Is it splitting, she wonders idly, or is he really as inconsistent in his support as I perceive?
I mean, it’s nice that he goes out at night with his friends. Really, I’m glad he has them. The thing is that he’s using the time I used to count on for things like running errands. Pharmacies don’t stay open all night. If I could drive farther than about fifteen minutes from home and be assured of getting home, yeah, I’d go myself. But I can’t do that yet.
So I ask him to let me know when he’s going out, so I can plan better. No amount of needing my meds will get my mother home before, on average, 8pm. Dad, however, gets off at 3:30.
— What, you thought I meant Darling?
It goes like this. The quittin’ bell sounds. The man who for months had no energy for things like driving with me (to help me overcome the anxiety thing) or otherwise helping me not be stuck in this house all the fucking time is suddenly totally up for five hours of FUN FUN FUN. Forgive me if I’m skeptical here, but… where is this energy coming from, and why can’t he spend some of it helping his wife and daughter?
If he passes this off as advice from his therapist, I intend to let her know exactly what I think of her advice. Now it really is all down to the women to clean up after him. I can putter around the kitchen — I’m great at dishes — but the amount of bending and scraping it takes to do the floors properly is murder on my joints. I’ve asked Mum to leave me a list of chores, and I’ll try them, since she does shoulder so much of the domestic load. She just doesn’t. I wish she would. I need the list in order to remember.
Go to work, go party, go to bed. That’s it. It’s like we don’t exist.
And I text him to ask him for a small consideration (telling me, not asking me — I can’t give permission!) and he snarks at me about how he doesn’t owe me his schedule. Then “We’ll talk later” with a fucking smiley. I know what that means. He’ll talk, I’ll accept. If I object, he’ll sigh and flop around the house like he’s being oppressed. No, sweetie, your WASP ass is having the time of its life. But the immigrant woman you married and the gimp daughter you sired, we have to get on with our boring lives.
I’m so glad I’m getting a therapist of my own through St Joseph’s. They called me this morning. 5pm, Tuesday the 11th of September. The day the nervous breakdown began eleven years ago. I downright told Dad I needed him to take me there. Sorry, mate. It’s that or you pay the costs for a therapist I can access on my own. I have learned how to drive a hard bargain. I wish I didn’t know how. I wish that hadn’t been my growing up. If wishes were horses, we all would ride.
Might take the darning downstairs in a bit. — Oh, yes, that was one of the high points of my day. My darning’s not pretty, but it patches the holes. I can always turn it into embroidery. I like sewing. Cloth is more reliable than people. Needle and thread take time to master, but they don’t leave you hanging when you really need them.