When the Levee Breaks...

I’ve been listening to the reports about what Katrina did to the Gulf Coast, and the soundtrack in my head has shifted to playing two songs, Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks” and Everclear’s “Santa Monica.” The former doesn’t really need any explanation, but with the later, I just can’t shake the chorus:

We can live beside the ocean,
Leave the fire behind
Swim out past the breakers
Watch the world die

Sir Lancelot wants me to make some grand gesture hearing about all the pain and devastation. The more practical part of me is pulling him up short. I realize that I really have nothing practical to offer; that the best I could do is get in the way. Still, the dreams of glory and heroism are calling to me. (Maybe I should call that part of my personality Don Quixote rather than Lancelot.)

Still, my heart goes out to the people down there. To have your home destroyed must indeed be a terrible thing.

Some of the more conservative commentators I listen to are grousing that the rest of the world isn’t offering the US help in dealing with the clean up. The more mature part of me recognizes this for exactly what this is, grousing. We don’t need help. As wide-spread as the devastation is, it is miniscule compared with what this country has. Still, I can see where the commentators are coming from. With almost every natural disaster in the world, there are reports of Americans rushing to help, not just financially, but actually going to the country in question.

On of my favorite memories from the nightmare that occurred on Sept 11th, 2001 concerned an offer from a tribe in southern Africa (Kenya, I think.) On hearing of what had happened to us, the tribal chief contacted our ambassador and offered to send twenty cows. Reading that report drove me to tears (and still makes my eyes mist up.) Here were people with almost nothing, yet they were willing to offer what, for them, must have been a sizable chunk of their available wealth in the hope of helping out. The sheer human decency of that action truly humbles me.

Am I surprised that offers of help aren’t pouring in from all corners of the globe? No. Do I wish that offers of help, even on the symbolic level, were coming in? Yes. It seems to be proof of what I once read in a piece from Victor Davis Hanson (I think): “The rest of the world seems to alternate between saying, ‘Why don’t the American’s do something?’ and ‘What do the American’s think they’re doing?’”

I’m going home tonight and writing a check to the Red Cross. I think I need to figure out what twenty cows worth is to me.

That Could Have Gone Better ... (Or maybe not)

Just got back home from the counciling session and dinner with Mags. All in all, it went pretty well. (Ignoring the fact that we got into an argument in the middle of the "getting to know you" session.) Dr. Tom allowed us to run with it for a while before politely, but firmly, bringing us back to the subject at hand. On the bright side, we provided a practical demonstration in response to the question, "Why do you think you need help?"
For dinner, we went back to IHOP, something we haven’t done since we were dating. The conversation was good, and I only had to bring Mags up short once to let her know she was stepping on my toes. I know she was trying to show empathy to my plight, but it came off too much like one-upsmanship. I told her so, and then promptly changed the subject, not because she scowled at me, but because I really didn’t want to have yet another fight tonight. (Particularly not sitting in the middle of a restaurant.)
Well, I must run. I may not like this househusband thing, but dammit, I’m going to do a good job of it. I need to cycle a load of laundry, and then it’s off to bed.

Broadswords vs Stilletos

Mags and I have identified one of the major sources of friction in our marriage. She grew up with her family fighting in a very loud, open, aggressive manner. My families fights were much more subtle. When Mags family fought, they started of with screaming, yelling, ranting and raving. My family fought with cynicism and sarcasm. When Mags is angry, she starts out at a level that, unless I am thinking very very carefully, I perceive as bloodletting stage.

They fought with broadswords and axes; we fought with stilettos.

As I’m fond of saying, this is just more data. I need to figure out what to do with it. Maybe the marriage councilor can help us figure out a way to fight so that she actually can pick up when I’m angry (before I get to the rage level), and I can stop interpreting her anger as rage.

We shall see.

Be Still....

At work, one of the senior techs has been out for over a month. Back in July, his wife was in a terrible car crash that left her paralyzed from the waste down. She cam home from the hospital on Friday, and he came in this afternoon to handle some odds and ends in preparation for his return to work after the holiday.

He brought his wife with him.

P-- had worked here briefly in the spring, so she’s a little more than the disembodied voice on the phone that most of the techs wives are. On hearing that she was here, I had to go out and chat with her for the moment that my schedule allowed.

She was looking much better than I expected, and despite her terrible injury, she seemed to be in good spirits. In a way, that hit me harder than it would have otherwise. I can’t help but think that C-- is living through my worst nightmare. Isn’t it funny, just a week ago, I was wondering if I still wanted to be married to Mags, and yet today I was shocked to the core by just the idea that something might happen to her.

