Dear Z
So here we are. Alone at last.
I saw a therapist yesterday – well, day before. She was pretty hot. We didn’t really have much time together, and towards the end she checked her watch now and then, but it was pretty helpful. I think she can help me.
I now know what I did wrong. I know now what the world’s image of a wife is: quiet, silent, suffering her duty as she watches her stupid bungling man make a botch of both their lives – but she is also smart. Conniving even. She bears with the stupid man because she must, but does not rely on him for anything. She saves her own money for her own nest egg. She does what she wants and when she wants, but only agrees with the stupid man whenever he asks her of something (he’ll never check if it actually gets done, he just wants her to agree). All insults must be swallowed, all cheeks turned for another slap, all suffering bourne.
For years and years. Till the money comes in and she can shop. Till the kids come in and she can raise them to not be like him. Till he loses interest and gets on with his life and hobbies and she can get on with hers.
That’s a successful marriage.
How stupid I was to expect things of you.
To expect you to want the house and car and savings. To expect you to have the same moral compass. To expect you to know that lying and stealing and hitting was wrong. How stupid of me to give up everything because you loved me and that you swore you would care for me forever. How stupid of me to think you would always be nice to me – even when the going get tough. You didn’t even know the meaning of half the words you swore to me did you? Unconditional love? Ever lasting paramour? Getting old and gray together?
So here I am exchanging sms’s because you don’t answer my phone calls, begging for bits and pieces of the lacs and lacs you owe me. Begging for bits and pieces of myself that I left at our place. Bits of pieces that I will never get back because you gouged them out of me and threw them in the trash.
Is that where all our memories are as well? In the trash? Memories of the good times john grey PhD insists I must fully remember to move on. Memories of lying spooning on the last morning, ignoring the wonderful oasis we made on your half of the bed, as fathers and work called, as the world knew that we had separated and that all hell would break loose and all the hate would culminate. Every day memories to toss out at the end of the day so that hameed would get it in the morning – memories of just sitting and talking and time weirdly passing so quickly. Memories of kissing randomly here and there. Memories of not fitting sideways on the sofa anymore because we both got fat. Memories memories memories. Memories of trash.
