An unfortunate reality about having a public personal blog is the regular struggle against the urge to explain oneself to the world. I’m not writing here for anyone but me, and what is written is public only to give it heft and weight in my own head. That doesn’t stop me from wondering while I’m scrubbing dishes if I should go back and explain to the faceless masses that I don’t want to walk away from my kids, or my dog, or even my husband, as if the specific minutiae carved up and splayed out for public inspection will somehow make those who view me as wrong change their minds. Going on and on about all the sins I committed first, or second, or third won’t change their minds either. Public blog or not, this is still my private life and ain’t nobody gives a shit about all them details getting placed in their proper place and time. Nobody has time for that. Not when shocking comments lacking context can be left on Facebook. Not when lines can be drawn that divide families into the winners and losers. Not when Michael Jackson eating popcorn is such a popular meme.
Those who want to know have no business knowing, those who ought to know don’t care. That’s kind of why it ends in divorce in the first place.
I’ve rethought my position about my dog. I had forgotten entirely about clicker training, which makes me the world’s most ditsy pet owner since clicker training is like, fucking everywhere. So she gets a reprieve for at least a week. I’m not some unreasonable bitch who just gets fed up and gives up. I try everything I can think of until I cannot think of anything anymore. Then, after I’ve gone through the list a few times again just to be sure, I will finally, with much disappointment, give up. The Hubby has had eight years of my efforts. Unless I just want to get a couple prescriptions for various pharmaceuticals to fog my out from reality so I just can’t be disappointed anymore, I’ve done everything I can possibly do.
When I had this realization something incredible happened. I felt happy. I felt excited about the future. I danced with my children as I made a big breakfast. I began making plans. Making plans led to the realization that I had options with my kids, it was possible to get divorced AND keep my babies AND home-school them like I want to.
I’m smart, I’m tough, I’m rugged, I’m powerful. I intimidate grown men twice my size with the force of my personality. I am, without a doubt, tough enough to take whatever I want from this life and give back twice as much to my family.
I wish my husband could be part of these plans. But, for whatever reason–they are legion, and they all involve me letting him down somehow–he refuses to be more than a lump of miserable, whining, bitchery, flattened and run over in the middle of his own life. I have given him eight years of my time trying to scrape him off the pavement, by any and every means I could think of (including some horrible ones) but he won’t come up.
So fine. Stay down.
Me, I’m gonna take my kids and give them the world on a string. I might even take the dog, too.