I love my husband. He is sexy and strong. When he holds me tight I feel so safe in his arms. I love listening to the sound of his voice; some people claim he has a speech impediment, but I love the accent. I love looking into his eyes, sometimes grey and sometimes blue, but always soul-peircing. I love the fact that he is willing to work so hard at his job in order to provide for our little family.
One of Blogger’s features that I allowed on the page was a section showing my most active posts. The excerpt above is from a post I made in November of 2008.
My blog is full of posts like this, where I sing the praises of the sire of my children. It’s also full of posts where I rant about his flaws.
While love is an abstract concept, indefinable, I’ve always been sure that I loved him. I was also sure that he loved me. I still see traces of that love in some of our recent interactions, but it’s like putting a few granules of sugar into a pitcher of tea and calling it sweet.
Is the love that caused him to be romantic, random, and spontaneous still there somewhere, under the surface and the cyanide? He assures me it is not.
When I left Fort Smith, he told me he still loved me. He kissed me goodbye. I bawled a lot during the drive here. At his mother’s, his stepfather told me a few times that he was sure el diablo would miss me and the girls and want us back soon enough.
If he hadn’t found this new girl to occupy his mind, his time, and his penis, he might actually have had time to miss me. Or if I hadn’t contacted him.
As it is, things are so far gone now that it would take intensive therapy both individually and as a couple, maybe even whole-family therapy…none of which he’d be willing to do.
He isn’t a bad man. I still willingly defend him when people say things that just aren’t true or are unnecessarily mean. He probably won’t believe that, but it’s true.
I’m still proud of his business success; I just hate that I can’t be there to share it with him. My husband, my house, my cat, my culdesac, my life…but I’m not there living it. Now I have a new life.
In many ways, my life hasn’t changed much. I mean, I have my kids and domestic chores. I have a tight budget and healing wounds. I attend college and apply for work. I write. I cry. I do not socialize in kid-free settings.
I suppose what’s missing is my sexy and strong man who made me feel safe in his arms, those soul-piercing eyes and that wicked smile…the material possessions I had to leave behind are nothing and can be replaced. I’m told that he can be replaced to, but I’m not looking for that.
I’ve tried to imagine how I’d feel in another man’s arms. The guy wouldn’t smell the same (a mixture of Axe and hair products). His lips wouldn’t taste like Carmex and garlic. It’s been so long since another man’s cock was anywhere near me; I logically know that my involuntary responses would probably be quite positive, but my voluntary ones would be stiffness and regret.
Someday I’ll stop crying on Friday mornings as I mix and package five bottles for Freya to take to school. Someday seeing him in my facebook notifications or newsfeed will elicit the same mental response as any other casual friend. Someday I’ll stop having dreams where he apologizes and I kill-a-bitch. Someday he’ll stop appearing in my masturbatory fantasies.