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My Novel, Chapter 6
08.01.04 (4:25 pm)   [edit]
8-1-04

Hello and Happy August

First, a mental health update. I threw up twice on Friday, but overall, the episodes are down. The medication really seems to be working. I'm happier, my moods are up, I haven't had an anxiety attack in nearly 2 weeks, and my bulimia is way down. Things are going well.

I've been talking to my therapist & right now, he wants me to think about what I want from therapy, what I want from my life. That's a tough question, but I'm working on it & I'll let you know.

Here's chapter 6 of my first novel, Walking Wounded. Read earlier posts for the earlier chapters. Thanks for all your support.

Thor

Walking Wounded, Chapter 6

SARDONIC SUNDAY

Dear Nancy,

I’m taking a break. I have two small piles of notebooks in front of me. One empty, one scribbled in. Yes, I still write by hand. I haven’t changed. Then again, I guess that’s why you divorced me; I haven’t changed much. Sorry, I won’t be bitter. Yes, I’ve started on the new book. Yeah, good for me, and all that. You see; I don’t need you here to have conversations with you. Arguments, either.

It’s Sunday morning. Remember when we used to stay in our pajamas, reading the paper and listening to the radio until noon? Then, one of us would cook some omelets. Usually you. You were always a better cook.

I’ve learned something about myself recently. I’ve learned that the smell of panic, sweat is different from normal, hot August sweat or workout sweat. I am now familiar with the smell of my own panic sweat. That alone has changed me more than words can say. It is amazing how often lately that I am at a dead stand still, I’ve stopped and can’t remember where I’m at for a moment. Then I say to myself ‘what the hell am I doing?’ Then, as I’m trying to place the last few minutes piecing together my life, then I realize that never mind what I’m doing, what the hell am I doing?

My back hurts badly today. Stiff and sore. I need one of your backrubs. But that would actually be pretty rude. O.K., I guess I have decided not to send you this letter, so I am free to say anything I want. I spent the night in someone else’s bed last night. I never sleep well in a strange bed, that’s why I always needed a massage after vacations. It was good last night, really good. Not the sex really. I got to relive how good it feels to curl up around a woman. I remember her going to sleep on my chest. Every movement of my hand changed her breathing. It felt so good to be that connected to someone again. I felt like a man again.

That’s always when I felt strongest, most alive:when you were asleep and I could watch you dream. If you were having a bad dream, I could touch you. Not hard, just enough so that you could feel that it was my touch. Then you would settle down, draw towards me, comforted by my hand.

You’ll be delighted and miserable that the new book is moving smoothly. Delighted because well, let’s face it, that was really what the whole divorce was about. Wasn’t it? Look, let’s not lie about it. Especially because I’m talking to myself here, so I’d have to recite your lies too. The fact is that you’re a company woman who would have been much happier marrying a junior executive.

On the other hand, barring that, you would have been well suited with a housewife. Househusband. You know what I mean. And I tried to do that. You know I tried, but when it comes down to it, I’m an author.

Did you know that every morning I’d say good-bye and watch you drive off from the window? Then I got to be the one leaving for a while, meetings with agents, editors, publishers, lawyers, promoters, cover design consultants… my God, the meetings! I remember feeling sorry that I had written anything to begin with. When I would leave, you were never watching for me. You never looked out for me. It was like when the door was closed, the door was closed. Y’know?

Then when the first book did so well, that was O.K. for a while because I hit the bestseller list. Then you were O.K. because you were married to a best-selling author. Then, when it dropped off the list, who was I then? You were married to an obscure bookworm who wrote a book-of-the-month club alternate last June. The second book did pretty well too, but not a bestseller. Not even the one month.

I was still watching you leave every morning, feeling the distance between us grow as you backed out the driveway. Leaving in suits that I had brushed lint off of, in blouses I had ironed. How many people do you know that can say they have a best-selling author do their laundry? The laundry.

Yes, the laundry. You really did want a househusband, didn’t you? Even after I got published. And that’s pretty damned good baby, I’ll tell you that. Even after, you still would rather come home to a stack of folded towels than a stack of my filled-in notebooks with the whole chapters in one day.

