kethrai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Put upon, taken up, or taken in? I have noticed a really, really unattractive tendency in myself lately. I’m feeling put-upon. There is some evidence to suggest that I put a lot of things upon myself. After all, I could divest myself of my hobbies and books—get rid of the stuff and clutter messing up my house and my peace of mind. Maintenance of an inventory of jewelry and supplies is a time consuming job, and driving myself to do more shows and more stuff and organize all the million little details that go along with it are something I’ve chosen to take on. Some things I do not have control over. We just passed the three year anniversary of the Darling Husbands un- and under- employment. It’s a drizzly story and not his fault for the most part, and we were too young and naïve to take action when the events occurred. But three years later, he’s still doing bits and pieces of contract work and it’s a negligible income. Surviving on my income alone is not as much hardship as it sounds, but what living paycheck to pay-check does to you is reduce your planning ahead to paycheck-to-paycheck. So the light-hearted plans that we made three and a half years ago when we got married are on permahold, and pretty much tanked—no house, no children, no future except me working until I drop dead and he then being homeless. My job is also drizzly and grizzly, and if I change it, all the usual changing-jobs chaos will ensue. You are what you choose—choose again, and change. I can choose to leave, but given my education and inclination, I am truly not suited for corporate America. I suspect that any position I could get, like any club that would accept Groucho Marx as a member, is not one I would like to be in. As things stand, the job I dislike, the extra jobs I take on to make money, the jewelry business, as much as I love it, all are things that generate cash that manages to keep us holding in the same place, with no future and no hope. And then there are the pieces that I allegedly have control over, but actually seem to be snowballing out of control. Like weddings, funerals, showers. All the stuff that other folks want me to do. In principle, I have no particular objection to going to these events (well, some to showers and weddings—the grabby-grabby gimme gimme I find very offputting) but I find them remarkably offensive when my presence is not requested or required, but my presents are. I was first aware of the screaming resentment when the Darling Husband’s grandmother died last fall. It was a horrendous way to go (a fall, and bleeding in the brain) but she was also a horrendous old bat, who’d worked very hard to ruin the Darling Husband’s life, tank our wedding, and pick on me. I wanted to make sure at the burial, and had to be divested of my stakes and garlic at the gravesite. I felt bad on the Darling Husband’s behalf, but could summon no sense of grieving on my own part, and was mostly overwhelmed….because in the midst of ICU visits and etc, I had to work a show by myself, deal with my car breaking down by myself, pick up the car on my own, and be The Rock for the Darling Husband, who was being The Rock for his entire family (who promptly went back to treating him like trash afterward.) Since I don’t like being overwhelmed, I resorted to rage instead. My parents attended the funeral, kind souls that they are, and my father—who hadn’t been in church for twice as long as me, and is an unrepentant old heathen, like me—kept me in stitches and from screaming things like “You pack of turd-encrusted hypocrites!!!!” Christmas was more of the same. More dealing sweetly with the in-laws, when all I truly wanted to do was to run away and hide and not have to smile at people who were mentally dicing my liver. Since then, there have been a number of things, large and small, social demands and internal-relationship demands that make me wonder if I’m losing my mind, or if I should just start resorting to a handful of pills and gin after dinner so that I don’t have to deal with folks. Shower invitations, from the SIL who hates me and the fiancée of one of the Darling Husband’s friends—I ignored one and have politely declined the other….The insistent “thou must go to family dinner” type-invites from inlaws who despise me—even gatherings of my own friends seem fraught with “I really should be doing something else”. And each invitation—each obligation—fills me more with rage. Who are these people, who don’t even LIKE me, to demand chunks of my time, my soul, my life? The intention is probably kind—to include the Darling Husband’s difficult wife in activities that the group is doing…but I don’t have time. I have the next show to prepare for, the next day at work to mentally brace myself for, I need to try to sleep once in a while and book the shows and make the inventory and serve as General Catch-All Reminder person for the Darling Husband, who would forget his head if not nailed on. I’m tired of being the timekeeper and clockwatcher and general Organizer of Everything in the House of Kethrai. I want someone to make a fuss over me, throw me a party, say to me “I’ll take care of it, you don’t have to work three jobs anymore and I don’t mind if you frivolously waste some of your time doing something only you enjoy.” I want to be made a fuss over without having to remind someone that it’s thus and so day, or this and that anniversary, or my birthday. I would like to be valued for something other than my ability to bring home a paycheck and provide goods and services to others. I don’t think it’s exactly yearning for the Mystique of the Artiste to say that for once, I would like to be the one who is the focus of attention, who gets her needs met and