Showing posts with label failed marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label failed marriage. Show all posts
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Men Cheating: Arrogance Is Blind
DAVID ZINCZENKO writes of why supposedly faithful men cheat on their wives. Here's one of the silliest, at least if these men can be called 'normally faithful':
It's not to say that entry-level men who make minimum salaries don't cheat, but it's also pretty clear that powerful men with the means to withdraw hefty sums of cash (for hotels, gifts, prostitutes) are often candidates. It's not just because they have more options; it's also because they think their invincibility in the office will also extend to their private lives, which they assume will remain private no matter how high-profile they may be. Arrogance is a form of blindness, after all.
The other reasons Mr. Zinczenko gives for supposedly faithful men cheating are equally cliche: the internet makes it easier, ego stroking at work by a pretty colleague, problems at home, etc. What Mr. Zinczenko fails to reckon is that men who cheat on their wives in the manner he describes are not 'normally faithful' husbands. They are normal cheaters who have the same old excuses.
Friday, February 15, 2008
"The Lie": A True Story
The Lie
By Val Evans (Carley Eason Evans)
Once a year, he sat her down on their couch and told her in no uncertain terms that she no longer loved him. “And,” he never failed to add, “you have no respect for me as your husband. Oh yes, you have ample respect for me as an individual, but not as a husband.”
No matter how many times she heard them, his words still came against her like blows. Nevertheless she managed to ask, “How is that?”
In response, he compared their relationship to their neighbors. “Joan treats Charles like a king, you know.”
“Oh sure! But I’ve never seen her kiss him or show him the least affection. I don’t see that Charles has it any better than you.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. They’re different, that’s all.”
“How are they different?”
“They just are." Finally, it seemed to her in desperation, he listed items she failed to do and items she did but which were not done with a proper attitude. The list was not long, but was all inclusive. In every area of their lives together, she did something wrong, according to him.
Every year she heard the same lie. At least she presumed it to be a lie, because soon afterwards all returned to normal; and she tried to chalk it up to his mood, to suppose it to be a passing feeling.
This time round she sat stunned as usual, wondering what brought it on him. She looked at him with as much tenderness as she could muster as she vainly tried to convince him of her devotion and her deep respect. If she didn’t love him, she was unaware of the absence of the feeling. She knew wholeheartedly she was committed to him. This seemed enough to her. After all she believed in that old-fashioned magic which makes one flesh of two persons.
She remembered their wedding day, specifically the intensity of her husband’s blue eyes as he recited his vows to her. He seemed able to communicate in a way she couldn’t how much he meant what he was saying despite someone else having written the words. His entire expression told her of the depth of his love. She recalled her own voice sounding hollow and devoid of sincerity as she repeated the same words. Even then, as she affirmed her love and gave him his ring, she felt lacking and guilty.
She guessed his present attack was his way of asking her to take notice of him, his method of saying he wasn’t getting from her all that he needed or wanted. Why the outburst came only annually, she never wondered before. This year she pondered it, allowing her mind to mull it over and over. Her heart remained heavy for weeks afterwards, even though everything on the surface was better. She supposed his release valve being cleared, he was free to be happy with her again. He seemed pleased with her, with all she did and said despite no obvious or subtle change on her part.
Confusion and then anger dropped in on her like vultures descend from above to their dead prey below. She set about her chores listlessly. She banged dishes around in the kitchen sink, cooked all her best meals without noticing aromas or tastes, and vacuumed up anything and everything from the living room floor. She began to study herself in the mirrors placed about the apartment and saw a wife dissatisfied. She was genuinely surprised. Never before was she the one dissatisfied. Always it was her husband who seemed displeased with their marriage, as if he were aiming higher than she was capable of reaching.
One afternoon that same week, she fumbled through the yellow pages to locate a marriage counselor. She decided she needed to talk to someone else, someone who could give her a fresh perspective. She dialed the number to hear a recorded voice at the other end. The man on the answering machine introduced himself and gave the usual instructions. She laughed when he said, “You’ll only get what you are willing to put up with.” She couldn’t help her response: it came with such spontaneity. “I’m not willing to put up with anything.” Then, slightly embarrassed at herself, she reluctantly left her name and phone number. When the man called later, his voice was soft. He seemed warm and engaging. She asked how much he charged. The amount was beyond their budget. She said, “I love my husband very much.”
