Poor Me

God, I’m so fucking insecure at times. Before I get myself in trouble, let me just say that my wife and I have a great sex life. Really, really great. We have such a spiritual and emotional connection, at times it’s brought me close to tears. (It’s actually somewhat of a joke between us. Keeda has cried during lovemaking and she’s playfully jealous that I haven’t done the same. Close, but no cigar. It’s a “goal” of hers to make we weep.)

Our lovemaking is also deeply pleasurable. She does this thingy, her “finishing move,” that…Well, maybe we’ll just leave it at that.

I’m supremely attracted to my Queen and just the thought of her makes me quiver. Actual convulsions, at the most inappropriate times. Like during premarital counseling, when the pastor witnessed my shuddering and asked if I was ok. We were forced to confess my body’s reaction to thinking “naughty thoughts.”

A bit more on our intimate moments:

Ok, ok. Real quick:

Having sex multiple times a day is not uncommon; several times a week is routine. (And by routine, I mean the frequency. Not the act itself. Because our lovemaking is decidedly not routine. Just sayin’.)

Just this past week we had sex—amazingly good sex—four times. But here’s where it gets problematic, for me. Because we didn’t prioritize our time together—at least, in my mind —two days in a row, I started to wallow. I started to believe that, in my wife’s eyes, I wasn’t important. That I was a secondary concern, compared to errands, work stuff, self-improvement, writing, business tasks, or whatever else might’ve been on the calendar while “us-time” was omitted.

Now I not blaming my wife, by any stretch. I’m just sayin’ we didn’t make it important enough. And for me, I didn’t speak up, letting Keeda know how I was feeling. The caveat to that is I usually don’t know what I’m feeling, until later; there’s a lag in situational response. My emotions don’t display themselves until later and my mind doesn’t process exactly why I’m feeling the way I am.

When I do finally recognize how I’m feeling, I’m a Monday-morning quarterback with respect to my emotions and my relationships. The result: I rehash the past, over and over. It’s not the most endearing of traits, many times. I end of feeling crappy about myself and I hurt the people around me, repeatedly bringing up arguments from events best left as a onetime rearview image.

In this particular instance, it started with an expectation that we’d find the time. Geez, that word—that mindset—always seems to get me in trouble. Groundhog Day, all over again.

You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you?

I know. I agree with the sentiment. I should learn. But I haven’t. At least, not entirely. It’s like I get the gist of the sentiment, but if I pull back the layers, I lose important lessons in the process.

I’m not dumb. I’m just human. Sometimes my emotions just…win. And when that happens, I feel like I’m at their mercy. No matter how hard or how often I try, pulling myself out of the maelstrom is challenging, at best.

And my emotions have been on fire lately.

Why? Everything, really? Life, in short. In long, keep reading, por favor.

First, my kids. Effectively, we’re estranged. Incommunicado, in all forms: texts, emails, phone. Nothing. Well, essentially nothing. I haven’t seen any of them for over a year, at a minimum. For my eldest, it’s been closer to two. One year or two, it’s fucking hard. A month without communication is difficult when you love your kids. They only thing about the additional time is that you tend to get immune to the pain, on a daily basis. It’s more like a cyclical wave of pain. Most days are good, but when it hits, it hits hard.

Feelings about my parents have also surfaced. It’s been seven years or so without any contact. My mom is a raging bitch. And my dad, having to deal with her for years, became a beaten man. He has his own share of personality deficiencies—major anger issues, inability to form normal personal relationships, etc.—but I’m sure his fucked up marriage heightened all those flaws. Over the last twenty years, my parents alienated me for years at a time, blaming me for some perceived slight, then refusing to talk, holding boss-level grudges. This latest hate-filled loop resulted in three letters sent to me, wishing I was dead, informing me my kids were dead to them. I like to tell myself I’m “over it,” but apparently not.🫤

And then…my previous marriage: a failure, if you’re a pessimist. Which, when I’m in that feeling-sorry-for-myself mode, I guess I kinda am. And I don’t like it. I look in the mirror and see someone I like, generally. But it takes a shit-ton of work on my part. I’ve talked about this part of my life, repeatedly. Aren’t you listening, Dear Reader?