her wishes granted with a minimum of nagging, banging, or threatening. Oh, I’m not perfect, so it’s not all poor-suffering-perfect-me. I’m lazy and a lousy housekeeper. I’m stubborn, and far too self-involved. I’m not naturally kind, I have a cruel tongue and a hasty temper. I could wish to have been born with a kinder heart, but since I wasn’t, it’s my work to fix it. I am often forgetful of the small and important things, and carelessly say cutting things, only to regret it later. I’m a grump, and a dramatic one….I tend to organize too much, and let the small things fall…..but it is expected that I keep everything in my head—all the appointments I don’t want to go to, all of the social engagements with people who hate me, know by echolocation all the possessions that I opposed the purchase of. I’m sure it’s occurred, dear NSR, to wonder: “Why the hell doesn’t she dump that guy and find someone who will nurture her and care for her?” A fair question. But although the Darling Husband has his faults, none of THEM are the circumstances that have me knawing myself to pieces. It does not seem anything like justice to leave him for circumstances that he did not bring on himself and cannot help. And I suspect that even should I leave, move out, be on my own…. I’d be in for a repeat of some variation of the same. It is something of a comfort that the Darling Husband really only needs me for financial support, unlike an evil ex who depended on me for financial, moral, emotional, and everything-else support, and nearly drowned us both. The people I attract are interested in the creativity, the power. The people who would be likely to want to help would never see me as being in need. And they’d more or less be right—I CAN do it, I’ve proved it over and over and I’m still standing. I don’t project an aura of “help me” because I’m damned well capable and ready to do for myself. It would just be really nice to step down and leave off the reins once in a while. I’m frightened constantly, and trust me, it’s much easier to be angry—angry can at least get done what needs to be done. But each of these small things (and no, it’s not some Dramatic Life Event that is making me write this, but simply more and more of the same) makes me frightened, and conversely, angry. I am the sole support of my household—if I crack up, the Darling Husband and the cats are in the street. I am the sole support of the jewelry business—if I don’t make the stuff, and scream and prod and carry on to get the Darling Husband to update the website, put up the auctions, please wake up so we can go to the show to sell things for enough money to also have pizza and shampoo as well as rent this month…. I am the sole procurer of the things that Darling Husband wants, as well as anything I want. I am the reminder-to-buy-toilet-paper person, the please-take-out-the-trash person, the person who is depended on to be civilized in social situations. My mother called me a free spirit, once, and I got angry. I have never been free. I look sometimes at other artists in envy. It may just be that I’m not good enough to have folks clear my path so that I can create, but it seems that many artistic or even crafty people have some material support from the people around them. Be it the husband who brings in the health insurance so that the wife can run the home business, or vice versa—the mom who babysits her grandkids so her daughter can write, whatever. I begin to feel that any little chunk of time I try to carve out for myself is first mortgaged to someone else. There is always something else I should be doing, whether it be cleaning house, cooking, looking for a better job, making jewelry, writing poetry, something that I have let fall that someone is disappointed in me for not continuing. There is always something left undone. And many people are disappointed in me. Including me. And still I’m angry. Although, I suppose, it’s not really kidding anyone to say you know I actually mean empty. The problem with being very good at things that you do is that everyone expects that you will keep on doing them, forever, and ever, amen, with no food, no drink, no love, no hope, no joy….after all, that is what you give, not what you get. There is no fuel but you. The fire comes from within, and once it consumes all the fuel—when there is nothing left—no one will notice the scorch marks and the char, except to notice that the commodity that you provided once is gone. If you speak up and request these things—a cup of coffee in bed, some spoiling, attention—then you are breaking the contract that says you are the provider, you are the originator, you are the First Action, to which others can re-act. After all, you’re the creative one…. Everyone else on the planet is supposed to whine; if you do, then you’ve committed some sin. The sin of not pouring out your creativity on the waters, and taking everyone else out of their dark space. You aren’t allowed to have dark spaces of your own. If you do, then you are being that laughable artifact of Art, the Suffering Artiste. Don’t get me wrong, there are some folks who suffer publicly that I have no sympathy for whatsoever. But the perception of an artist is such that if a nice, normal person with some artistic merit has an off day, they’re ascribed all sorts of Fell Artistic Motives for doing whatever it is they’re doing, or not doing whatever it is they’re not doing. And if you’re someone who actively speaks out about Faux Artistic Suffering, heaven help you if you ever need anything as simple as a hug. Sorry this isn’t what you were wanting, NSR. This is not a good day. Even to die. 9:00 a.m. - 2002-05-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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