After they had left, I felt the need to call Mags just to tell her I love her. I also suddenly couldn’t stomach the radio playing in the background, so I’ve had to shut it off.

In the words of the philosopher, “Funny ol’ thing, Life.”

Emotional Intelligence

Nibs lent me Emotional Intelligence by Daniel Goleman with the admonition that it was important that I read it. I have spent the past week slogging through it between trying to get the rest of the daily detritus of life out of the way. (I appreciate that Mags, never the best housekeeper in the world, has had no time to help out between school and work. Still, being a househusband SUCKS!) I have been enjoying the book, although I must admit to being rather puzzled as to why it was so important that I read it. Given the subject matter Goleman was discussing, I must admit to being slightly insulted. I’m not really that dense as to what is going on around me.

Also, I’m not sure I really agree with some of the basic assumptions behind the book. Goleman seems to be a firm believer in the theory of multiple intelligences; the idea the traditional IQ is not the only form of intelligence. I object to this theory mostly on the grounds that the original perpetrator of it makes the argument that things like coordination and aesthetic taste should also be viewed as forms of intelligence. Perhaps it’s the terminology that has got my hackles up. As one of those people with a high IQ, I find it objectionable that someone has attempted to define what, IMHO, amounts to nothing more that skill sets as a coequal form of intelligence. “We’re just intelligent in a different way!” And when everybody is exceptional, nobody is.

That being said, I’m happily reading along, attempting to evaluate the arguments presented and ignore my personal bias, puzzled as to why it was so important for me to read this book.

Then I got to chapter 9, Intimate Enemies.

This is the chapter that deals with Emotional Intelligence in a marital setting. As I was reading, I got a cold feeling, as if someone had punched me in the pit of the stomach. What he was describing was exactly what I have been going through with Mags. What advice he was giving dovetailed nicely with what we have been working on in Dr Phil’s Relationship Rescue. (Yes, friends, I have been reduced that low. Still, given that I was allowed to make the choice as to which program to follow, his seems to be the most free of touchy-feely b***s***.) I’m not really sure what we can do with this new knowledge, but, as I’m fond of saying, it’s all data; I just need to figure out how to process it.

Hopefully, the meeting with the marriage councilor Tuesday evening will give us more practical exercises to work on. Having decided that, even though I am hurt, I still love Mags and want to try to repair things, I now want to do everything in my power to make sure that this marriage gets ever chance it can possibly have. Still, telling Mags that I had a boundary that had been crossed, and unless things changed I couldn’t stay married to her felt liberating.

On an entirely different note, I’ve been having a hankering for a game of chess all weekend. I’m trying to teach Mags to play, but it’s just not the same. I really hope that my usual opponent gets back into town soon and we can arrange a time to play that fits both of our schedules.

What a Difference a Day Makes...

What a difference a day makes. Despite my misgivings last night, we ended up going to the Demo today, and had a great time. What struck me about the experience afterwards, and talking it over with Mags afterwards reinforced this, was that we spent very little time today actually interacting with each other. Mags spent most of the day on the field, while I was busy playing "tour guide" to the mundanes who had wandered into our world and were fascinated and overwhelmed by what they encountered. During down time, we even ended up talking with different groups of friends.
The trip home was full of laughter and understanding, including the kind of talk that I remember from the early days of our marriage. Looking back on this, the idea that we needed to withdraw from the world and work on our marriage was perhaps the worst idea that we have ever come up with. Maybe it says something about our marriage, but I have come to the realization that we need to bring our differing experiences to the table.
I’m going to wait until the counciling appointment Tuesday evening before making any further decisions, because I really don’t want to mess this up, but I don’t think we can afford to sit alone and try to "work on us" to the exclusion of the outside world.
I’ve also come to the realization that I really do love my wife, and that there is a difference between saying, "I don’t want to be married to you any longer." And "This behavior is unacceptable, and I can’t stay with you unless it changes."
Nibs had spoken with me extensively about her rediscovering boundaries in her life. I’m starting to realize that it is perfectly acceptable, even necessary, to have boundaries with the one you love.
I know, I know, "Duh!" but this is new territory for me.