Yeah, I know. But…I’m in an ugly sorta mood, right now. The reason, of course, is me ruminating about a minor slight. In this case, a “you don’t listen” comment from my wife, capping off a fun-filled weekend.

No, not really Bitmoji. But seriously, you can go FUCK YOURSELF.

Alright, I seriously need to pump the brakes on this little bit of rambling. Suffice it to say that the source of the ugly mood is discussed in another post. And that the ugly mood is starting—just now—to dissolve. All that was required was 7 hours of time, a little weed, and ogling pictures of my wife in a bathing suit.😊

Yeah, I know, Bitmoji. In addition to her uber-intelligence, cool and funny personality, and sweet and caring nature, now you know a portion of why I’m so obsessed with my wife. Why she makes me physically convulse. And why I desire to be intimate with her so often. Which bring me back to the point of this blog: my insecurities surrounding the perception that recently, we didn’t allot enough “alone time.”

Swirling around in my head were these thoughts of my kids, parents, and previous marriage. With that mindset, I was doomed to imagine that we’re not spending enough time together, that my wife doesn’t find me attractive, that I’m not attractive, and that essentially, I’m an unworthy piece of shit.

My wife asleep, I was lost. I was suffering inside my brain. A had a lump in my throat that would not fucking go away. I was just…so sad.

I woke her up and she held me, consoled me, and rocked me like a baby. She asked me to sit up and she wrapped her legs around my torso in a deep hug, stroking my head as she offered life advice. Like:

  • You are loved, Markie. And your kids love you. You know that, right? They’re just dealing with their own stuff right now.
  • Just because we’re not intimate doesn’t mean my wife’s feelings toward me have changed.
  • I’m sexy as heck (at least, in her eyes).
  • I have unresolved issues from my past. And perhaps a new therapist is necessary, considering that my existing therapist hasn’t really delved into those concerns. Maybe my therapist is good at superficial stuff, but for anything deeper? Not so much.
  • That it’s ok to cry; that it can be cleansing. Even though I didn’t really sob, a tear or two did roll down my cheek. I felt safe enough to do at least that, which is a major step in the right direction. Because I just don’t cry, really. The last time I remember full-on weeping was my grandmother’s death, sixteen years ago.
  • And this little gem:

We’re all just little kids, hurting, taking it out on the world.


How absolutely, mind blowingly profound is that? I’m not sure if she borrowed that, paraphrased it, or came up with it on her own.

I will, Bitmoji, I will. But whatever the source of the quote, it came from those luscious lips, and it supremely resonated. It was so helpful, so beautiful in the picture it painted. I am just a little child, suffering the abuses I did—mental and physical—at the hands of my parents. And my responses are often a result of that trauma. And when others react in ways I don’t understand, they’re just little children also, dealing with their own pain.

I think I’ve understood all of that, at least later in life. But my wife gave me a master’s level course on the subject, with that one sentence. God, she’s a beautiful creature, a lovely soul, and my best friend.

That one sentence is not going to make things magically better. But it’s another step in the process in recovering from trauma. Some days I’ll stumble, some days I’ll fall, some days I’ll go backwards, and some days I won’t even feel like walking. But the next day? I’ll get up and put one foot in front of the other. I’ll take those steps, with mediation, mindfulness, and perspective. And by remembering that one quote, “We’re all just little kids, hurting, taking it out on the world.”

I am loved, I am enough.


2 responses to “Poor Me”

  1. […] In my last blog, I told you I’d touch on this topic. So here we go! Aren’t you excited? […]

  2. […] I promised I wouldn’t dwell on my depression, like I’ve done in previous posts, like here and here, for example. But this blog is like the stuff floating around in my head: it may start off in one […]

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