So, not only does Spazzie trend to ‘controlling as fuck’”, Spazzie also spends a fuck ton of time ruminating; obsessing about the million ways we, and the wider world, just don’t measure up. Such are the joys of the combination of perfectionism and GAD.
Side Bar: if there is one positive thing about President Clownshoes Asshat? It’s that I now have many, many seriously disastrous things to obsess over and about which to be pissed. But fuck me! Is he seriously considering siging another executive order travel ban, rather than waiting for the courts to rule on the unconstitutional as fuck one he’s already signed? Well of course he is! This president is so rich; he gets to wipe his ass with the U.S. Constitution. Moving on.
With Valentine’s Day approaching, Spazzie’s mind turned to “what to get Bubba for Valentine’s Day.” He is NOT into stuff! In fact, one of the best presents I can give him is NOT to buy him something he doesn’t need, which then he must find a place for, which takes up more space, which makes the house more cluttered…get where I’m going with this?
Bubba abhors (no, not too strong) clutter. Both of his parents ‘collect’ things—lots and lots of things--he grew up surrounded by clutter. I also have a slight tendency to over-populate our shelves, our walls and our tabletops with plants, paintings, and various tchotchkes.
So, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Bubba. I got you...fuck all!”
I don’t feel good about it, but it’s what he prefers, so I suck it up and reassure Spazzie that she ISN’T a miserable failure of a wife, and that “nothing” is the perfect gift for the ‘Bubba who has everything.' Then I remembered something I wrote, way back in 2011, and thought "I know, I'll post that for him". Here it is, folks, with a few 2017 updates.
Disclaimer: When writing about Bubba, I use the term “motherfucker” as a show admiration. For example, “he rocked it like a motherfucker.”
I remember the incident very clearly. I was 28; Bubba and I had been married for eight years, and we were discussing a coworker who was, twelve years’ post-divorce, still was struggling to overcome his grief and anger. I casually suggested it might be time for John to move on.
2017 Spazzie: replace “casually” with “callously”
“Damn, he needs to get over it already.” Bubba looked at me, neutrally.
2017 Spazzie: it was shock and hurt, ya’ll, but no fucking way, after only eight years living side-by-side, was Spazzie able to distinguish Bubba’s ‘shocked-hurt’ expression from his ‘no, I’m fine, why the query?’ expression. Bletchley Park had an easier time breaking Enigma—and I’m damn sure not Alan Turing when it comes to puzzling out the sphinx-like motherfucker I married.
Bubba looked at me, neutrally, and said: “I would never get over your leaving me.” “Uh-oh,” I thought, “He’s in this thing for keeps.” And I completely freaked.
My childhood has taught me that love was painful, hateful and nasty. That when people “loved” you, they could say or do whatever to you, regardless of the impact those words and actions had on you. You had to forgive them, and never ask them to stop hurting you, because loving them meant accepting them no matter how awful they were. And you were never, ever allowed to suggest that their actions were wrong. Satisfying their needs was more important than anything, than anyone, else.
‘Loving’ someone meant accepting that person’s abuse and neglect; that person’s selfish disregard for your feelings and well-being. I couldn’t accept that what I had experienced might not be love, and refused to open up. Even after eight years of marriage, and the wonderful life we were building together, I was emotionally hardened; I wouldn’t be devastated when it all went wrong. I didn’t ‘love’ him.
2017 Spazzie: ok, that part is honest and authentic, but the rest of what I wrote back in 2011? Utter Shit! It’s complete crap that sounds so false, Spazzie’s screaming “you are killing me here". I ramble on for five paragraphs [sweet Jesus if I get nothing from this Econ degree but having learned how to write clearly and concisely? WORTH IT] about 'opening up, lowering my defenses, and stepping up,' but I hadn’t. So,
DELETE!!!
The truth: I was still drinking, and still denying that my drinking was a real problem. Three years ago, when I got sober? THAT’S when I got serious about my life, and my commitment to Bubba. Because it meant dealing with all that nasty, gnarly anger, guilt and fear I’d been hiding from, and getting serious about healing.
So, with an honest, authentic and (very sober) heart, I promise to be fully present in our life. Happy Valentine’s Day, Bubba, you motherfucker.