In which I go all the way off.

The night he got back from Colorado, Mr. Brett and I talked about our goals as a couple. I said I can’t stand our lives any more and that I’m literally going nuts with things the way they are.

I said I need to move somewhere where there are people (because performers require audiences) and get a real job that uses my brain and start gigging which is my dharma, rather than wasting away out here in the middle of nowhere.

I said I was sorry if I’d led him to believe I was cut out for farmwifedom, but now that I’ve tried it I see that it’s just not right for me. I should be pursuing my talents, and to do that I need to live somewhere else. I’ve got I Hate Iowa Syndrome, big time.

We talked about the logistics of moving for awhile and discovered some – okay, a lot – of divergence in our desires for our lives.

~+~+~
He wants to keep the farm, period, but I’d sell it right now at a loss just to get the hell out of here. He claims to be happy with the way things are in general but unhappy with me in particular because I’m a depressed, standoffish wife.

I am not happy with things in general. I hate our – my – life the way it is.

I pointed out that Brett himself does nothing but work a day job and watch TV, and that a happy person would never behave like that. He doesn’t design and build bikes like he says he wants to and he doesn’t have any other hobbies; he barely has any close friends. “It occurs to me that you’re depressed, too.” I said. “You don’t do anything, you don’t care about anything. You spend a huge amount of time just lying in front of the television. You buy toys and then you never even play with them. You’ve got a dozen cool projects stored in various buildings around the farm that you haven’t touched since the day you brought them home. I think you hate it here as much as I do.

“We’re Libras. We’re social people. We need to be around people. We bought this place as a refuge but we’re not using it as a refuge, we’re using it as a prison. So: we made a mistake in thinking that we would be happy on a hobby farm. We were wrong. Big deal! Let’s move on before this albatross kills us.”

“I don’t build bikes because there isn’t any room here to build bikes,” he said.

I laughed out loud at him. “Dude, we have twenty-seven acres. If that’s not enough room, you’re on crack.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean–”

“You mean that you don’t have a nice, concrete-floored, climate-controlled shop with eighty thousand dollars worth of machine shop tools in it,” I interrupted. “Dude, get the fuck over it! If you wanted to build custom bikes, you’d be doing it.

“The truth is that you’re just as depressed and lazy as I am. We need to face the fact that we’re social, creative people, and that our life as it is doesn’t nourish that in us, and it’s killing us. This place is too much to maintain. We’re not the right kind of people for this, and that’s okay. We don’t like gardening, we don’t like hunting or going on long walks in the woods, we don’t like country life. And that’s fine.

“Look at the remodel designs you have in your head for this place! They’re all about socializing, about entertaining! The huge porch, the spa, the outdoor cooktop, the granite picnic table. It’s not like you think you’re going to be out there cooking on that cooktop by yourself. Your whole design is about entertaining – about sharing our space with friends.”

He nodded thoughtfully, but he didn’t really respond. I don’t think he’d thought about any of that. He, like me, had convinced himself that he really wanted tons of solitude and quiet.

I explained to him that there’s nothing here for me any more. I’ve discovered that I don’t actually want to live in an old house in the country. I already have the coolest job in town, and I’ve already performed too many times in every venue here. Since I’ll never have kids, there’s no reason for me to focus on keeping house; it’s boring as hell and I’m simply too smart to find deep satisfaction in washing his socks.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not happy dusting and cleaning. I tried to be, I really did, but it’s boring and endless. It should be the smallest part of my life, not the focus of it. You’ve seen me perform, you know that’s what I’m good at! I recorded two albums this year and those two projects were the highlight of the past four years of my life. I need to be doing creative things and interacting with human beings on a regular basis, and so do you. We’re dying out here. There has to be more than this to life.”

I told him I thought we should set a remodel schedule and stick to it. “Last year when we got back from Colorado, we were all gung ho to get the house to the point where we could rent it out and get out of here and have real lives. You haven’t worked on the place at all in the past year. Nothing’s been done.”

He said that the lack of forward progress on the house was because I don’t support him. He said if I wasn’t depressed and crazy, maybe more would get done.

I told him again that while I respect his opinion in general, on this topic he’s just plain wrong. I do do my part. I do pull my weight. I’m not the one who spends six hours a night and all hours every weekend lying on the couch watching television.

“Brett,” I said. “Listen. You always have clean clothes, you always have food on the table. I serve you dinner and iced tea every night after work. I’m home two days a week, right? That’s twelve to sixteen hours of housework I’m responsible for. I DO THAT MANY HOURS OF HOUSEWORK every week! I clean, cook, shop, run errands, balance the books, pay bills. Yes, I take every evening and weekend off and lie around doing nothing, but so do you – and why should I put more into this than you? Why am I the ‘lazy’ one when you don’t do anything either? How is it my fault that you’ve only worked ten hours on the house in the last year?

“When you’re busy, I’m busy. When you’re busting your ass on the house, I’m running errands, picking up materials, cooking pot roasts, and making pitchers of lemonade. I’m doing everything I can to support you; it’s not like I’m off at the movies while you spend a hard-earned Saturday remodelling. I’ll match you, dude, but I’m not going to carry you. I’ve told you this before: I look to you to set the standard. I’ve tried to do it myself, but you’ll just lie back let me do everything. Well, fuck that! Maybe I’m a selfish cunt, but I’m just not down for that. You’re my husband, not my kid.”