Random Late Night Musings

Another frustrating day. I’m supposed to be going to the demo tomorrow, but it’s now 2 am, and I can’t sleep.
Talked to Grimmy about "the rumor" and its origins when he came over to get some potting soil, and although it didn’t really resolve anything, at least it felt good to get it off my chest. I’m trying to let go of my anger over the entire incident, but every time I give a little bit of it up, more seems to rush back in to fill its place. I can feel myself sliding down into a depression over this entire affair, and I feel as if I’m powerless to do anything about it.
I wish there was some way to wind back time, so I could go back and head this entire distance between Mags and myself off. My brain knows that we’re both to blame for the pickle we’re in, but my heart keeps fluctuating between totally blaming her and totally blaming myself.
It’s much to late, off to bed so I can stare at the ceiling some more. Eventually this will end, what scares me is that I have no idea where it’s all headed and I feel as if I’m caught up in an out of control ride.

Smelt Cakes

It’s quiet here. The phones are dead and the techs seem to be running themselves for a change. In an effort to focus on the good memories of my wife, I have thought back to the incident of the Smelt Cakes.

Soon after Mags and I started dating, we developed a tradition with another couple of having each other over for diner one night a week. We would take turns hosting, and on the first night it was our turn, Mags decided that she was going to show off. The result was one of the few truly disastrous meals I can ever remember her producing.

She pulled out all of the stops, digging into her cookbooks to produce the most elegant diner she could. As the primary recipient of this effort to impress, I was kept in the dark as to the preparations. Finally, Wednesday rolled around and I went over to her place after work.

My attempts to help out got me firmly shooed out of the kitchen, thus establishing a long-standing tradition between us. We are both fairly good cooks (strike that, I’m a good cook, she is excellent) but we cannot be in the same kitchen at the same time. The conflict that inevitably results is not a pretty sight.

So I set the table, and then entertained John and Abbie while Mags put the finishing touches on diner. Finally, the meal was ready and we were summoned to the dining room. The table was beautiful, and the food smelled wonderful, so we all sat down to eat.

Taking up my glass of sparkling grape juice, I offered a toast to the chef, took a drink, and promptly spat the contents back into the glass. All of us are in recovery, and instead of sparkling grape juice, Mags had picked up a bottle of so-called Nonalcoholic Wine. (Which still has an alcohol content. So much for truth in advertising.) The fumes from the alcohol had hit my nasal passages, and I want points for only spitting it out (and hitting the glass, I might add), and not spewing the contents of my stomach.

The offending beverage was quickly removed and substitutes were brought to the table. The Mags revealed what she had been working on, Smelt a la Benedictine.

Smelt.

Fish.

An incident in my childhood involving a perch bone had left me with a deep and abiding loathing of fish and all things fishy. I cannot stand to eat fish of any description. Shellfish are all right, apart from their tendency to make me gassy enough to clear out a cow-barn, but fish of any description are totally off limits. Here I was, looking down at an admittedly beautiful fish dish that my new girlfriend had just worked long and hard to prepare for me. So, I, who was one of Uncle Sams Misguided Children, did one of the bravest things I have ever done in my life: I picked up one of the delicate pastry shells and bit deeply into it.

The smell of the fish and the fishy taste struck me like a fist. I fought down an urge to gag that was even stronger than the one the alcohol had produced. Trying, not terribly successfully, to not let the waves of nausea that were washing over me show on my face. I chewed the offending morsel. And chewed. And chewed. Then I realized, I had forgotten how to swallow.

Looking at the face of my new girlfriend, I realized that my inner turmoil was leaking out into my expression. Steeling myself, I managed to nerve myself into swallowing the bite and managed to choke out, “It’s delicious, Honey.”

Mags picked up hers and then said one of the most chilling things I have ever heard her utter, “Oh, Dear, I think the Smelt is off.”

Abbie, ever the gourmand, had just finished her second and was reaching for her third. She actually turned green, and she and I raced each other for the bathroom. I would like to say that my manners won out, but the pure fact of the matter is that she was faster than I was. So, she got the toilet and I had to make due with the trashcan.

There have been a few memorably bad meals since then. The Meat Lump incident and the time the sauce was made with spoiled cream come to mind. Still, nothing has yet (or hopefully ever will) match the Smelt Cakes.

The Church Millitant

There’s been a lot of flak in the news lately about Pat Robertson’s comments regarding Hugo Chavez. As conservative as I am, I find Robertson to be much like the Weekly World News; good for an occasional amusing diversion, but not to be taken seriously.

