Its two in the morning and I'm supposed to catch a plane to China in three hours.  Normally, this would be a no big deal.  I've travelled a lot.  But, for the last four days, since my husband announced to me he quit his job, I've been puking my guts out and have shit myself dry.  I guess I should have seen it coming, but nope...denial rears its ugly head.  That bitch karma is slapping me in the face.  All I can do is hug the toilet and simmer in the boiling anger that I wasn't included in this decision.  I really want to kick him in the balls, but there is also a part of me that says, "You saw this coming.  You planned this.  You said, one day, it would be fine." 

I don't feel fine.  In fact, I feel like shit.  I grab the toilet and heave.  Telling myself we're fine, and really we are, but its a big decision, realising after ten years of marriage just exactly how much on the whim of someone else you teeter on the edge. Actually, I lie in that sentence.  Because, I have always, since the second time I said I do, let it be known, I'm my own person. Didn't even change my name for five years.   It just now dawns on me how much of a reality I denied and I spew bile again.  Sick.  I am physically sick. 

Brian wakes up and comes in the bathroom.  "Why are you up?"  He's been so nice since it all happened....which makes it harder, because I want to be mad. I want to spew the vitriol he did every day while that job ate away at his soul. I want to rage, but I hold it in...as much as I can until it wrenches my gut and I grab the ceramic again. 

I heave and heave, "'Cause I'm SICK!"  I say, but really want to scream.  He thinks I'm nervous to travel.  "You've been all over.  You'll be fine!"

I'm not fucking fine.  I slam a grand in savings every month, my kids go to private school, and you're telling me I have to go back to the THING I worked my ass off to get out of.  Friends hate us.  Won't speak to us.  I want to scream.  I've known its all your world and we just happen to be a part of it, but it sucks.  Ten years and I don't even get a heads up.  I'm mad, but I shouldn't be.

I try to find empathy and compassion.  In all of my life, those are the things I have relied on.  I pray to the virgin and lean on hope.  I'm terrified.  I don't understand any of it; making a decision without thinking of anyone else. I'm a control FREAK and I'm supposed to leave the country in 2 hours.  I heave again as I try to get up off the floor.

I saved enough for the trip and got a loan to finish the house.  I'm telling myself and him I should just stay home.  He won't have it hanging over his head.  All I can think is, 'You couldn't wait two weeks?" Two effing weeks?

I'm so mad, I've called a cab. He wasn't honest that weekend away. Betrayal, crosses my mind.  "I'll have the house done when you get back," he says.

I run back to the bathroom.  I close the door and sit on the floor and bury my hands in my face. 

There were two roads leading out of the town I grew up in.  I took the first one out...after reading the consequences.  Granted, I came back, on conditions...most of which were his.  I can't leave.  I can't do this.  Over and over and over.  Sacrifices.  I want to scream at him, "Do you KNOW where we (read 'I' )could be without your mother effin' commitments you just threw away?"

I want to SCREAM....scream, "Do you have ANY idea what I gave up?  What  I could have done?"

But, I don't.  I puke again.

I send the cab away.  Back to the bathroom.  Bile.  Anger.  Bitterness.  I stayed for you.  You don't even give two thoughts to me.  Bitter.  Not even with the sweet.

I load the suitcase and he askes if I'm alright.  One block and he has to pull over.... so I can puke again...in the middle of John Adams Blvd.

He's mad, angry...everything that has been the last 7 years. Words from his mouth have more bile than my gut.  I look up in the middle of a gag and finally find the balls to say, "This isn't me.  Not my fault.  I know you did it for me, but stop.  Enough.  I've dealt with this for years.  You're done, please let me be.  It isn't my fault." And it hits me, really, it isn't. 

I didn't make those decisions.  Never did.  It isn't my fault.

I get on the plane and cry to Shanghai.  For 22 hours I sob. 

The girl next to me on the flight to Denver asks if I'm alright...when we land.

I eat goat cheese ravioli in Vancouver and a lady comes over and tells me to have a better day.

The young boy on the plane to Shanghai looks at my tears and tells me they clean the soul.

I sob when I see my sister.  Dave says no tears so I stop.


The Naked And Famous – Punching In A Dream