“It sounds as if you do,” he said after she told him what was happening. He added, “He may actually mean the things he is saying to you, or he may be pushing you away.”
When she put down the receiver, she felt her face steadily turn to stone as she thought of her husband’s complaints. She wondered if he might in fact be pushing her away. His words echoed in her head. “I want more from you,” he said. “You’re so passive, so, I don’t know, so passive. You’re not a team player!” She never figured exactly what he meant by a team player. Perhaps it was a term he picked up from soccer when he played in college. He did explain one aspect of what he meant. He said, “When it’s time to plan our vacation, you leave all the planning to me.” She thought, big deal. So what?
In an attempt to help matters, she arranged a soccer match with all their acquaintances. Everyone came, played hard, ate hot dogs and drank; but no one was that team player her husband looked for and expected.
In the days following, she saw her husband try to chisel away the granite she felt around her mouth and eyes. He spoke gently to her, brought home flowers once, and even remembered to call her from the office. She smiled with each of his attempts, but noticed a forced quality to it as if the feeling was gone, drained away like dirty bath water from the tub.
She questioned him that evening. She wanted to know which was the lie, his words or their life together.
“Did you lie that night?”
He asked, “What night?”
“Come on! You know which night.”
Finally he answered, “No, I didn’t lie.”
“You meant what you said?”
“Certainly.”
“You’re not sorry?”
He averted his gaze, then said, “No, why should I be?”
She looked at him, her mouth cemented shut. She deliberately widened her eyes, taking his hands in hers and squeezing ever so slightly. She took this action on the advice of the marriage counselor because her husband was no longer looking at her. She thought perhaps he would feel in his fingers how hurt and angry she was. She tried to speak softly when she asked, “How then can you bring me flowers and smile at me and say you love me if you feel in your heart I don’t love you and respect you? How can you go on as if nothing happened, as if you didn’t hurt me, as if I didn’t hurt you?”
“It was just how I was feeling.” Then he said what he said every year, “Let’s not talk about this right now. I’m feeling good about us right now and I don’t want to spoil it.”
Usually upon hearing this, her anger surfaced. Every year in their six year marriage she cried at this point. This was her cue to release her tears, her anger. Tonight she sat numbed by the predictability. Having heard and having participated in this dialogue every fall, she knew what he was saying. It didn’t matter to her either that she suddenly realized his annual attack came near his birthday, or that she recognized he was terrified of growing older. She knew he felt he wasn’t accomplishing his dreams. He seldom found time to play soccer. How many of his friends even played football? For her, now, it didn’t make any difference.
She stepped back, only to discover she was slipping, losing her footing. She felt herself falling off a cliff, tumbling into darkness while she watched clouds against a blue sky become tiny white dots. Her husband was someone she definitely knew at some time, but she was unable to remember. As her heart turn cold, she vowed to make sure her eyes remained brown and clear and as tender for her husband as her love was once.
By Val Evans (Carley Eason Evans)
Once a year, he sat her down on their couch and told her in no uncertain terms that she no longer loved him. “And,” he never failed to add, “you have no respect for me as your husband. Oh yes, you have ample respect for me as an individual, but not as a husband.”
No matter how many times she heard them, his words still came against her like blows. Nevertheless she managed to ask, “How is that?”
In response, he compared their relationship to their neighbors. “Joan treats Charles like a king, you know.”
“Oh sure! But I’ve never seen her kiss him or show him the least affection. I don’t see that Charles has it any better than you.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. They’re different, that’s all.”
“How are they different?”
“They just are." Finally, it seemed to her in desperation, he listed items she failed to do and items she did but which were not done with a proper attitude. The list was not long, but was all inclusive. In every area of their lives together, she did something wrong, according to him.
Every year she heard the same lie. At least she presumed it to be a lie, because soon afterwards all returned to normal; and she tried to chalk it up to his mood, to suppose it to be a passing feeling.
This time round she sat stunned as usual, wondering what brought it on him. She looked at him with as much tenderness as she could muster as she vainly tried to convince him of her devotion and her deep respect. If she didn’t love him, she was unaware of the absence of the feeling. She knew wholeheartedly she was committed to him. This seemed enough to her. After all she believed in that old-fashioned magic which makes one flesh of two persons.
She remembered their wedding day, specifically the intensity of her husband’s blue eyes as he recited his vows to her. He seemed able to communicate in a way she couldn’t how much he meant what he was saying despite someone else having written the words. His entire expression told her of the depth of his love. She recalled her own voice sounding hollow and devoid of sincerity as she repeated the same words. Even then, as she affirmed her love and gave him his ring, she felt lacking and guilty.