Still, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. There are some foreign policy problems that are best handled by the diplomats, some that are best handled by the 1st Armored, and some that are best handled by a busboy with a silencer. Still, what I find troubling is the kerflufle over the fact that a MINISTER said such a thing. The reaction forgets the tradition of the Church Militant, which seems to be something that our modern religious organizations have forgotten about or suppressed.

One of my favorite scenes in Firefly is when the crew is going to rescue the Captain in War Stories. All of the crew is arming for battle, and surprise is expressed when Book (The character I am most identified with by those I know,) picks up a weapon. He is asked by Zoe:

“Preacher, don't the Bible got some pretty specific things to say about killing?”
The response is, “Quite specific. It is, however, somewhat fuzzier on the subject of kneecaps.”

In that moment, Book reminded me of Michael, taking up his flaming sword and going forth to battle evil.

Ignoring the fact that the quotation in question is actually best translated as, “Thou shalt not murder.” The idea that church should always be against war ignores the entire doctrine of the Just War. Look back at the build-up to the latest Iraq war. JP II decried the necessity of the war, hoped that the situation could be peacefully resolved, and prayed that thing would be so. However, it is important to note that at no time was a condemnation of the coming action issued. JP (rightly, IMHO) saw this as a matter best resolved by the actions of a properly recognized government, and not something that the church should really have a say in. By not issuing a condemnation, JP was giving tacit approval to the coming storm.

In the past, the Church Militant was used to justify some of the worst excesses of the religious wars that nearly tore Europe apart. Smiting your neighbors because they were heathen infidels who didn’t worship God in the proper manner became a popular past time. Then, of course, we got the fun and games of the Inquisition. In the end, the entire doctrine was rejected as being too hazardous. Still, by totally rejecting the entire doctrine, we are ignoring several important points.

Firstly, there is evil in the world, and it is the duty of all good men to oppose it by all means possible. Sometimes, this is nothing more that not cooperating with the evil, sometimes it involves actively standing against it. That is, in many ways, why I believe the Just War doctrine was developed: as a means to test a coming action to determine how right, how Just, it was. Even the excesses of the Inquisition were rooted in a desire to oppose Evil. The Malfectus Mallfectorum (The Hammer of Witches), the governing document of the Inquisition, was the first attempt in human history to codify how to question suspects in such a manner to find the truth rather than the biases of the questioner. The fact that it only served to reinforce those biases was more a failing of the people enforcing it that a failing of the document itself. Not that the document itself was perfect, it confused the accusation and guilt, ignoring the idea that sometimes people act out of their own, selfish, interests rather than a desire to see good done.

While there were excesses in the Church Militant, again brought on by the selfish interests and biases of those charged with enforcing those dictates, there was also a right and true core behind the basic idea. The modern Church has very much focused on God the Healer, and has tended to play down the many examples we have of the Just and Terrible God. From the Old Testament God ordering his followers to smite this or that group, to Moses destroying the Golden Calf, to Jesus in the Temple with the Moneychangers, to Michael taking up his sword to lead the armies of God in the Book of Revelations, the Bible is Rife with examples of God allowing Justice to be done and removing the tempering force of Mercy.

While I do not follow Robertson’s flavor of faith, and have seen many examples of his own ego and biases entering his various pronouncements, I can’t help but agree with him on this one. Chavez is a destabilizing force in that area of the world. If allowed to continue unchecked, he has the capacity to intensify the misery not just of his own people, but also of the people of the entire region. Add in the petrochemical dollars that his regime has access to, and he is truly a dangerous, (to borrow a word that has gone out of vogue of late,) an evil force that must be addressed. Failure to do so now will only make the job that much harder later. He has proven himself unreceptive to a peaceful, diplomatic solution, so that leaves only the 1st Armored or the busboy.

In the words of one of my favorite philosopher, Stormin’ Norman, “Forgiveness belongs to God. Let us arrange the meeting.”

[Climbs down off Soapbox and kicks it into the corner.]

How Mags and I met

After receiving a very insightful comment, it occurred to me that I probably should focus on some happy memories of Mags. One of my favorites is the story of how Mags and I met and started dating.

Mags and I first met ten years ago. We are both in recovery, and liked to attend the same meetings. I can clearly remember what my thoughts were the first time we had a long talk after a meeting when the entire group went out for coffee; “Nice girl, pretty too. Too bad she’s gay.”

In my defense, all the signs pointed that way. She was always hanging out with a lesbian couple. (Not suspected, they were quite open about it.) She never spoke about her boyfriend or husband; the wording she used was always “significant other.” And finally, she would usually dress plainly in “Stay away from me clothes.

