I moved to New Mexico a couple of months later. I met a guy and we started dating. He took me to one of my prenatal check ups and the doctor arranged for me to move in with him because I needed to be close to the hospital and we lived outside of town. In May, I had the baby. In November, we got married.
The poor guy. He knew not what he was getting into. Neither did I.
I had no idea what I was going to do to this poor, sane country boy. O. M. G.
I tortured him off and on (more on than off) for fifteen years. Through two marriages (to each other) and four living together situations.
The poor man didn’t know if he was coming or going, nor what he would walk into when he got home. I was a maniac.
I had no idea that I was insane. I had no idea that the behavior I was exhibiting was the marker that should have told people that I needed psychiatric help. Evidently, neither did the people around me.
Not that I would have listened.
I will write more about what I did to this poor man later. Just be prepared to think, “That poor man. How did he put up with that?”
Oh! We will call him…
My kids Dad.
My kids Dad was far from perfect, but he was doing what average people did. I didn’t realize this until a few years ago. He went to work everyday to make as much money as he could and he tried to help people whenever he could.
I demanded that he be home by six, so we could have dinner “as a family”. Working for himself, he couldn’t truly make his own hours. Not to mention, he would stop on the way home and help someone if they were broke down.
I wish I didn’t have to admit this, but fair IS fair.
I would get angry that he was late and, after 30 minutes, throw his food out. Then, after another 30 minutes, I would start stomping around and muttering to myself. If he came home during this stage I would yell and stomp around. Usually, he would give minimal responses and it would tame down and eventually go away.
Sometimes, he would argue back. These were the times when things would get “exciting”. I would yell. He would yell. I would yell louder. He would yell louder. I would stomp around and yell. He would yell some more. I would throw things and he would stomp out.
Poor guy. All he was doing was the right thing.
Once in a while, I would get angry because he didn’t take out the trash. I would put it in the drivers seat of his truck and let it sit there until he went back to work.
Can you imagine the putrid smell of trash inside a truck during the summer months in New Mexico?
Poor guy. How did he put up with this?
I remember one time, I asked him to take a certain day off as I was making plans for the family.
He came home the night before and told me he had to work the next day. I was pissed. I continued to yell and scream and throw things way into the wee hours of the morning, so he was exhausted when he went to work a few hours later.
Poor guy. He was just doing the right thing.
I don’t remember what this fight was about, but I threw our only lighter (we both smoke) and it went through the window. It was lost and we had to go to the store (on foot) to get another one.
He was nice enough to walk with me and the baby. Complaining the whole way.
Poor guy. How did he put up with it?
Later, he became a truck driver and you know what kind of hours they keep! He was rarely home. When he was, he was exhausted. He watched tv and slept.
I was pissed. I thought he was supposed to spend time with us, me and the kids. I thought he was supposed to talk with us and do things with us, but I was wrong.
I would throw tantrums. Scream and yell, throw things and stomp around.
I never let him see me cry. I was dying inside.
He never wanted to hold my hand, or hug me. He was too busy watching tv or talking to his friends.
When we would go shopping together, he would make me stand in the New Mexico summer heat with the baby for 30 minutes or more to talk to some old person.
I was wrong for getting angry and being rude by demanding that we go. I was wrong for being frustrated about the baby and I getting sun burned so that some old man could tell him about a car.
I remember one time, he came home for a couple of days off. He had the kids clean the front of his semi truck. The front of it is called a tractor. After about an hour, I went out there to see how they were doing.
They had found the panties that “he bought me”. I was a size 8. These were size 2. I wore french cut. These were thongs.
I found a bottle of perfume by the bed. It was one I’m allergic to.
“I bought it for you.” he said.
“I’m allergic to it.” I said.
“How am I supposed to know that?” He said.
“We’ve been married for three years!”
Is it just me or should your husband know your allergies after three years?
A couple of years into our first marriage, we had a two year old and a baby. I came down with strep throat and was running a fever of 105. I was talking to dead presidents and aliens.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” he said.
“You’re going to leave me alone with the kids like this?” I asked.
“I have to work.” he said and left.
“You can’t take a day off for me to go to the doctor?” I yelled.
Regretting it immediately due to the pain in my throat.