Be My Valentine for Some Reason

Day 45. 106 pages, 52,134 words.

Dear Mrs. Hatboy,

These past few weeks – heck, these past few months – have been rough. And I’m not saying that like it’s all over. We’ve had round after round of firing at work, and there’s nothing quite like the combination of losing great friends and colleagues (well, colleagues at least, since the friendship part isn’t going anywhere) and worrying every day whether it’s going to be the day the arbitrary hammer falls.

It’s been tense, and I’ve made the brilliant decision of handling it by working furiously at two separate jobs – the one I’m paid for monthly, and the one I’m sort-of-kind-of paid for on an ad hoc basis. The technical writing, and the writing writing. Both of which together require me to get up in the middle of the night and start work, only to get home at about dinner time completely shattered and grumpy.

And I’ve taken it out on you, Mrs. Hatboy, far too many times. Worse, I’ve taken it out on Wump and Toop, and none of you deserve it. It’s enough to drive me to absolute despair. I try, and I frequently fail, to control my shit. The problem is, to pull off a successful husband-and-father routine, I have to try-and-succeed every single time. Who can handle that sort of pressure? So I fail, and that’s when I whine and drive you nuts, or shout at Wump and make her sad, and only somewhere in the very back corner recesses of my mind does that have any improving effect on me. Mostly, it just makes me pissed off at myself, and even grumpier than I was before.

But it does fix me. And you stick with me for some unfathomable reason, and that fixes me even more. And Wump cheers back up again, and that’s just the best, and that’s when I give her everything she wants and make the next week of maternity leave just that much more difficult for you, the Bad Cop.

You stick with me. I’m not even going to question it at this point, because I’m mortally afraid of you realising that it’s crazy.

As happy as we are, as secure as we are, as well as we communicate and as madly, as fiercely as I love you, I remain perpetually and agonisingly fearful. I’m scared of finally driving you away with my dumb habits and constant complaining about what is, ultimately, a pretty darn good life. I’m worried that one day I’ll realise I’ve screwed it up completely, and it will be too late to do anything about it.

And it’s pure selfishness. Just look at this love letter I’m trying to write for you. Almost all of it is about me.

Well, you’ve got to be used to that by now. The point is, I’m mad about you and I always will be, and every day I wake up next to you (or on the couch, or folded in half on Wump’s bed because she’s kicked me out of ours), the first thing that ever crosses my mind is that I’m the luckiest man on Earth.

I know. Me me me.

Now let’s get that stupid wardrobe finished in Toop’s room.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Be My Valentine for Some Reason

  1. thelinza says:

    I say this as a wife on the other side of a relationship with an anxious, frustrated, foreign husband with job-related angst.

    She waded through neck-high paperwork and soul-murdering bureaucracy for you. She’s not going anywhere. The more you worry about it, the grumpier you’re going to be, and the more anxiety she’s going to get from you, and the grumpier she will be, and soon everyone is going to be upset. Stop that. *whacks you with a rolled-up newspaper* Your family doesn’t care about your stupid job as much as they care about you. If you lose it, you will find another one.

    If all else fails, consider SSRIs.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s