good for each other.

The weird part is that I feel like I have lost my identity. I saw myself as that husband guy who loved and took care of this very special woman and made her happy. I made choices every day with her in mind. I made decisions with my inner voice sounding like hers. I have worked, played, loved and wrote with her influence and approval or disapproval.

And now it’s just me. I haven’t been me in 14 years. Even in my writing, there are large bits of her. I’m not saying it in a tragic, oh-she-will-always-be-with-me way, but in a very serious, I did everything with her in mind. I was not myself, I was what she demanded of me. And now I’m not. I’m me.

Who the fuck is me?

I have friends. I have close friends. I have people who love me. I will not be alone in this. I’ll be moving this week. I will keep writing. Something. I just don’t know what that writing will be. It will be all me. Or a lot of me with less of my wife. But this will take time and well, practice.

I’ve never been me.