Do you remember that day, by the way? Do you? I wrote three chapters… three whole chapters. They barely needed polishing, just grammar and such. Three chapters in one day. It was a day of pure, intense devotion. You came home and asked what was for dinner. I told you that I hadn’t cooked. Then you went down a list of things that I was supposed to have done. No, I hadn’t fixed dinner. Or mopped the kitchen. Or vacuumed. Or scrubbed the tub for your Friday night bath. Or done any of the damned laundry. I was giddy with the high from writing all day and took you into the living room and showed you my stack of work. You said, ‘is that all you’ve done all day?’

I grabbed by car keys and took off as fast as my car could go. I stopped by the liquor store, and then went to the park. To our park, where we’d go to commune with nature when we first moved here. I drove there, parked, got drunk and cried. I went there to cry because I couldn’t cry in front of you. You don’t understand crying. You would’ve started crying too, but that you would have spoiled it ‘cause your tears are never tears. Your tears are shields and spears. Alternately, and sometimes simultaneously.

You would’ve placated me, and then turned it into your needs, wants, etc. Funny now that I think about it. When I was upset and disappointed in you, by the end of the conversation, you had me twisted around to the solution that my dissatisfaction with you was really me not living up to your standards, not giving enough, being enough for you. Every issue that made me angry with you, you turned around into a deficiency in me. Mount up enough of those deficiencies, and you have a good excuse for divorce.

But do you what the really funny thing is? You’ll want to sit down for this one, ‘cause this is fall-down hysterical, honey. The funny thing is, all I ever really wanted, all I ever really wanted from you was to be able to touch you and have you respond. I just wanted to be comforted by the fact that you were comforted by me. But the only time I ever felt that was when you were asleep.
Go back to sleep. I miss you when you sleep. I miss you in my sleep.

Me, I’m gonna read the Sunday paper. Alone. Probably grin a couple of times thinking about how I ‘got lucky’ last night. But y’know what? I don’t think I’ll ever feel lucky again. I love you.

Your ex-laundry man,

Jimmy
 
My Novel, Chapter 6
08.01.04 (4:25 pm)   [edit]
8-1-04

Hello and Happy August

First, a mental health update. I threw up twice on Friday, but overall, the episodes are down. The medication really seems to be working. I'm happier, my moods are up, I haven't had an anxiety attack in nearly 2 weeks, and my bulimia is way down. Things are going well.

I've been talking to my therapist & right now, he wants me to think about what I want from therapy, what I want from my life. That's a tough question, but I'm working on it & I'll let you know.

Here's chapter 6 of my first novel, Walking Wounded. Read earlier posts for the earlier chapters. Thanks for all your support.

Thor

Walking Wounded, Chapter 6

SARDONIC SUNDAY

Dear Nancy,

I’m taking a break. I have two small piles of notebooks in front of me. One empty, one scribbled in. Yes, I still write by hand. I haven’t changed. Then again, I guess that’s why you divorced me; I haven’t changed much. Sorry, I won’t be bitter. Yes, I’ve started on the new book. Yeah, good for me, and all that. You see; I don’t need you here to have conversations with you. Arguments, either.

It’s Sunday morning. Remember when we used to stay in our pajamas, reading the paper and listening to the radio until noon? Then, one of us would cook some omelets. Usually you. You were always a better cook.

I’ve learned something about myself recently. I’ve learned that the smell of panic, sweat is different from normal, hot August sweat or workout sweat. I am now familiar with the smell of my own panic sweat. That alone has changed me more than words can say. It is amazing how often lately that I am at a dead stand still, I’ve stopped and can’t remember where I’m at for a moment. Then I say to myself ‘what the hell am I doing?’ Then, as I’m trying to place the last few minutes piecing together my life, then I realize that never mind what I’m doing, what the hell am I doing?

My back hurts badly today. Stiff and sore. I need one of your backrubs. But that would actually be pretty rude. O.K., I guess I have decided not to send you this letter, so I am free to say anything I want. I spent the night in someone else’s bed last night. I never sleep well in a strange bed, that’s why I always needed a massage after vacations. It was good last night, really good. Not the sex really. I got to relive how good it feels to curl up around a woman. I remember her going to sleep on my chest. Every movement of my hand changed her breathing. It felt so good to be that connected to someone again. I felt like a man again.