In retrospect, all of these can be explained away. Kathy and Janet were her downstairs neighbors, so she usually gave them rides to whatever meeting she was going to. In deference to them, she would never refer to her relationship in anything but gender-neutral terms. (Although why she never used Captain Herbalife’s name is a mystery to me.) Also, the meeting we would go to was something of a Meet Market. Many of the regular attendees were single, and they were there to discuss the problems of being single in recovery. We definitely weren’t the only couple that the Friday night first year group brought together.

Anyway, Mags quickly become one of my closest friends and confidants. I’d go to her for advice on how to handle whatever relationship difficulty I had gotten myself into at the time. Finally, one Friday in late spring, 1999 I was sitting with her outside the local coffee house, moaning into my beer about the latest girl who had dumped me earlier that week. Mags let me go on for a bit, making the appropriately soothing noises at all the right places, and then she dropped the bombshell:

“Say, I’ve got a company dinner next week, and I don’t have anyone to take me. Do you want to go?”

Well, she was a good friend, and if her boss didn’t know she was gay, I could see how she might need a beard to provide cover. I accepted. It wasn’t until I was driving home that I paused to think things over. There was something that didn’t quite add up about the entire situation. (Okay, okay, so I’m not always terribly fast on the uptake.)

My suspicions that something odd was going on were confirmed when I got a call the next evening. It was Mags saying, “Listen, I’m supposed to be in charge of this thing, but I’ve never been to the restaurant before. You want to go out to dinner Monday and check it out.”

Okay, that set the weird-o-meter to eleven. There was something going on that I didn’t understand. (See the above comment about being slow on the uptake.)

Monday came, and I picked her up after work and took her out to dinner. We had a great time, and stayed talking until well after the bill had been paid. We talked some more as I drove her home, making sure that I took the longest route possible so I could have more time with her. Finally, though, we got to her apartment. At this point, I knew that either I had been terribly mistaken in my initial assessment, or I was completely miss-reading what was going on. (She laughed at my joke about the lawyer, the priest, the Boy Scout and the pilot for God’s sake!)

So I went to kiss her, still not entirely sure that she was interested in me.

I have never been happier to be wrong in my life.

Do You Hear the People Sing?

Was in a funky mood all day yesterday. Watching Suicide Kings Tuesday night with Mags gave me some really weird dreams that night, and I woke up in a funk. The rainy weather I drove through to get to work didn’t help matters either. Neither, for that matter, did reading T.S. Elliot while I was in my down time yesterday morning.

On a side note, am I the only one who finds that poetry read in a state of heightened emotion makes it more potent and memorable? I was flipping through, re-reading all the poems that were important to me as a young man, and again feeling the power in the words. Trying to read some new poems, even by my favorites (Sandburg, Cummings (err.. cummings), Elliot, Frost) and the best I could muster was, “Gee, that’s nice.”)

So, by the time I got home after work, I was reveling in the blues. I thought about putting on Clapton Unplugged, but decided to drop Les Miserables. The volume cranked, I sat down, closed my eyes, and allowed the music to wash over me. That did the trick, listening to Valjean, Javier, Cosette, and Marius sing about their troubles as their world fell down around them took me down and then made my emotions soar. By the time Fantine returns for Valjean, and sings, “Come with me, where chains will never bind you…” I was balling like a baby.

It did the trick; I came out of the experience feeling refreshed. When Mags got home, I was able to amicably chat with her for a while, and let her know when she exhibited behavior that I considered unacceptable, even though she got angry with me for telling her something was none of her business. (God! When did I turn into such a wimp?)

I’m still trying to figure out if I really want this marriage to survive unless she changes. I want the girl I married back, and I’m not really sure the woman I suddenly saw for the first time last week is someone I want to stay with. But I’m going to continue to work on me, and allow her to work on her, and we’ll have to see where we come out.

Do you hear the people sing?

p.s.
I've noticed a direct hierarchy in my musical moods when I'm down --

Slightly Blue - Blues or soft Jazz
In a Funk - Les Miserables
Depressed - Harry Chapin
Call for a suicide watch - sitting in the dark, listening to Wish You Were Here

Musical Absinthe

Les Miserables -- Cathartic in small does, dangerous in larger ones. But Oh! What great music!

Memory and Regret

I remember the first girl who ever had a crush on me. It was junior year in high school, and her name was Wendy. I haven’t thought about her in years, but with my current melancholy brought on by my marital difficulty, she has surged back into my mind.

