No Funny Shit Here. I think.

It is doubtful that I will publish this post,
as I am deeply uncomfortable about writing
even to myself when my life feels like it
is shutting down.

There is something of a strangulation
pattern going on in my relationship.

As you may know I had my third miscarriage
3 months ago.  A miscarriage at 12 weeks
that stupidly took us by surprise.

Before the miscarriage, we were a couple
who went through tough periods and who
worked hard and felt stronger and stronger
all the time.  The tough periods were well
interspersed with periods of joy and bliss
with a hat on.  It all seemed very well
wrapped up in circumstances that most
couples would have a problem circumnavigating.

Since the miscarriage, we have been...
how should I say it?

O yes.
Fucked.

I am not someone who shies away from
head to head suffering. I believe that I take
responsibility for my actions, examine my
thought and behavior patterns, and try to
change where I believe I should...and even
in places I believe I shouldn't just to try it out.

But I am very tired.

If relationship bullshit is tiring to you...
and boring.... and visual jokes amuse you...
check this out and be done with
me for today.

 I love me a dinosaur.

Therapy with Jane has been good.
Over here they only do couples therapy twice
a month.  Which seems odd to me.  But we seem
to leave her feeling positive and having learned.

In therapy Beloved has taken a lot of "clacks,"
as they say here. He has a lot of work to do.
This is expected seeing that he is 9 years my junior,
living with a person  for the first time, and, of course,
A Man.

He has been brave, owning up to his shit.
It is, it seems, easier for him to hear about it from
a wise old woman who makes a little bit of fun of him
than from me.

I have also been "guided."  Which is fine
with me...that is why I am friggin' there.

We leave.
We hug.
We eat a pastry that we buy at the neighboring bakery.

We actually had 1. great. week. up until yesterday.
I felt my heart opening up to him and I felt in love
with him again.

But the miscarriage lives on under the surface.
It is not to be denied.

The first miscarriage, I cried and I cried.
The second, I cried and I cried.
The third...not so much of the crying.
Like, hardly any.

Wow, I thought.  I'm doing pretty good.
I congratulated myself to Beloved.
He agreed.
We then proceeded to where we are now...
along an emotionally violent path...

"I think we should talk about the miscarriage"
I said, after one of our battles.

"What is there to talk about?  You are
sad, I am sad, I can't do anything to fix
it, I feel helpless, I'm sure you feel helpless."
said Beloved.

"No.  I don't feel helpless"
said I,

"I feel like I deserve it.  I feel like I will
never have a simple life when it comes to
my sexuality and reproductive system.
I feel this is because I am essentially a bad person.
That has to be the reason for all the sexual and emotional
abuse. And, I destroyed my ex-husband.  There's that.
O.  And three abortions along the way while I was
playing out all the fucked-upness about my childhood.

Yes.  I am a bad person.".....said I.

Yesterday I had my second period since the miscarriage.
My period gets heavier with age (mine) and I feel
low, fat, ugly, and bloody.
Which is nice.

But Beloved was being lovely to me, joking
with me, making dinner, cuddling me.

Then a friend and her two boys dropped by.

The friend likes to argue with me...and I'm cool with that.
Beloved doesn't really like it when I argue with others.
But I had my period, and it was friendly arguing, so
I rolled with it.

Then her 8 year old asked me if
my baby died in my stomach.

So there was that.
On the table.

but, you know...
I handled that shit...

answered his questions,
and those of his brother,
about just about everything,
including how eggs age
and how they will be able
to make babies until their
dead.

The evening continued on.

Then they left.

Beloved reproached me for arguing.
I defended myself.
We sat down to eat.

I talked about how our friend,
who I really like, has a tendency to
push the conversation into very intimate
areas where, perhaps, her nose does
not belong (especially since we have
not known each other so long...).

**note: I am someone to whom the world
pours out their problems.  When I meet
strangers it is almost gauranteed that I
will know throatloads of their personal
life within 3 hours.  That is to say, I do
not shy away from deep and challanging
personal conversations.  But I am sensitive
about it, and about when it is appropriate.

I postulated that perhaps this tendency
teaches her kids that they, too, can
say anything that pops into their heads
regardless of how personal.

Beloved pointed out that kids just
say shit.  Which, of course, I know.

But:
1)  I don't know many kids who ask
people if their babies died in their stomach.

2) I do think that if one talks with ones
kids about a sensitive subject, such as the
miscarriage of a family friend, it would be
helpful to mention to the kids that perhaps
this is a subject to bring up carefully.

3) Hello!  Do I not get at least a mini
"what what" for my smooth and careful
handling of the enormous pile of shit
that they dumped in front of me?

I said this to Beloved (except for #3)
and he said that people said all kinds
of stupid shit to him when I miscarried
("It's fine! She had a miscarriage already!")

and I pointed out that perhaps those
people need to be educated, if not with
a finely tuned baseball bat...at least
a verbal correction.

(like when my friend actually said to
me "don't worry, he can have a baby
with someone else".  Yes.  Really.
She said that.  And she is 63! And
not at all an idiot!)

somehow things escalated very, very
quickly and all of a sudden I started
crying...

...and Beloved imitated my crying.


I can't even believe I wrote that down.

My Beloved.
Who apparently loves me.
Imitated me crying.

I left the house.
I sat by the river and cried
and read Charlotte Bronte
(who, by the way,  was a huge revolutionary
as far as women's rights)
I returned in an hour.

I took a shower.
Beloved apologized.
I told him I wanted to be alone.

How can one accept an apology
for that sort of cruelty.

We did not sleep together
in our newly finished bedroom.

He slept on the couch.
I put myself in our old attic bedroom.

I cried on and off through the night.

So there we have it.
What does one do when faced
with such cruelty.

All I feel is that he must not love me.


Aren't you glad you dropped by to read that?