That’s always when I felt strongest, most alive:when you were asleep and I could watch you dream. If you were having a bad dream, I could touch you. Not hard, just enough so that you could feel that it was my touch. Then you would settle down, draw towards me, comforted by my hand.

You’ll be delighted and miserable that the new book is moving smoothly. Delighted because well, let’s face it, that was really what the whole divorce was about. Wasn’t it? Look, let’s not lie about it. Especially because I’m talking to myself here, so I’d have to recite your lies too. The fact is that you’re a company woman who would have been much happier marrying a junior executive.

On the other hand, barring that, you would have been well suited with a housewife. Househusband. You know what I mean. And I tried to do that. You know I tried, but when it comes down to it, I’m an author.

Did you know that every morning I’d say good-bye and watch you drive off from the window? Then I got to be the one leaving for a while, meetings with agents, editors, publishers, lawyers, promoters, cover design consultants… my God, the meetings! I remember feeling sorry that I had written anything to begin with. When I would leave, you were never watching for me. You never looked out for me. It was like when the door was closed, the door was closed. Y’know?

Then when the first book did so well, that was O.K. for a while because I hit the bestseller list. Then you were O.K. because you were married to a best-selling author. Then, when it dropped off the list, who was I then? You were married to an obscure bookworm who wrote a book-of-the-month club alternate last June. The second book did pretty well too, but not a bestseller. Not even the one month.

I was still watching you leave every morning, feeling the distance between us grow as you backed out the driveway. Leaving in suits that I had brushed lint off of, in blouses I had ironed. How many people do you know that can say they have a best-selling author do their laundry? The laundry.

Yes, the laundry. You really did want a househusband, didn’t you? Even after I got published. And that’s pretty damned good baby, I’ll tell you that. Even after, you still would rather come home to a stack of folded towels than a stack of my filled-in notebooks with the whole chapters in one day.

Do you remember that day, by the way? Do you? I wrote three chapters… three whole chapters. They barely needed polishing, just grammar and such. Three chapters in one day. It was a day of pure, intense devotion. You came home and asked what was for dinner. I told you that I hadn’t cooked. Then you went down a list of things that I was supposed to have done. No, I hadn’t fixed dinner. Or mopped the kitchen. Or vacuumed. Or scrubbed the tub for your Friday night bath. Or done any of the damned laundry. I was giddy with the high from writing all day and took you into the living room and showed you my stack of work. You said, ‘is that all you’ve done all day?’

I grabbed by car keys and took off as fast as my car could go. I stopped by the liquor store, and then went to the park. To our park, where we’d go to commune with nature when we first moved here. I drove there, parked, got drunk and cried. I went there to cry because I couldn’t cry in front of you. You don’t understand crying. You would’ve started crying too, but that you would have spoiled it ‘cause your tears are never tears. Your tears are shields and spears. Alternately, and sometimes simultaneously.

You would’ve placated me, and then turned it into your needs, wants, etc. Funny now that I think about it. When I was upset and disappointed in you, by the end of the conversation, you had me twisted around to the solution that my dissatisfaction with you was really me not living up to your standards, not giving enough, being enough for you. Every issue that made me angry with you, you turned around into a deficiency in me. Mount up enough of those deficiencies, and you have a good excuse for divorce.

But do you what the really funny thing is? You’ll want to sit down for this one, ‘cause this is fall-down hysterical, honey. The funny thing is, all I ever really wanted, all I ever really wanted from you was to be able to touch you and have you respond. I just wanted to be comforted by the fact that you were comforted by me. But the only time I ever felt that was when you were asleep.
Go back to sleep. I miss you when you sleep. I miss you in my sleep.

Me, I’m gonna read the Sunday paper. Alone. Probably grin a couple of times thinking about how I ‘got lucky’ last night. But y’know what? I don’t think I’ll ever feel lucky again. I love you.

Your ex-laundry man,

Jimmy