Fucking 2008

My parents took Bubba for New Year's Eve so we could party with LilCherie and her hubby. We were to go pick him today at 6 p.m. and have dinner at parents'. We spent the night at LilCherie's and then had a whole day to spend as adults.

The day dawned bright and cold, finding me and in a pretty good mood with the thought of maybe, possibly having sex with my husband, since we could go home to an empty house and do it up, if we so chose. After a many-months-long dry spell because we couldn't stand each other, we finally did it a week and a half ago -- the culmination of us actually getting along for a few weeks.

I blatantly hinted to J. my plans for the day shortly after he woke up. He then spent the next hour and a half playing videogames in LilCherie's basement with her husband and son, even after I called down nicely to "remind" him that we needed to get going if we were to have any time to ourselves today.

I let it slide, and we got back to our house around 1:30. I took a shower, put on a little makeup, put in the diaphragm. So far, so good. Went into the bedroom with some old notes J. had written me in high school. They were sweet and loving and funny. I laughed out loud, calling out to J. (who was in the living room playing his trivia game on the computer) many times about how great they were and how he should come read some.

Now tell me this, friends--to me, it seems pretty obvious that no kid+fresh shower+earlier hints+wife calling out to you from the bedroom=sex. Is it just me, or is that pretty clear?

J. never came to the bedroom. He continued to play his trivia game. I packed up the notes, went out and had a smoke, came in barely holding back the tears then retreated to the bedroom. THIS is when J. chooses to get off his ass and come find me--when I am so humiliated and depressed that he is the last person I want to talk to. I try to pass it off with the "I'm just tired," excuse but it is unconvincing so I admitted I was depressed and told him I just wanted to be alone. He leaves me alone. I sob in bed for awhile. Come out to get a drink and take some leftover painkillers. I ask if J. can go get Bubba by himself so that I can be alone to spiral down into suicidal depression. He agrees. Painkillers cause coma and I fall asleep for three hours.

I wake up, write J. a long letter that he doesn't know about yet because there hasn't been a moment without Bubba around since he got back. Eat something. Start feeling a little calmer. J. and Bubba come home, Bubba's wired. J. lets me know that my parents seemed disappointed that I hadn't come for supper/the Bubba pick-up. I call my parents to apologize for my absence and to explain that it wasn't them, it was me and my depression, etc.

My dad decides to ignore the fact that I was calling to fucking apologize and tells me that I "owed" them at least a phone call to let them know I wasn't coming. He gives me a good old-fashioned guilt trip: about Mom slaving away in the kitchen all day, about how J. and I never seem to get any better and that it's causing HIM problems because he's so worried about us, about how unfair it is that he and Mom and everybody else has to deal with my emotional problems.

I pretty much went off on him. Told him I have an illness and yep, they have to fucking deal with it or not be around me because I have a fucking illness and it's not like I choose to be this way. That I'm not that shitty of a daughter. That reaming me out about not calling to tell them I wasn't going to be there is not "being supportive." That I can't solve my parent's marital problems and he can't solve mine and that's just the way it is. That the reason I couldn't "just make a phone call" in the midst of my emotional and psychological pain is that I was too busy fantasizing about going into our basement bathroom and putting a bullet in my head before I conked out in a drugged stupor from medication to try to calm myself down. When he started ragging on me about something else I said, "I learned from the best!" and hung up on him.

Then I cried, went to the store to get my son some popsicles and ice cream because he was incessantly asking for them, watched half of Shrek 3 while intermittently and surreptitiously wiping tears away from my face. The evening winds down and the bedtime battle with Bubba is beginning. "I wanna sleep in your bed," he whines, over and over again. What does my husband say?

"No, Bubba, you're going to go into your bedroom and Mommy's going to read you a story and then she'll lay with you until you fall asleep." Fuck me. The fucking LAST THING I CAN HANDLE IS FIGHTING WITH MY KID ABOUT GOING TO SLEEP, JESUS CHRIST, I'M TRYING TO FIGURE OUT IF I SHOULD GO TO THE GODDAMN ER AND GET ADMITTED TO A PSYCH WARD AND YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING PUT THE KID TO GODDAMN BED???? I tell him I can't handle it tonight. He sighs and trudges into the bedroom to do it. It seems I've failed once again.

I suck.