~+~+~
But I am mean to him. I know he’s angry and hurt because I’m so standoffish. I sleep in my office a lot and not in our bed. I tell him no when he asks for back scratches because, shit, he doesn’t give so why should he get?

I can’t seem to get through to him that cash and oral sex do not a complete contribution to a marriage make.

I feel like I’ve been the one compromising and busting my butt in this relationship. I now have such low expectations of him that it’s scary that he still fails to meet them – my expectations of a decent partnership have been dropping for years, and now all I want is for him to notice his environment and care about it. If I miss some little thing, he should pick up the slack like a decent partner! If I ask for some little favor, he should make it his fucking priority to do it for me.

But he doesn’t. He lies on the couch and feels sorry for himself because I’m a bummer to be around and I won’t scratch his back or suck his dick when he asks me to. Sometimes I just get tired of giving and not getting. I do my part, but the ‘division of labor’ in this marriage is such that my work gets done, and his doesn’t. The barn’s a mess, the shed is a mess, the whole property’s a mess. The remodel hasn’t progressed at all and we still live in the basement.

I’m tired of going to demo derbies and gun shows and swap meets with him because he doesn’t have any interest in going to libraries, sci-fi cons, or jazz clubs with me. We don’t seem to have enough in common to make this work, and that was fine when I was still willing to do all the bending. But now, maybe, I’m not.

I’m tired of our life now. When we got together we had friends, a social life, jobs, hobbies, and I was doing musicals and playing in bands.

Now, neither of us do anything. We’re so well-rested we’re half dead.

~+~+~
Then he said, “If we do this, if we move somewhere else, will we end up back where we are now when the new wears off?”

That stopped me cold. Good goddamned question. When the new wears off, will we end up back where we started?

I’m afraid of the answer, because I think the answer is yes. I’ve lived with this man for seven years, and while he’s a great human being and I love him to death he’s been a consistently lazy, selfish, lousy roommate. The only ‘fights’ we have ever had have been about how he acts like I’m his personal servant and how that hurts me and pisses me off. He apparently thinks I’m lazy because the house isn’t spotless and beautiful, even though he never does anything about it himself. I have to break down and cry to get him to do the simplest, most basic things IN HIS OWN HOUSE.

He seems to believe somewhere in his heart that this is how it should be. I should do all the household work and help him do his chores on the weekends. I can’t expect help from him, but I’m a bitch when I don’t want to give up my free time to remodel or maintain the property. The man’s not stupid and he’s not cruel, but he can’t seem to see the ways in which his expectations are wrong.

And he’s right: moving to a city probably won’t fix what’s broken. He’d still want to live way the hell far away from anything convenient, and I’d still be driving some gas-guzzling 4WD vehicle 15 miles each way just to buy eggs, which I hate. My morning commute would be long and boring, and it would be hard to have people over because no one would want to have to drive that far and we’d be isolated again, him on the couch in front of the TV and me in my office reading a book because I hate television and people can’t talk with the TV on anyway.

And if I worked full-time we’d be back to square one with him never lifting a finger toward domestic chores. If I started gigging on top of that, I’d be out late all the time and no one would be fixing his dinner or scratching his back and he’d feel abandoned and unloved and the house would be a fucking mess. (Not to mention that he’d drop dead of a heart attack from eating at pubs every night rather than cook for himself.)

If we lived somewhere where I could get a job and a gig, I’d basically never be home but to sleep – we don’t have kids so why shouldn’t I have a career? He’d have to do laundry, shop, clean, and pay bills himself, and I know from seven years of experience that he simply won’t do it.

He thinks he wants a traditional wife. And that’s totally valid, but it turns out that I’m not one and I don’t want to be one.

~+~+~
We talked for quite awhile, and then we went to bed and held each other and went to sleep. I felt really sad. I think he did, too.

When I got home from work the next day, he’d fixed the shower head and taken two months worth of trash up to the dump truck. He’d even unpacked his own clothes, which is something he’s always left for me in the past.

But it’s verging on too little, too late. I asked him to fix that shower head two months ago; he fucking uses that shower, he KNOWS it’s broken. Why should I even have to say anything?

Is there any possible reality in which I’m out of line expecting the person I live with to quit treating our home like a hotel and my time like it’s his?

I freely admit to and take responsibility for the fact that I’ve become a bitchy, depressed woman who is no fun to be around. But I also know that I’ve tried and tried and tried to make us work, and he only meets me halfway about a tenth of the time. He honestly believes that he shouldn’t have to do anything but work a day job, and that I should do literally everything else except chop wood, fix cars, and snake the septic tank when it clogs.

I don’t want to be a maid, I never did. I don’t even want to be a housewife; I became one because we’d have gotten a divorce two years ago if I hadn’t. I want a partner, someone who takes care of me and our environment the way I take care of him.

I also want someone I can talk to, and with whom I share basic beliefs – but that’s never going to happen with us no matter how hard we try.