I can remember how our mutual friends tried to set us up; she was a wonderful girl, bright and cheery with a smile constantly on her face. I fear I may have caused that wonderful, shining face to be clouded with tears, and in the years since, I have often felt a pain of regret over that. I was the stumbling, overweight outcast; so sure that I had something to offer, and so bitter that no one (of the female persuasion) seemed to recognize that in me. The irony is, the reason I rejected her was that she was overweight.

It is often said that youth is wasted on the young, had I known then what I know now, I would have responded when she tried to kiss me that spring day in her dorm room. Maybe, had I responded to that kiss, my life would have turned out differently and the next ten years of alcohol-induced pain and loneliness wouldn’t have happened.

I can’t even remember the name of the school she attended, much less what her last name was. I did keep the picture she gave me for years, until the last big effort by my disease to kill me lost me almost all of my physical possessions. If I close my eyes, I can still plainly see her bright, shining eyes peering out from beneath her short, blonde mop of hair and over that ever-present smile.

So Wendy, if you should ever read these words, and remember that spring day in 1984 in your dorm room in the school in Western Massachusetts, please forgive me my callousness. Understand that I had some serious suffering to go through in the years to come, so my rejection of you, I now see, was a kindness. I doubt you were the first woman I made weep, and I know you definitely weren’t the last. Still, your tears still haunt me.

Sex, Damned Lies and DVD's

Mags and I took a break from our own personal war of the roses to watch a movie last night. I can highly recommend "Suicide Kings." Cristopher Walken is at his creepy, sociopathic best playing the kidnapped mob boss.

Walken delivers one particularly memorable line: something to the effect of, "You live in a nice, safe gated community. I live out in the real world. In the real world everybody lies." Unfortunately, that line struck home. That's where I'm living today.

Mags and I did manage to talk over dinner. We started with the news of the day, moved on to a spirited discussion of Nibs' essay "In the Fifties....", and finally moved on to what has been hanging over our heads for the past month. Surprisingly, we actually managed to talk about what we were feeling without sitting around hurting at each other. I was trying to identify with her, and saying as much. Now that I've had time to sit and think about it, I've realized that the empathy was very much one-sided.

"I love my wife." I've said it over and over again like I'm repeating a mantra. Why am I having to work so hard to remind myself? Have I really fallen out of love with her, or is this just the hurt talking? Either way, what is my next course of action. Her cutting remarks have made it painfully clear that whatever way I decide, I'll have to start to take steps to protect myself. Financially, she's got me over a barrel, and if I do decide to leave her, I'll have to do some prep work to make sure she doesn't end up kicking me to the curb.

Even if I have fallen out of love with her, is there really anything better out there? Then there's the entire question of my vow. I didn't promise to stay with her conditional to her behavior, I just promised to stay. In my mind there are very few reasons to dissolve a marriage, I don't love you anymore isn't one of them. (It's right up there with, "I want to sleep with someone else.")

Harry Chapin is playing in the soundtrack in my head. If nothing else, I know that Corey's Commin'.

For today, that's my story and I'm sticking with it.

And so it begins...

"Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?" -T.S. Elliott, The Love Song of J. Alfred Proofrock

Well, Mags and I had the first of what will (hopefully) be a long series of discussions. While it didn't go as badly as I feared, (neither of us moved out) it really didn't go as well as I hoped either.

This concept that you can love someone without giving in to all of their demands is a new one for me, and one that I'm not really comfortable with. I tried to state my case calmly and rationally, laying out what I wanted; what I felt I needed to maintain my dignity. All the time there was a little voice in the back of my head screaming, "No! No! Just give in to her! If you stand up for yourself you'll only loose her!"

We actually did both state our positions, and there was effort on both sides to see the other's point of view. Then, I must have said something that hit a little too close to home, because she brought recovery into the discussion. Everything went downhill from there.

Like good old J. Alfred, my self-doubter has kicked into high gear. I know that what I'm doing is standing up for my boundaries and insisting that I be treated as an equal in this relationship. There is a part of me that is saying I should just give into everything she is demanding for the sake of my marriage and be happy with it.

I still love Mags with all of my heart, and the thought of life without her makes my breath come up short, but I am no longer willing to ignore myself to keep her. I'm really hoping that she can come to accept that, to accept me as a partner rather than a subordinate.

Time will tell.

For today, that's my story, and I'm sticking with it.