Bad Math

Day 33

Does it make any difference? If I do the things that good dads and good husbands are supposed to do?

I'm realizing something today. And no, it doesn't make me look any better. Actually I think it makes me look worse – more selfish, or shallow, or...whatever. But I can't ignore it now that I can see it clearly. We have this complex codependent dance that we've been sharing all these years, and we're working hard to pick it apart. We look at each piece, turn it over in our hands, and try to figure out whether it's helping or hurting. So when one of those pieces falls in my lap, I have to at least examine it. Here's the piece:

I do all these things (dad things, husband things, pastor things, artist things) so that you'll let me touch you.

Somewhere I picked up an interpersonal mathematics full of false equations. (Or “fucking lies” when I'm feeling angry.) Some book or movie worked its way into the relationship center of my brain, and actually convinced me that “if x then y”.

If I make that trip to the store (in the rain) to pick up something for dinner, you'll let me kiss your face.
If I drive home, and let you sleep on the way, you'll actually want to put your arms around me in bed.
If I break up my work day to pick up the kids. If I make them a healthy snack. If their homework gets done.
If I respond to their fights with that perfect balance of authority, fairness, and loving instruction.
If I'm productive and efficient at work.
If I clean up all the rabbit shit.
If I sing the most heart-breakingly beautiful song.
If I write the most heart-breakingly beautiful song.
Then you'll want me to touch you. You might sigh or even moan softly.
Instead of being ticklish. Everywhere. Or too cold. Or overwhelmed by narcolepsy.

I see it on the screen in front of me and it looks so stupid.

Years ago, I read The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. It's actually a really great book. But I just happened to have it in my hands during the first few years of our marriage. When I was trying to figure out why you didn't love me back, any more than a benevolent, platonic roommate. And I over applied habit #1: Be Proactive. (buzzword apology) The basic idea is that we are amazingly more productive when we take action rather than simply respond. Don't sit around and worry that you're going to get fired – observe your boss's weak spots and fill them in. Become indispensable. Take action. Make your own luck. And that's what I tried to do. Rather than trying to fix your problems, I thought I could win you over by out-loving you. It didn't work. Again, I see it on the screen and it looks so fucking stupid.

I now see that book as the beginning of a disaster. Of course it wasn't Steven Covey's fault. The concepts in his book are sound. They were just wrong for me at that point in time. What I needed was someone to teach me how to say, “Don't treat me like that. You're being unkind and it hurts me. Get some help.”

Not that it would have made any difference. I don't think there was any shortcut through those dark years. I love you, Linsey, and you're a wonderful person, but I don't think anything short of our marriage imploding was going to get you into counseling. So we did that. Then we picked up the pieces. Now it's counseling, 12-step groups, books.

But I still have that math in my head: If I stay sober, then you'll like sex. And it just doesn't work that way. I know how foolish it looks for me to say all this when I just “celebrated” thirty days, again. So in the interest of being a team player, from a place of humility (humiliation?) can I just ask that you stay willing to work on your stuff? I just need to know that if I pour myself into this task, if I stay away from all my vices, that you'll stay committed to helping that abused little girl inside of you. Because I know you, Linsey. You don't like to be together in the dark. And me being sober isn't all it's going to take to change that. And there's a nineteen-year-old virgin boy in me, still standing at the altar, dreaming of having a lover. Not just a friend, or a partner, but a lover. You.