Hmm. Interesting. Where is my page? Will it show up if I post something?

Just got back from ComFest. It was… interesting. Fun, yeah, and the people we went with were nice. I’ll write more later about it.

Yesterday:

Another fight. I don’t particularly feel like writing down the particulars. Let’s suffice to say that someone had better quit insulting me, or I’ll be gone before he can blink. I am sick and tired of the juvenile antics around here. I left the “stupid moron” nah nah nah nah name calling behind me in third grade. GROW UP, dammit!

“Stupid moron. I don’t have to tell you everything.”

“I asked one simple question. You said, “You need to fill this out.” I said, “What?” I was in the other room; I had no idea what you were talking about. Why couldn’t you have answered me?”

“If you’re too stupid to look on your desk, I shouldn’t have any reason at all to tell you anything.”

“It was a simple question! All you had to do was say, “It’s on your desk!!!!”

“You could have come in here and found that out just fine.”

“You could have answered me just as easily!!!”

And on, and on, and on, and on…

It was actually rather more a one-sided fight, with yours truly not paying much attention until he starting feeding me obvious falsehoods.

“You’ve been on the computer all day, haven’t you?”

“Nope. I’ve been cleaning the bedroom and my closet out all day.”

“I could have had it done in two hours.”

“I’m not you.”

“You have no idea how to organize your time.”

“Cleaning out my closet takes time. I had to decide what to keep and what I didn’t want anymore; what I needed to try on…”

“You’re too fat to wear any of it anyway; why don’t you just get rid of it all?”

“You had no reason to say that.”

“Fat and stupid.”

“Chris, grow up. I’m not in fourth grade anymore. You’re acting like a child.”

And on, and on, and on, and on…

Oh, I was told I might as well leave again, and in the same breath told that a schedule that had us working together at household chores will save our so-called marriage.

Guess who is supposed to write out the schedule?

I said, “Why bother with the schedule if you’ve already made up your mind?”

I was also told, “Just wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“You’ll see.”

“Okay…”

“You’ll see. In two months.”

“What’s in two months?”

“You’ll see.”

Buddy, I’m going to be gone in less than two months. I’ve had it with you far beyond the scope of normal patience.

I brought up counseling (again.) For him. He ignored me. I said, “Chris, you need to go to counseling to find out why you have to try to beat others down. Why you have to insult me all the time.”

“Because you’re stupid.”

*sigh*

———————————

There is no earthly reason why he acts this way. Seriously. Yes, the house is cluttered, but it’s not a pigsty like he likes to say. It needs a good cleaning. Of course he did nothing in the two weeks I was gone, save for the dishes. I was surprised, even for that. (Funny this is; he did his own laundry and ruined three workshirts and one pair of jeans!! The first time I accidentally washed something red with his clothes and ruined a good shirt and two pairs of socks, I hid them in the garbage so he wouldn’t yell…) He tells me he wants to do more stuff with me, then tells me he wants to get a divorce and he has no interest in me whatsoever. He says, “You need a punch in the jaw. You need two black eyes.” I say, “What is it with you and threatening violence? How do you expect me to react to that? Do you expect me to be frightened? Do you expect me to fall down on my knees and do whatever you say? That’s not going to happen, Chris. We’re not in grade school anymore. You do not threaten your wife with violence to get her to obey you. Do you expect me to respect you when you say stuff like that?” I’ve told him more than once that it isn’t acceptable to threaten someone you’re supposed to love. I don’t care what his father did, or his mother did, or his stepmother did. That is not acceptable in my life.

Of course I have yet to get through to him, but I won’t stop trying, at least until I leave. Whatever I have to say is slated as stupid even before it comes out of my mouth. I told him he needs to talk to an impartial outsider, but he always shrugs me off.

You can’t see the forest for the trees… Ack.

Anyway, the biggest reason I’m documenting all of this here is because I read journals are admissable in court, just in case I’d ever need to submit it as proof of emotional abuse. Because all of this is verbatim. I have a good ear for dialogues, especially negative ones.