Housework is never-ending, when you live on gravel in the country. Everything is always dirty, you always need something from town. It’s endless, it’s boring, and I shouldn’t even have to think about it. There are two adults living in my household; the shit should just get done. We should be teamed up against the work that needs to be done, doing it and supporting each other while getting our social and creative needs met like normal human beings. Instead, we’re holed up in the basement of our crappy old farmhouse like troglodytes.

In spite of my extroversion I am an introspective person, so I’m fairly certain that I’m aware of and working on the majority of my flaws and foibles. But I really don’t think I’m the problem here. I think he is, and I don’t think he’s going to change. In fact, he’s said that he doesn’t particularly want to. He wants to lie on the couch way out in the country.

He says he’s ready to be a decent roommate when I go back to work full-time, but I’ll have to see it to believe it.

So here’s the real question: is it possible that in a marriage, love isn’t enough?

We love each other and we make each other laugh, but we’re both highly independent, selfish, and, I’ll say it, spiteful people. We’re at the point where we’re both suffering just to spite one another. I’m suffering because I’m bored and undersocialized and miserable and unfulfilled and crazy, because I’m too smart and creative to think that dusting and grocery shopping is my dharma, and – let’s be honest – because I’ve discovered that I really don’t like living his life. He’s suffering because I hold him at arm’s length when he won’t do the smallest fucking things to make me happy.

I’m suffering because he doesn’t want to have a social life and he tells me I’m lazy. He’s suffering because he doesn’t understand why I don’t think a rousing round of sex is enough to fix the problems we’re having.

I can’t live with someone who won’t do anything. I’m an extrovert and I need to be out and about, but I feel like I owe him the housewife routine because I ‘only’ work three days a week and he ‘supports’ me. I feel like I have to be home at six with food ready, because he supports me financially and I owe him. I feel like it’s tacky for me to go out without him because I’m a married woman, and besides I’d rather be with him than without him! But he rarely wants to go out with me and has on several occasions promised to take me out on (for example) New Years Eve and then has fallen asleep on the couch at ten and refused to wake up.

He lets me down in little ways all the time and I’m tired of it. He’s a lousy roommate, he’s stubborn and lazy, he has no hobbies or passions, he’s not engaged or creative or active, and he isn’t even trying to make our home beautiful and comfortable to live in. AND he has the nerve to tell me I’m the lazy one.

I love him. I even like him. I respect his honesty, work ethic, discipline, and integrity. I respect his social radar – he’s always right about people! I admire his physical strength and the knowledge in his head. I think he’s funny and engaging in conversation. He’s basically my hero.

But living with him is killing me, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t see the point in having more conversations with him about the fact that all he does is judge me and lie on the couch, because none of the other conversations on the topic in the past seven years have made any difference. I don’t see the point in going back to work full-time just to have something to do, because he won’t pick up the slack at home and I’ll end up divorcing him over a dirty glass or a pair of socks on the floor.

I don’t want to live in isolation out in the country, I don’t like driving, I’m a night person, and I’m an extrovert.

He likes to live in isolation, loves driving, is a morning person, and would rather watch TV than do almost anything else.

I don’t see the point in this any more. Where can we possibly go from here?

~+~+~
Over the next week, he became Perfect Roommate Guy. The sex was sweet, he did crazy random shit like put away the leftovers and wash dishes after dinner one night, he kissed me hello and goodbye and called me after work.

But. He’s done that shit before. While I was at the nuns one weekend, he did nothing. I think he laid on the couch in front of the TV for two days. He told me he’d intended to start on firewood for the winter but, you know, it rained so he couldn’t.

I think he’s already back to his normal routine, and I’m already back in mine, and holy shit if this isn’t going to kill me.

~+~+~
Now that I’ve been thinking about this for a few weeks, I’m starting to think this isn’t an issue of where we live. I really don’t hate our house that much, and things like commutes and dust are just things.

I think the issue is that I don’t like who I am any more. I don’t do any of the things that I used to think defined me as a person. It’s not that he won’t let me do stuff, it’s just that if I go off and do those things he and I would never see each other. I’d have totally different friends, a different schedule, different priorities.

He and I have huge areas that don’t overlap; I’ve spent much more time in his life than he’s ever spent in mine, and he really doesn’t like the people and activities that I enjoy most. (Like when I did that Seventh Ray album this spring, he had nothing but grumpy things to say about most of the people on that project, and he bitched about me being gone all the time, and he only saw about five minutes of one of the two performances. Things that are important to me are so far off his radar he can’t even pretend to care about them.)

The issue is not the town we live in, or the farm we live on. I could be happy in this exact situation if my marriage were different. If he and I had interests and hobbies in common, if we wanted to hang out with the same kinds of people and do the same kinds of things most of these issues wouldn’t exist.

The bottom line is that we have nothing in common, and I don’t think we can do anything to fix that. He’s never going to like jazz, I’m never going to like motorcycles. He’s never going to be a spiritual seeker, I’m never going to eat steak. He’s never going to be a thoughtful roommate, and I’m never going to want to go shoot guns with him. We’re just too different, in spite of how much we love each other.

This fucking sucks.