She guessed his present attack was his way of asking her to take notice of him, his method of saying he wasn’t getting from her all that he needed or wanted. Why the outburst came only annually, she never wondered before. This year she pondered it, allowing her mind to mull it over and over. Her heart remained heavy for weeks afterwards, even though everything on the surface was better. She supposed his release valve being cleared, he was free to be happy with her again. He seemed pleased with her, with all she did and said despite no obvious or subtle change on her part.
Confusion and then anger dropped in on her like vultures descend from above to their dead prey below. She set about her chores listlessly. She banged dishes around in the kitchen sink, cooked all her best meals without noticing aromas or tastes, and vacuumed up anything and everything from the living room floor. She began to study herself in the mirrors placed about the apartment and saw a wife dissatisfied. She was genuinely surprised. Never before was she the one dissatisfied. Always it was her husband who seemed displeased with their marriage, as if he were aiming higher than she was capable of reaching.
One afternoon that same week, she fumbled through the yellow pages to locate a marriage counselor. She decided she needed to talk to someone else, someone who could give her a fresh perspective. She dialed the number to hear a recorded voice at the other end. The man on the answering machine introduced himself and gave the usual instructions. She laughed when he said, “You’ll only get what you are willing to put up with.” She couldn’t help her response: it came with such spontaneity. “I’m not willing to put up with anything.” Then, slightly embarrassed at herself, she reluctantly left her name and phone number. When the man called later, his voice was soft. He seemed warm and engaging. She asked how much he charged. The amount was beyond their budget. She said, “I love my husband very much.”
“It sounds as if you do,” he said after she told him what was happening. He added, “He may actually mean the things he is saying to you, or he may be pushing you away.”
When she put down the receiver, she felt her face steadily turn to stone as she thought of her husband’s complaints. She wondered if he might in fact be pushing her away. His words echoed in her head. “I want more from you,” he said. “You’re so passive, so, I don’t know, so passive. You’re not a team player!” She never figured exactly what he meant by a team player. Perhaps it was a term he picked up from soccer when he played in college. He did explain one aspect of what he meant. He said, “When it’s time to plan our vacation, you leave all the planning to me.” She thought, big deal. So what?
In an attempt to help matters, she arranged a soccer match with all their acquaintances. Everyone came, played hard, ate hot dogs and drank; but no one was that team player her husband looked for and expected.
In the days following, she saw her husband try to chisel away the granite she felt around her mouth and eyes. He spoke gently to her, brought home flowers once, and even remembered to call her from the office. She smiled with each of his attempts, but noticed a forced quality to it as if the feeling was gone, drained away like dirty bath water from the tub.
She questioned him that evening. She wanted to know which was the lie, his words or their life together.
“Did you lie that night?”
He asked, “What night?”
“Come on! You know which night.”
Finally he answered, “No, I didn’t lie.”
“You meant what you said?”
“Certainly.”
“You’re not sorry?”
He averted his gaze, then said, “No, why should I be?”
She looked at him, her mouth cemented shut. She deliberately widened her eyes, taking his hands in hers and squeezing ever so slightly. She took this action on the advice of the marriage counselor because her husband was no longer looking at her. She thought perhaps he would feel in his fingers how hurt and angry she was. She tried to speak softly when she asked, “How then can you bring me flowers and smile at me and say you love me if you feel in your heart I don’t love you and respect you? How can you go on as if nothing happened, as if you didn’t hurt me, as if I didn’t hurt you?”
“It was just how I was feeling.” Then he said what he said every year, “Let’s not talk about this right now. I’m feeling good about us right now and I don’t want to spoil it.”
Usually upon hearing this, her anger surfaced. Every year in their six year marriage she cried at this point. This was her cue to release her tears, her anger. Tonight she sat numbed by the predictability. Having heard and having participated in this dialogue every fall, she knew what he was saying. It didn’t matter to her either that she suddenly realized his annual attack came near his birthday, or that she recognized he was terrified of growing older. She knew he felt he wasn’t accomplishing his dreams. He seldom found time to play soccer. How many of his friends even played football? For her, now, it didn’t make any difference.