————————-

I have pretty much given up on organization. At least the kind of organization Chris insists on. I’m never going to be ultra-organized (Martha Stewart.) I am packing in a semi-organized manner, though, and I will have all my crafts, etc., organized as well as I can in the new space. I’m not going to be a slob, like Chris insists I am. I am going to strive for organized chaos again. I liked it when I had that.

So far, things are going well on the packing side. Yesterday I managed to go through all but my two drawers of pajamas (Why, oh why do I need two drawers of pajamas?) so I will go through those drawers this morning. I’m doing laundry, too, and I just did my 80 cent skirt from Florida, so I have to stick it in the dryer and hope it doesn’t wrinkle too much. I did a load of red clothes together, btw. *g* So I have to get the laundry going as soon as I’m done with this, and start putting my sweaters in sweater bags.

Writing? Well… I haven’t written, but I’ve thought about Fire and Water a bit. I was serious, though; it’s going to be a low priority until I move.

He’s not home yet…

I’m still cleaning out my closet. I have the sweaters and sweatshirts left, a pile of stuff to try on, and a Very Large pile of stuff to sell. Yay. Geez, I’m going to have a lot of auctions.

I’m listening to Road Rage by Great Big Sea as I work, from my computer in the office. I think I’m going to go get something to eat for lunch, and then continue with the closet cleaning.

Let me tell you–Georgia Peaches are just… peachy. Wonderful. Yummy. I had to eat it over the sink.

Well, today I’m concentrating on upstairs, at least this afternoon. I might end up downstairs later on, but right now I’m in the bedroom. I’m going to clean out my closet and clean the bedroom. There will be more clothes to sell. Yippee. I am going to try to end up with only three weeks’ worth of clothes. I was going for two weeks’ worth, but I don’t think I can pare it down to 14 sweaters and 14 shirts. This is hard!! I have many more sweaters and shirts than I do bottoms, btw. I don’t think I even have two weeks’ worth of bottoms, even if I combine the two.

Anyway, I am being ruthless. I’ve already cleaned out my jewelry box, and next is the bookcase next to my bed. Then I get to weed the clothes. Again. *sigh*

I’d be complaining a lot more, but it has to be done.

Chris is working this morning, or at least until noon. He wanted to go up to Alum Creek to rent a boat and go out on the lake, but it’s going to be too expensive, in my opinion. We shall see.

Anyway, I haven’t gotten the storage container yet, because I haven’t had a chance to go there. I need to call them and see if they’re open on weekends. One of my goals this weekend is to have to entire basement packed and auctions posted. I’m going to be up late tonight…

Oh, and I’m not writing until I reach my goals for the day/weekend, either. Fire and Water can wait until after I achieve peace of mind. As far as I’m concerned, everything can wait until then. The only things I have to do in the next month is get everything packed and stored away, find an apartment, and go from there.

More later, I’m sure.

It didn’t work. Hmm. Well anyway… Sarah really blew me away the other day. Or, rather, J. Michael Straczynski did, in his book on Screenwriting, which I haven’t read but might have to read after she quoted this bit:

“So this book is geared toward a certain kind of writer, the type best described by Mignon McLaughlin when she said, “Anyone can write. The trouble with writers is that they can’t do anything else.”

Which is not to say that writers are incapable of doing anything else, like changing tires or extracting troublesome molars. It’s just that writing is the only thing they can do for an extended period of time without chewing on the furniture or checking in for therapy. It makes them happy. It fills a need, whether that need is a longing for self-expression or a quest for immortality through the written word.

Dilettantes, curiosity seekers and literary sightseers are encouraged to apply elsewhere. I am of the personal belief that there is something unique about writers that prepares them from birth and propels them throughout their lives toward this most remarkable of professions. Most of these writers are unstoppable. Throw as many obstacles in their way as you like, and still they persevere toward their goal, aften with nothing more than a vague idea of what that goal might be. Nothing, not even the most severe rejection, can impede the progress of such a writer.”

Ack! This little “fault” of mine has been the basis for so many fights and arguments in the past three years…

“If you don’t get published by such-and-such a date, then you’re not going to try anymore.”

“It doesn’t work that way. If I get rejected, I try again. Forever.”

“You can’t chase a pipe dream forever.”

