My road-break ups

My methodology for changing and the strange facts that would make the change possible were immature. 

I saw life as a series of turnstyles where one could easily get off, but not get back on again.  The train of life led nowhere in particular, it was the exits you make that matter.

People are so afraid of the turnstyles that anyone who is willing to act has tremendous power over everyone else.  In my business endeavors I was daring to the point of wrecklessness.  Personally, I was timid.  I who had lived life so wrecklessly as a youth was moving through life as if I was walking on broken ankles.

“Save me,” I said to no one.

“From what,” my wife answerd.

I looked over at her.  My first instinct was to say, ‘from you.’  But there was no problem there.  Early on, my leaving had resulted in threats of physical violence, even suicide.  But over time, the fighting had worn her down also.  Now it seemed just as many times I had said that I have to leave you, and each time she had said, ‘then go.  Just don’t drag it out.’

Save me from myself then, I though as I watched her turn back to her book.  I didn’t say it out loud, but I knew what I wanted to say.  ‘Turn your back on me.  Make me leave.  And when I do leave, don’t come after me.  I am supposed to be on the streets and if I turn out to be a beggar, than I hope that I am a wise man.

I tried to look into this future.  I would move.  The children at first, now almost grown, would be upset, but they had spent their entire lives watching us argue.  I’m sure the oldest must have wondered why two people so poorly matched would continue to have children.  It was a question that I wanted to answer for her but I could not.

I could not move in with the girl.  Even if she believed she was telling the truth, she was not ready for me. 

Every time we talked about it she always said, “You need to start with your own place.  You need an apartment in town where you’re close to your work.”  It was good advice.  Not necessarily comforting after all the years we’d known each other, but still good advice.

Nor was I ready to move into that blazing sun that was her life.   I did want to share it, but I wanted to see what it would be like.  I knew that we shared some special bond, but I didn’t know how that bond would translate into the repetitive drudgery that represented much of life.  I also felt that the bottle rocket that was my early life before I was married was still there and that she was the punk that would ignite it.  When that happened, I wasn’t sure what the result would be, only that it would be explosive and potentially dangerous.

There had been a time when my wife and I had made a failed attempt at a sexual reconciliation.  It was an unfortunate and dismal affair.  She had no passion for me and could not, as a result of this and the after effects of having children, conjure up the physical requirements for it to be successful.  For my part, I was in love with someone else.   The idea of being with anyone else was unappealing.  I have, as I said, turned down several sexual options; foolishly faithful to someone who had no such compulsions, whose admitted goal was to replace me with someone else. 

Despite all the things that told me to move on, I was waiting for something to help me chose between the woman who had put the flame of excitement out and the one I hoped, without confidence, could reignite it.