Sunday, November 29, 2009

Coming Home

It's never any fun coming home from vacation. The time away flies by and going back to responsibilities, complications, and work is never without regrets.

On the plane, taxiing to the runway, Cat noticed the look in my eyes and asked what was wrong. I gave her the canned response, that I hated my job and really didn't want to go back. I didn't tell her that the past two weeks had been the best I'd had in a really, really long time, and that flying back put a complete and sudden end to that happy buzz that'd been running through my head.

I hate my job. My work takes me away from my family and is highly demeaning but it pays the bills and covers our responsibilities. Given half an opportunity I'd move back home, be closer to parents and siblings that I've hardly seen in the last decade. I've missed so many birthdays, graduations, the births of nephews and nieces, reunions. What is family without those shared experiences? It's hardly more than a Facebook group for people with similar last names.

And Cat was perfect. Utterly perfect. She played the good wife so well that it was easy to pretend for two weeks that it was real, that we were really happy together. We took our daughter out on so many adventures, we held hands, we were a perfect little family.

At some point, for me at least, it stopped being an act. I've always loved Cat, I've learned and grown so much with her in my life. She's beautiful, she's fun, and she's smarter than anyone I've ever known. She's easy to fall in love with. The problem is that she doesn't have the same limits as most people. She's never quite satisfied with anything, she's always looking for another adventure, another new person, another experience. When you're her focus, you feel like your being graced with the greatest presence in the world. However, in love as in life, her focus doesn't remain in one place long.

She got off the plane and took a separate car so she could run to her favorite store and pick up a new dress. We made it back early enough that she could spend one last night on the town with her boy toy, who conveniently rented a hotel room, before he moves this week. She got all dressed up, kissed me good night, and left for town.

It's easy to fall in love with Cat, it's a lot harder to maintain that love through the trials she puts it through. That's why we're still married, because she's afraid that no one else will understand and put up with the things that I do. She's had boyfriends that would have been perfect to marry (more perfect than me) but always breaks it off because they wouldn't survive her tumultuous lifestyle. She'll never be entirely a one-man woman. That would eliminate too many possible adventures, experiences.

One of the many things that I've learned through Cat is that you can't fight life, you can't struggle against things that cannot be changed. You accept what life gives you, do with it what you can, and try to still move forward toward your goals. Cat is like a force of nature, to be studied, to be misunderstood and weathered, never controlled, simply accepted.

I got off the plane and immediately my skin started to itch. I want another tattoo, badly. I want the pain and the mark, a self-destructive impulse. Any mark, any pain, just something...

Already the warm feeling of vacation is gone and thoughts of work, relationships, responsibilities are crowding my brain, and yet I feel empty. In a more normal life maybe the memories from the past two weeks would be sustaining, here they feel almost like lies. Almost.


P.S. My goal is to be as honest as possible in my writings here. If I can't be honest anonymously than when can I ever be? I'm not a depressed person, I'm not perfect, I'm not a genius; I'm simply a person living a life and trying to explore the feelings and experiences that I have. I realize that sometimes it comes across as something that it isn't. This post for example, a casual reader would read into this that I am depressed and/or self destructive. Trust me, I'm neither (I'm way too egotistical). I write to explore/explain to myself what's going on in my life. If anything, writing about these things is a kind of confession, a way of relieving myself of these pressures. If you've read any of my posts you realize that I can't talk about most of these things to people that I know, there's way too much shadiness for that, so writing/discussing these things here is practically therapeutic.

1 comment:

  1. I understand completely... If I couldn't write this shit out I would probably implode.

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