“It’s not a pipe dream. I’ll succeed. Eventually, I will succeed. It might not be by the time I’m 30, but that’s okay; that’s just a general goal. But I will keep trying, and I will succeed. I doubt I’ll be a millionaire or famous. That’s not what I want…”

“That’s stupid. I’m not going to let you do this for the rest of your life!”

“I’m not going to give up, Chris. If I give up… that’s worse than not trying at all. If I give up, I’ll never know if I could have succeeded. I have to write. It’s like breathing. If I had a choice, I’d do nothing but write.”

(As an aside, this is probably why I’m not a good gambler. Even though I made my $20 back, I kept wanting to put one more coin in, one more time, because if the guy behind me sat down at my slot machine and won three million dollars, I would have never forgiven myself.)

“I wanted to play hockey when I was twelve, but I don’t play it anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t good enough to play professional hockey.”

“But you could have played it for fun!”

“You could write for fun.”

“I do write for fun. If I didn’t enjoy it, I damn well wouldn’t do it. But writing is also my choice of career. This is what I want to do with my life. I’ve had some small successes…”

“Then where’s the money?!?”

“It will come.”

“Where’s the money? You spend so much time in front of that damned computer… where’s the money?!?”

“Chris, I’ll have money. I get royalties. It isn’t much yet, but it will grow. I have faith.”

Snort. “Faith.”

“Yeah. Faith.”

I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. I can’t not write. Take away the words, and I’d be lost, adrift, a shadow person trying to pretend she was whole. I can’t stop. I can’t just quit. Even if the story is going badly and I want to throw my computer out the window; even if my characters are on strike and revolting until I think I’m going to go mad.

I don’t think someone who doesn’t have a passion like that can understand. Any job I get, no matter how well it pays, no matter how prestigious it is, will never hold a candle to writing.

Another exchange, last year when I was still looking for a new job:

“You’ll be there three months and start complaining.”

“Yeah, probably. It’s not what I want to do. But that’s okay; it’s closer to home and it’s a better job. I won’t have to deal with the stinky politics anymore.”

“I don’t want to hear you complain about it.”

Shrug. “I probably will.”

“I can’t believe they hired you with an attitude like that. You’re just lazy.”

“No. I’ll do a good job. I’ll do my job, but my job is not my life. My job is not my passion. Writing is my passion. In a lesser extent, dollmaking and photography are my passions. Not my day job.”

“Uh-huh. Why don’t you go to college so you can get a degree and do something you like to do?”

“I don’t want to go to college. I see no point in it. And anyway, if I went to college, I wouldn’t take writing classes; I’d take cool classes, like folklore and archaeology and stuff like that. Forensic Anthropology.”

“Well, why don’t you do it, then?”

“Because it isn’t what I want to do with my life! Writing is what I want to do with my life.”

“That’s stupid.”

Which was a moot point after my wonderful raise, and the fact that I kind of like this particular day job. It’s not a career, and I’m not planning to do it forever, if things go well, but it’s adequate. I don’t hate it. And that says a lot in its favor, considering how much I disliked my other two jobs. (The desktop publishing job was actually fun. I loved doing the work, but there wasn’t enough work to go around, and we twiddled our thumbs quite a bit. Not to mention the fact that we also had office politics up the wazoo, and it was too far away to drive through the damned traffic.) The library job… well… it was okay. Not challenging at all, of course. Just okay. I liked the fact we didn’t have to pay overdue fines and could renew books indefinitely.

But anyway. I’m supposed to be packing. So I will leave you on that thought, and get to work.

I’m testing something here. Will it work? Let’s see…

Well, I’ve been packing up the basement. The idea is to pack everything I want to keep and store it away, then auction off everything else.

The pile to auction is getting awfully large. I wish I could have a yard sale instead. *g* Maybe I should check with Mom and Dad as to when the July yard sales are in Bethel… that might get rid of some of the stuff, especially the clothes. (HEY! Mom and Dad!! What do you think?!?!?!!) I think that’s a good idea, myself!

Okay. So the one apartment didn’t pan out, and I’m now going to look into commuting. Hopefully sometime this weekend I’ll get to drive to Canal Winchester and check out the town. I think I might like to live there.

