Three: Minus one

A long time ago the only thing that mattered to me was love; specifically, a love that could be reciprocated. I started out young too. What adults would peg as "Puppy Love", for me, was honest and true. I would have moved mountains to spend one more moment with her. Then that all changed, college called and the doorbell of freedom rang loud and clear, so much that she did not hesitate to call it quits on our true romance. This same love came knocking years later when I met my wife. I did not think I could ever love anyone the same way again, but she came along and rewrote the book of love. In a word, Mrs Atypical is was amazing. She was smart, clever, sincere, honest, attractive (one of only a few women I know who can wear her actual face, without makeup, and achieve beauty), and gifted in so many ways; cooking; writing and photography to name a few. She certainly encourage me to be better by proxy, which is why I went back to school and learn a bit about writing and about life in general, and never voiced this in any way. She wanted what was best for me and supported me, even when I did not deserve it. I'll never know if she did this because she honestly loved me and saw greatness, where only I saw failure, or if she was just built to nurture people but I hit the jackpot of companions when she decided to leave everything behind and take a chance on me.

I could fill a year's worth of post about how wonderful she was and is as a mother, but it would not change the now and that is where this story takes a slightly darker turn. I wasn't always the shit eater, the crow eater, the "whipped" ball-less man my mother so lovingly refers to me nowadays. Once, I was a rather ignorant thinks-he-knows-everything-about-nothing redneck my heritage is so proud of, which I focused a great many weekends of hell at my young displaced wife. She was in a new country, trying to attain a green card to work, sitting in a small one bedroom apartment, watching Oprah and eating cheese puffs by the handfuls, and smoking up a storm, while I was working some dead-end job that barely brought in enough money to pay the bills. There wasn't much, I guess, she could have done. She had no one to rely on, no family to dial up and cry with, no income that did not first have a very long explanation ahead of the favor to concoct, nothing. She only had me, and I was way too young and reckless for that kind of responsibility. So, instead of leaning on one another and making the best of it, we fought tooth and nail, every other night, cursing, shouting at the top of our lungs, bashing heads into doors to the point of blacking out, taking steel toe boots to the face by accident, name calling (woof. the name calling was fierce and unforgiving). So much harm for no reason at all. 

We both had issues that had nothing to do with one another and everything to do with family, but family was at a distant and we were at arms length. It was bound to be brutal. And brutal it was. Four long years of it in fact, which I am not proud of by any stretch. See, where I come from, people who love one another display this in huge angry shout filled sessions, usually around Thanksgiving, which would end and the next day people would be back in each other's arms. It took me awhile to comprehend this was not normal. I eventually realized I was a total fuck-face who needed a real good ass kicking and maybe a stay inside an ER for a week or two to make sure I understood it. When I realized this, I did my best to beat myself up about it for a long while, and then I made honest to god improvements on my attitude and grew up real fast. My wife, however, found a nice deep hole to settle in and decided she would stay for the long run in it. The grudge, neither part 2 or 3 combined can hold a candle to the level of deep seeded hatred she has for me. And I could go on another year's worth of post detailing how this hatred continues to run rampant now. Four years of hell, four years of retribution, plus interest. 

And I was foolish enough to think this was acceptable. After all, I did it first. It's only fair I get the same amount back, right? Right? Eight years later, the atypical's are getting nowhere fast. Internal clocks are ticking and I am not getting any younger. A plan, call it a compromise, is reached. Have a child and wipe the slate clean. No more past aggression, no more spitefulness, no more games. Agreed. Only, it was not agreed by both, just me. And you would not believe the amount of mental preparation it took for me to make this leap of faith. See, there comes a time when you just know something. You just know that there is nothing more you can do, doctor. The patient is gone, time it. But you have that young Doctor House, hell bent on defying the laws of science and mortal improbability, pounding the chest, grabbing the paddles and calling, "CLEAR!" "CLEAR, GODDAMN IT, CLEAR!!!" and sometimes, once in a very deep blue moon, life returns. Everyone stands around stunned and overjoyed that the one guy refused to let it die, breaking the rules and committing to salvaging a life that only moments before was not with us. And that is what I did, when I decided to have my daughter. I took the reigns of doubt and pulled back this motherfucking marital carriage, stopping it seconds before careening over the edge! It may not be fair to my daughter, the reason for why she is, but I love that little girl more than gravity. She was exactly what I needed. The missing link to working out what the fuck was wrong with me and my marriage, except...I feel the same way I did before. I feel like I am not here, in this cold fucking house, where I belong. I might be breathing and smiling, but I sure as hell feel dead still on the inside...Why?

Why am I still not able to get through to my wife, now the mother of my child? Why is she getting further and further away? And then I realized, she did not benefit from the birth of our Daughter the same way I did. Instead of loving her and spreading that across the board as I learned to do, my wife focused all of her energy into our daughter, pretending it was what all mother's do, which is true to some degree, but not quite in the fashion she does it. See, once, a long time ago, she would always tell me how much she loved me, even when I did not ask. Now, she does it in cards, hoping to sound authentic for a day, and then getting angry when I do not warm to them like she had hoped. Because, on the one side, we may be having problems, but, on the other side, we are supposed to be making another baby to close our little family and you cannot have children unless your having sex. And we are not having sex. We are not having sex because I do not believe a single thing that comes out of her mouth anymore. I don't believe her because there is only so many ways you can say I'm sorry, before its meaning is lost in its usage. Sorry? Sorry for what exactly? Tell me in detail what your apology covers, and then I will accept. I've not heard a single word till this day what it covers. Sorry should be enough...well, it's not. 

It's like this, I do not think my wife, the mother of my only child, keeper of my heart and landlord to my soul for the past twelve years of my life, no longer loves me. But, maybe she does and is so far down that rabbit hole of hell that she thinks she loves me, because she is too afraid of the alternative. She has nearly got me convinced that I am so much of a monster that I deserve this punishment, this sentence, and I am not even sure what the fuck I have done anymore. All I know is that the woman who claims to love me is now questioning my level of sanity, based on stories that I write, because I MUST be disturbed even to fashion such horrible things...isn't that the reason there are writers and readers? Now, on top of the stress I have trying to get published, I have to also deal with my wife thinking ill of me because I am creative enough to write a story? "Look at you, Scott. Your blog, your writing, everything you do is dark and angry!" OK, that settles it, I am going to change my profession. From this day on, consider me a really bad mechanic with aspirations of being an astronaut, is that too loony??? I'm just asking, because I need to make sure my own talents are not just psycho induced delusions of grandeur. 

I loved her. I love her now. If I could sell my soul for another chance at us, I would sign, print and seal the deal without hesitation. Not because I am "whipped", but because I have built a family, regardless of how stable it may or may not be, with plenty of blood, sweat, and tears that is wonderful, if we could just pull off this poisonous film that refuses to die. It really is as easy as waking up tomorrow and doing it. The problem for her is that she does not trust me one iota, so me saying anything not delivered by her mother's tongue is just Scott trying to get one up over her. And that is why we will fail. 

"Quick! put everyone at the back of the boat, I am confident we can still salvage this baby!