She stepped back, only to discover she was slipping, losing her footing. She felt herself falling off a cliff, tumbling into darkness while she watched clouds against a blue sky become tiny white dots. Her husband was someone she definitely knew at some time, but she was unable to remember. As her heart turn cold, she vowed to make sure her eyes remained brown and clear and as tender for her husband as her love was once.
Friday, January 18, 2008
No Protection: Monica Thomas-Harris Murdered By Her Estranged Husband
POMONA, Calif. - Monica Thomas-Harris got the chilling news just before Christmas: Her estranged husband, jailed for abducting and threatening her, had been released.
A frantic Thomas-Harris rushed to the district attorney's office, begging for an emergency protection order that would allow police to arrest him if he came near her. But it was the Friday evening before Christmas, and no judge was available. The next business day was Monday, but that was Christmas Eve, and her husband's lawyer was on a long vacation and couldn't be reached for a hearing.
Less than two weeks later, Thomas-Harris, 37, was dead, shot in a motel room by her husband in a murder-suicide.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
'Impossible Requests'
With God, nothing is impossible.
I have two spoken and unspoken prayers; in other words, I have prayed both silently and openly at different times over the last four years.
The first is that my husband would stop running away from his obligations and ultimately from himself and from God.
The second is that my son would be cured.
Both are 'impossible' requests. Neither are likely to occur, or at least not in ways that I can imagine.
The first request was asked fervently in the first years after my husband announced he had 'given up' on me (turned out he was and is having an affair.) Now, when I pray for him, I don't want God to answer my original prayer: "oh please God, save my marriage."
If I am completely honest, the idea of taking my husband back into my home seems ridiculous. He would have to have CHANGED so much. Yes, something 'impossible': right? Right.
Seeing my son cured; now, this I see happening every day. I see my son growing up, yet people I trust continue to indicate to me that he will have an extremely difficult life despite his intelligence and his good looks. And as I watch him interact with other people, I can not help but feel my son is one of the loneliest people I have ever known. And it hurts beyond words. (It also hurts to face it alone without my other half, my husband of 27 years. There is nothing quite like being abandoned.)
'Impossible' for my son to be normal. Right? Right.
Yet, with God, nothing is impossible.
I have two spoken and unspoken prayers; in other words, I have prayed both silently and openly at different times over the last four years.
The first is that my husband would stop running away from his obligations and ultimately from himself and from God.
The second is that my son would be cured.
Both are 'impossible' requests. Neither are likely to occur, or at least not in ways that I can imagine.
The first request was asked fervently in the first years after my husband announced he had 'given up' on me (turned out he was and is having an affair.) Now, when I pray for him, I don't want God to answer my original prayer: "oh please God, save my marriage."
If I am completely honest, the idea of taking my husband back into my home seems ridiculous. He would have to have CHANGED so much. Yes, something 'impossible': right? Right.
Seeing my son cured; now, this I see happening every day. I see my son growing up, yet people I trust continue to indicate to me that he will have an extremely difficult life despite his intelligence and his good looks. And as I watch him interact with other people, I can not help but feel my son is one of the loneliest people I have ever known. And it hurts beyond words. (It also hurts to face it alone without my other half, my husband of 27 years. There is nothing quite like being abandoned.)
'Impossible' for my son to be normal. Right? Right.
Yet, with God, nothing is impossible.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Quoting My Father
And, of course I love you. Indeed, I believe at this time in your and my life I love you more than I ever have. I find you to be a strong, intelligent (on most issues), warm and confident woman and you make me proud when I see how well you have and do manage your affairs through difficulties which would make a weaker person turn and run. And it is exceedingly pleasant to observe H (my son) and K (my daughter) turning out so well as they dip themselves into the adult world. They are both a credit to your tenacity. Watching you over the years has been like seeing a mother lion, fangs and claws bared against any and all who would harm her cubs.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
MARRIAGE by Louise Gluck
Marriage
by Louise Glück October 22, 2007
All week they’ve been by the sea again
and the sound of the sea colors everything.
Blue sky fills the window.
But the only sound is the sound of the waves pounding the shore—
angry. Angry at something. Whatever it is
must be why he’s turned away. Angry, though he’d never hit her,
never say a word, probably.
So it’s up to her to get the answer some other way,
from the sea, maybe, or the gray clouds suddenly
rising above it. The smell of the sea is in the sheets,
the smell of sun and wind, the hotel smell, fresh and sweet
because they’re changed every day.