The idea is to find an apartment that’s the upstairs of a house or the downstairs or something. I don’t really want to be in a “normal” apartment complex. Unless it’s old and cool like this one, of course.

Anyway, I’m packing up the basement first. I figure that will be the hardest to do, considering I’m not sure how much space I’m going to end up having for stuff, but I’m keeping the next three years in mind and trying to work from there.

If I don’t think I’ll use it in the next three years, then off to the auction pile it will go. I’m done with useless clutter. Now, useful clutter I can keep.

I think the office will be the last thing to be packed. At least the obvious things; I’m going to pack up the file cabinet and the excess stuff. Well, I guess my summer clothes are going to be last. I’m packing up my winter clothes and storing them. I don’t see why I can’t do that, after all. It’s not like I’m going to be wearing them until after I move.

Today I realized something about myself. I might be choking on fear as I contemplate this–the fear of the unknown; if I can really make it on my own; if I can really stay on budget and keep my expenses down so I can get rid of the hated credit cards, the fear of being robbed, or not knowing what to do, or failing–but I tend to mask my fear with fake bravery. Fake courage, I guess.

Well, the future is one big question mark. I can say 2005 until I’m blue in the face, but if I sit back on my butt and wait for something to happen, I won’t be writing full-time in 2005. I can’t predict the future; no one can, but I can sit here and say that even though the future is full of fears, uncertainties, and dreads (or FUDS, as my boss likes to call them), if I let those FUDS rule my life and actions, I will get nowhere.

Vicki’s right. You have to believe. You have to be an optimist; otherwise you’re going to let those FUDS swamp you and you’re not going to get anywhere.

It takes a bit sometimes to reaffirm my beliefs. To convince myself that staying here is not a good thing, even when he leaves me alone. To give myself permission to fear, but to not allow that fear to overwhelm me until I can do nothing but sit here and ignore the obvious warning signs.

I’m afraid. Right now, I have no idea what will happen when I walk out this door for the last time. I could very well get hit by a car and killed, run over by a train, lose everything in a fire… But that could happen to anyone. *g*

The trick is to acknowledge the fears, give voice to them (God and I talk about my fears all the time; one good thing about the morning commute) and then lay (or wrestle) them to rest.

I can’t predict the future. But I can believe in the future I want to have.

Thanks for reminding me, Vicki.

Anyway. So I go to see this studio apartment. It’s a great house, all brick, huge windows, Very Victorian, but alas, the apartment was too small. Literally. One medium-sized room, a tiny kitchen with space for a small table, a itsy bitsy bathroom… *sigh* If the only thing I did was write, it would be great. I could see the medium-sized room as a combo bedroom/office. Exposed brick walls, too. *sniff*

Oh well.

But… I’ve been thinking, and I think I’m going to go to the country. In all honesty, I don’t like the traffic and city living. I think I can live with commuting, at least until 2005. That’s not forever, after all. And I did commute to Dublin from Bexley for a year.

So I’m looking at Canal Winchester or Lancaster. The trick is to find a nice place that is safe and large enough for my stuff, and meets my criteria.

Heck, it took me a year to find this job; surely it won’t take me that long to find an apartment.

I would like to move out by the end of our lease. I really would.

Wish me luck!

What I really need to do is just pack *everything*, borrow the money from Mom and Dad, and post auctions afterwards.

He’s acting really weird. He came back last night; I didn’t hear him come in, and this morning, I get nothing. “How was fishing?” “Okay.” “When did you get in?” Pause. “Late.” Gee, watch me try to start a conversation. “Are you feeling okay?” I ask. He walks away and doesn’t answer. Later, I left a message on his voicemail to call me if something was going wrong or if there was something I needed to know… no call.

*sigh*

The Victorian House guy called me back! It’s a studio apartment at the back of the house with off-street parking, quiet neighbors (he used to own the house next door), a patio, a kitchenette… I’m going to go see it this afternoon at 1:30pm. It’s less than four miles away from work.

In fact, if I mapblast it… it’s 3.26 miles away. But I’m not going to go that way; I can get to the street easier, I think, if I go the other way. Hmm. So we shall see.

**crossing fingers**