Some kind of crazy...

Arrived early this morning at The Bay Club, where the kids and I meet Derek every weekend morning for breakfast. We don’t drive together anymore because it’s a special form of torture hearing him curse in two languages at all the other drivers while simultaneously going over whatever tasks he has assigned for me that day.

As usual, the kids and I arrive first to get “the” table – it always has to be the same table – a control issue that, early in our marriage, I learned would be only one of hundreds. In an unusual rush, today the table was taken. Ursula looked at me with raised eyebrows: what to do? She knew, as did the rest of the staff who’d been serving us for three years, that this would not be received well by His Lordship. I found a four-top, commenting that I knew we would probably have to move when Derek arrived, but having absolutely no idea where he would prefer, I would sit down now and let him choose.

So with Ursula’s help we went through the whole rigmarole of settling down with the two kiddies: getting the booster chair (removing the cushion first), getting the high chair (cleaning it off), retrieving the supplies: bib, baby-sized spoon, phone in case he texts me, then filling the water glasses, ordering the coffee and tea, hot milk for him and cold for me, and finally, getting the toast, croissants, jam and butter from the buffet. Whew. All was finally done and I sat back to enjoy the ocean breeze as it swept over the balcony. Dillon was proudly singing a new song he had learned in school about five little ducks, and Ella and I were busy being impressed by his performance. Ursula and another server smiled with us, and chatted to Ella, who babbled her responses.

When Derek finally arrived, he immediately saw the change in tables and made certain that no one from that moment on would enjoy breakfast. With no “Hello” to anyone, he started in on me: “What the hell is going on here? What’s this? I’m not sitting here, what a bullshit!” Already knowing it’s futile, I attempted to explain myself anyway: “I knew you would want to move, but God knows where so I thought it best to leave it up to you.” But as always, my response apparently only registered my willingness to participate in this ludicrous discussion. “Please, you’re such an idiot. You can’t even get it managed to find a decent table? Who can sit here? My god, are you incompetent, what a moron, nobody could sit here! How stupid can you be! Do you think it’s fine to sit here?” “Yes, actually,” I said, “It’s a four-top and there are four of us and I’m perfectly happy—“ “Of course you are, because you have no feeling whatsoever for decency and manners, you’re just white trash, like you’re whole family, my god…” For whatever reason -- the alignment of the cosmos, the high of the sea air, or just that time of the month -- I chose to respond: “Look, why don’t you just pick a table and we’ll move, okay? We’re all here to serve you, god knows, but you will stop your childish temper tantrum and stop calling me an idiot; your behavior is totally unacceptable!” “Oh shut up,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

As the coffee was poured, the comments continued, in a more mumbled fashion, and he made sure to berate the staff for their lack of having “the” table ready for us. As the eggs were served, he channeled his anger towards other diners, observing that that family over there is just “horrible” and those women on the beach are most certainly all dikes and man haters. As a matter of course, Dillon kept his mouth shut and his eyes on his food, but it never spared him from the constant and venomous nagging: “Damnit, Dillon, keep your mouth shut! Pig!” Then a knock to the head, “Keep your eyes over here, not looking around!” And a pinch to the ear: “Be quiet! It’s eating time!” Then to Ella: “Ella! Look at the mess you made! My god! What a pig! And she sits right next to her and can’t even watch her own daughter, unbelievable…” Then back to Dillon: “Would you hurry up and eat, what are you doing!” and literally seconds later, “My god, slow down! You idiot! Chew your food!” I point out that poor Dillon is only three and doesn’t know how on earth you can hurry up and eat and also slow down! And as always, I’m interjecting for him to stop pinching, and don’t do that! And leave him alone! Etc. It’s just exhausting and quite frankly, beneath me.

And this sets the tone for the whole day with this man, as every interaction with him will be like this, every single day, all day long. If we’re not together, then he makes sure to text me complaints and insults, complete with lots of exclamation points. And of course, our children are witness and victim to all of this. If I were to stay (which I will not) my son would either be a complete mess or he would learn to be just like his father, and neither fate is acceptable.

Of course there’s much more. But this is just a slice of any “ordinary” day in our lives. There’s almost always a honeymoon period after these attacks, where he acts like nothing ever happened. And so do I, because it’s the only way to have any kind of peace at all. And so it goes on his emotional roller coaster, up and down all day.

Tonight’s boring routine of tv flipping was going smoothly until he got up and noticed that I had left one of Ella’s bibs by my purse. That triggered another episode of insults, threats and yelling, and now he’s upstairs in disgust at what a “pig” and a “lazy” and “useless person” I am. He’s upstairs, and I will have to go up there soon, and sleep next to this man. Now he’s just opened the door and told me about some great movie on 50 that I absolutely have to watch. He’s crazy.

Well, peace comes from within, and I will not let this very ill “person” control my spiritual harmony. Let him yell at me. It only makes it easier to leave. Let him berate and control things, it only strengthens my resolve. And let him think I’m an idiot. Because I am stronger than he knows.

Goodnight, dear friend, and thanks for listening; it really means the world to me. Until next time…