He never uses words. Words, for him, are for making arrangements,
for doing business. Never for anger, never for tenderness.
She strokes his back. She puts her face up against it,
even though it’s like putting your face against a wall.
And the silence between them is ancient: it says
these are the boundaries.
He isn’t sleeping, not even pretending to sleep.
His breathing’s not regular: he breathes in with reluctance;
he doesn’t want to commit himself to being alive.
And he breathes out fast, like a king banishing a servant.
Beneath the silence, the sound of the sea,
the sea’s violence spreading everywhere, not finished, not finished,
his breath driving the waves—
But she knows who she is and she knows what she wants.
As long as that’s true, something so natural can’t hurt her.
by Louise Glück October 22, 2007
All week they’ve been by the sea again
and the sound of the sea colors everything.
Blue sky fills the window.
But the only sound is the sound of the waves pounding the shore—
angry. Angry at something. Whatever it is
must be why he’s turned away. Angry, though he’d never hit her,
never say a word, probably.
So it’s up to her to get the answer some other way,
from the sea, maybe, or the gray clouds suddenly
rising above it. The smell of the sea is in the sheets,
the smell of sun and wind, the hotel smell, fresh and sweet
because they’re changed every day.
He never uses words. Words, for him, are for making arrangements,
for doing business. Never for anger, never for tenderness.
She strokes his back. She puts her face up against it,
even though it’s like putting your face against a wall.
And the silence between them is ancient: it says
these are the boundaries.
He isn’t sleeping, not even pretending to sleep.
His breathing’s not regular: he breathes in with reluctance;
he doesn’t want to commit himself to being alive.
And he breathes out fast, like a king banishing a servant.
Beneath the silence, the sound of the sea,
the sea’s violence spreading everywhere, not finished, not finished,
his breath driving the waves—
But she knows who she is and she knows what she wants.
As long as that’s true, something so natural can’t hurt her.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
I See You on the Sea
I See You on the Sea
How odd life has been today as I have watched myself
Flee pain and search for peace;
As I have discovered that I do not want or need you any longer.
You are a fading memory
Of a boy I knew so far away.
I see you on the sea, tossed about like a tiny paper ship.
I see you in a field being whipped around by winds not even strong.
I see you holding hands with someone who is not the one you promised
To love your whole lifetime.
I see your ship sinking beneath a wave not even tall enough to cover the mast.
Your anchor has failed, and you are drifting away.
I have no means to call you back; no means to right your ship, to stop
The wind from pushing you onto the ground where
You choose to lie face down in mud, thinking it, I suppose,
Sweet to smell and taste.
Val Evans
10/03/2006
Sunday, November 28, 2004
brad bird's THE INCREDIBLES
brad bird writes with the conviction of the right in his latest screenplay THE INCREDIBLES...
this delightful, animated pixar flick explores roles within the family vs. within society, unashamedly revealing that mrs. incredible does not mind vacuuming the floors while mr. incredible looks for thrills of the past while "missing" the best parts of his family life... turns out mrs. incredible is the more talented of the two...
the screenwriter also pinpoints the frivolous, destructive lawsuits rampant in our society, the role of the government in protecting individuals often at great cost, the avarice of insurance agencies who look for profits at the expense of their clients and of weapons' developers who grow rich but "keep the best ones" for themselves, and finally the strong tendency toward mediocrity in our schools and jobs based on the false belief that everyone is ultimately the same... so that "everyone will become super so that no one will be" as the villain, SYNDROME states as a threat to the audience...
in the end, however, THE INCREDIBLES show that as a family, they are unique... and valuable to each other as well as to society at large...
this delightful, animated pixar flick explores roles within the family vs. within society, unashamedly revealing that mrs. incredible does not mind vacuuming the floors while mr. incredible looks for thrills of the past while "missing" the best parts of his family life... turns out mrs. incredible is the more talented of the two...
the screenwriter also pinpoints the frivolous, destructive lawsuits rampant in our society, the role of the government in protecting individuals often at great cost, the avarice of insurance agencies who look for profits at the expense of their clients and of weapons' developers who grow rich but "keep the best ones" for themselves, and finally the strong tendency toward mediocrity in our schools and jobs based on the false belief that everyone is ultimately the same... so that "everyone will become super so that no one will be" as the villain, SYNDROME states as a threat to the audience...
in the end, however, THE INCREDIBLES show that as a family, they are unique... and valuable to each other as well as to society at large...
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