My tragic saga has begun to feel like everyday life. That’s why I haven’t written about it, blog silent for a month.
I’ve done all the figuring about the incident I think I need to do, and I settled on a fairly simple truth: my wife made a drunken mistake; not a particularly malicious one either, but one whose consequences were incredible. I decided long ago to forgive her for that mistake. The weeks and weeks I spent lost in a carousel of suspicions, franticly, deliriously ruminating over each and every memory of the incident, every move my wife and I made before and after, digging and digging deeper and deeper into every plausible scenario and motivation; all to come to those six words: My wife made a drunken mistake. It seems crazy, like I just went off the deep end – maybe I did and that’s just what it took – but it really wasn’t about figuring out that my wife made a drunken mistake, it was about becoming the person that could accept it.
That doesn’t mean it’s all better. It kind of feels like I killed this thing that was trying to kill me, and even though I won, I still have to live with its rotting corpse.
I don’t even really think about what happened all that much anymore, but I think I lost something I used to use to validate myself along the way. I have intense feelings of worthlessness. I’ve had the thought “I hate myself” before but its usually come amid some heightened state of emotion. Its just there now, with no cause for alarm. Sweeping the porch, cooking eggs, thoughts of self-loathing drift into my mind like that shirt I really like but haven’t seen in a while, or how much I miss that bakery we used to live by. I’m at times intensely and immaturely insecure, “Do they like me? They don’t like me.” I find myself seeking validation through the lowest common denominators: looks, charm, being cool. I care less about being smart and more about seeming smart. I think about the people around me and what I need to do to get them to like me. I suck my stomach in when I’m wearing a tight shirt. I won’t pass a pull-up bar without casually showing off how many I can do. Sometimes my brain begs for peace and quiet but I just.. won’t.. shut.. THE.. FUCK.. UP!!! YOU FUCKING DOUCHBAG! You are embarssing yourself..
Everyone in my family is crazy, save my dad. My brother killed himself, my sister tried to kill herself, my aunt killed herself, and my grandpa killed himself. I’ve always been grateful I managed to get the genes I needed to be a sane person. Now I think back and it seems like all of them were okay once, then they took a great big thump on the head and they could never ever get up again. I’m terrified this is me. That was it. The good me gone, the new me driven like a peg into the dirt by this giant falling pillar. I’ll never be able to get out. I’m terrified. I’m terrified. I hated my mom on all those pills. She’s different, I thought, and now I know. I never knew. The things I said… anti-depressants just enable people to not deal with their problems, if they would fix their life they probably wouldn’t be so god damned depressed. And here I am. If I didn’t have them I’m not sure I’d be alive. Thank god for modern medicine. And I hate speaking in fucking cliches! I don’t even believe in god! I never knew what it was like to be buried up to your neck. Going through the days knowing you’ll never be able to dig yourself out.
I feel like an erratic, spoiled child ruining my wife’s life. How could she still love me? There is no more me. Just a dog looking for approval, spending his days sitting, staying, and rolling over for everyone but her. I feel like dead weight clinging to her, drowning her with me. And I know if I let go I could save her but I’m just too fucking selfish.