At a certain point, there is nothing more to say. You can repeat yourself, of course, but if you have not been heard the first thousand times, the next 250 probably won’t matter anyway.
They will grind up your insides and do the same to the one who is tired of your pleas, complaints, and sadness. The logic and reasons you spray at him are like the water in a hose over grass already drenched, changing nothing.
You live together. That’s the sad thing. You are touch starved amid thousands of opportunities for touch. You used to try. Now you’ve given up, but still, the topic arises. The one you are with doesn’t listen but interrupts while you ask why. He gives no answers and doesn’t seem to have them.
He looks at you, hears you, and has no idea what you are talking about.
The man lives in a world of books and television, work and buddies, small bets on football, and hobbies. The rest of the world, the life you shared, the youthful passion — all that was — is unremembered and unthought. Oh yeah, it was like that, wasn’t it? It all happened in the time of cavemen, a now-distant epoch that seems to have vanished. I’m not a caveman, he says. Is that who you want? Uhhhh…
But he’s an excellent provider; there’s that. And a swell father and you do your part more than ever. Taking care of the social end of the family, helping with homework, and much more.
Does that matter, or is it assumed, you wonder? He never says.
Your integrity falls into the category of qualities taken for granted. You would never cheat anyone, never lie, never be unfaithful. You are honorable, though sometimes unkind when the frustration and loneliness, the craving can’t be ignored.
He won’t go to marital therapy. His life satisfies him.
Sometimes you feel like a male honey bee — very strange since you are female. But the male — the drone — mates and then dies. At times you sense you are dying inside.
How was it for you? You asked the insect. You wanted to know.
Let’s just say we drones mate once for less than five seconds. Heard enough?
The tiny fellow expired before he could say more.
Yet you love him, the man in your life, and know he loves you — in his way. You have grown out of sync.
Was Tolstoy right when he wrote about families in Anna Karenina?
All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
Nobody’s fault. It’s nobody’s fault, you tell yourself. I shouldn’t complain, you say; look at all that is fine. But, just to check things out, you speak to your dearest friend.
For the first time, to anyone.
You want her assurance that your life is good, even though there are things it lacks in the department of the heart. So you speak, and when you finish…
You: Everything is ok, right?
More silence, then…
Both paintings are works of Joan (pronounced Juan) Miro. The first is The Escape Ladder (1940). The second is Persons Haunted by a Bird (1938).