I've written about Rob's proclivity for binge drinking and playing computer games when I'm out with friends or away for the weekend. It's both a cry for attention, and my punishment for leaving him alone.
That he does it when I leave belies a fear of abandonment, which is sad, but after trying to help him for years to no avail, I can't support this unhealthy response to his problems much longer.
And the pattern has taken a dark turn. Rob recently binged to the point of terrible sickness. Looking back, we realize he had poisoned himself and needed medical attention.
I was away for only a few hours, during which he drank heavily. Soon after I returned he was heaving in a strange way. I asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital, and all he could do was sway and try to focus his eyes on me, and say "no" weakly.
We both abided the sickness, waiting out the vomiting. I cringe to think what could have happened, and I wonder why I asked a devastatingly impaired person if the hospital was in order and did not proactively seek help for him myself?
Rob's and my couple's therapist suggested the choice I face isn't between our current relationships on the one hand, and separate futures on the other, but between a new relationship together on the one hand, and separate futures on the other.
Oh, right. I don't have to settle for our relationship status quo; if I choose to stay, it should be for a better, healthier relationship. While this is not earth shattering, it felt new, and gave me pause. I guess I had been in a rut thinking the relationship was unchangeable and therefore doomed. Not so?
After this suggestion, I spent a good day thinking, nah — there's no way Rob can change. And the trauma between us is irrevocable and can't be healed.
But then I thought of all the good changes Rob has already made and decided he would be capable of it. That lasted through a second day. But something still irked me. Even if change for the better were possible between us, I still had misgivings. What were they?
Soul searching and self-knowledge are good things, right? But if you can't get too much of a good thing, why am I tired of the pursuit of my true feelings, ready to give up on couple's therapy?
I'm going crazy from broken-record thinking, and pretty sure my best confidants are ready to flee at my next mention of these problems. I need answers. A divorce article I recently read pointed out that while contemplating separation over an extended period of time, you put yourself in a state of prolonged heightened awareness.
Heightened awareness. Helpful, right? It went further: indecision is an opportunity to contemplate every side of the issue. Great! But then it switched gears: at this time one does not think clearly or logically, and might not employ sound judgment. Beware of your thoughts. So which is it?
Well, of course it's both. I'm aware. And this awareness feels heightened — if, by "heightened" one means ever-present, obsessive, and anxiety-provoking. What am I aware about? That I'm not able to make a clear judgment about my situation. Circles again. All in all, I'd kind of like a break from thinking at all.
As any sometime-reader here knows, I feel guilty and ungrateful for wanting to leave Rob after he has been such a great comfort and support when I've needed it.
Recently a reader asked when Maya was going to start loving Maya. Indeed! As I pine over the hurt I might cause this nice man, and reconsider leaving him, I'm in danger of sacrificing my worth, potential, and dreams to protect his feelings. Not much self-love in evidence here.
I've been thinking about Rob's and my past a lot lately. Dating him was fun.
He was a great comfort, maybe because he presented solutions to my biggest problems. I felt isolated and a bit depressed; he helped strengthen my connection to mutual friends. I was living paycheck to paycheck; he fronted me cash when things got tight. I craved a love connection; he was available, and horny as hell.
Indeed, before dating, in the very beginning, what is now a quagmire was just pure and simple lust.
Rob was in the midst of a rash of one-night stands when we hooked up. I didn't know this, and expected a repeat performance. He complied, but it didn't evolve quickly enough for me.
Rather than building a connection, we just sort of repeated the one-night stand. I tired of meeting for what was only pre-sex drinks. "Whoa," I said, and announced I was done unless we added dinner or a movie to the agenda. He balked, and I figured that was the end of it.
Instead, Rob called a few days later to ask me out to a movie. He was probably just giving me what I wanted so he could get an easy fix. (He says he doesn't remember.)
Rob has a boyish charm. Soon after we met, I came to adore him. But his childlike approach to the world later became a turn-off.
Imagine a guy who excitedly coos at cats and dogs, exclaiming "hello!" in a loud and squeaky baby voice to all that pass by. Sweet. But he also has a cache of "punny" one-liners that by now I've heard two million times each.
And there are the dances — his repertoire includes the "I got a raise" dance, "It's the weekend" dance, and "We're going on vacation" dance. You get the idea. It's as if he were a 10-year-old performing for his aunts and uncles after a holiday meal. Constantly.
While this was fine when I was younger and — let's face it — a bit messed up and needing attention myself, now it's terribly annoying. Of course, the behavior belies a lack of confidence. The boyish charm disarms and deflects attention from his true feelings and anxiety. I see that, and I have great compassion for his discomfort. But at our age?
Regarding the decision to separate, a fellow FWW blogger told me that for her "It's a matter of discomfort having to surpass fear." Very wise. On the days I am certain leaving is the right thing to do though I can't quite do it, the underlying message here is my only comfort: the fear that keeps me stuck is not strange or unusual, and not something only I struggle with.
In an early job interview, an influential editor asked me how I felt about self-help books. This was more than a decade ago, and trying to impress her with an erudite reply, I told her I wasn't into them. She responded that the genre was poised to be the fastest growing in the English language market. Oops.
While that job didn't pan out, her prediction did. The number of titles purporting to help fix everything from low self-esteem to relationships skyrocketed, and people continue to buy them in droves. Apparently, millions of us feel stuck in some way. I am not alone.
