Egypt & The Impossible Task

This must have been about 10 years ago, now. I had a bucket list which included going to Egypt and seeing the pyramids and Valley of the Kings, you know, the usual. Partner was aware of this. One day, he says, “I’ll take you to Egypt. But only if you learn hieroglyphics, because what’s the point of going somewhere if you can’t read the language?”

This was actually kind of a silly thing to say, ’cause people do it all the time. On the other hand, I’d always been interested in hieroglyphics, and hey, trip to Egypt. So I agreed, I’d learn hieroglyphics and he’d take me to Egypt.

I got a good book and started teaching myself hieroglyphics. I actually found it kind of easy. After a couple of weeks of daily study, I was starting to be able to ‘free read’. Without needing to flip constantly to the cheat sheet. I showed him how well I was doing.

What! He says. You can’t do that! You can’t read hieroglyphics! I can’t read them and if I can’t read them, you can’t.

I’m dyslexic, I said. They’re just pictographs. It’s easier to read than English, once I know what it stands for.

No. He thinks about it for a micro-second, then continued, I’ll take you to Egypt if you stop smoking.

In that moment I knew he’d given me an ‘impossible task’. Not his fault we didn’t go, right, as I was just too stupid to learn hieroglyphics. I put my pencil away, put the book on my bookshelf, got online and did something else. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t open the book again. As far as I was concerned, the subject and goal were over, dead. He knew I wouldn’t give up smoking for this. Especially since it was pretty obvious if I did give up smoking, he’d just come up with something else.

I think I was upset a couple of days. I remember I was mad about it for a long time. Just the fact he used a dream of mine to play games with me. And it was a building block of our marriage problems. It was a stone against him that never moved. I never spoke of it, but it was always there, influencing how I perceived his motivations.

A couple of years (!) later, he comes up to me and says: You can stop yelling at me about Egypt.

I kind of snort and say, I never said a word.

I know, he says, but in my head, you’ve yelled at me every day. So I’ll take you to Egypt. Except you’ll need to get better, health-wise.

And there it was, the third impossible task. COPD doesn’t ever get better. You can stop getting worse, I’m told, but you never get better. So I patted him on the knee and agreed. When I get better. Knowing it would never happen.

I’m thinking of this because I’ve been thinking of picking up hieroglyphics again. It was fun, I did enjoy it, and I shouldn’t let his being an asshat stop me from doing something I like. And I just this second realized, it will probably remind him of his dick move every time he sees me with the book. And that will just be a side order of sweet.

Hey, I never said I was a saint. Or even very nice, although I used to be. I got over that.

Wash, Rinse, Repeat

Last three-ish months have been quite nice. It’s common for him to go a while as Mr. Nice Guy. Makes a girl relax, you know, so when the sucker punch is thrown, she doesn’t see it coming, right? Only, I’ve been expecting it.

Every few weeks he’ll mention; ‘You need something, just ask. I’m here to help.‘ So when I’m having trouble breathing, I’ll ask him to get me some tea. (Hot caffeine is good to relax bronchial constriction and I can’t drink coffee as it hurts my stomach.) Which he does, cheerfully enough. I’ve even woken him up to do it for me – sometimes a cup of tea is the difference between being okay and calling emergency.

A few days ago he started saying his back hurt. I tried not to bother him as much as I could. I was having fair days, so it was okay. I told him to wear his back brace, and he said it helped but that it was still painful. So I gave him some over-the-counter pain meds, the ‘good stuff’. 😉 Then the next day I had a spike. Couldn’t even go to the bathroom without having trouble breathing. I (breathlessly) asked him if he could get me tea. He said sure, no problem.

While he was getting me tea, I went and took a nebulizer treatment. This took about 5 minutes and I started to feel better. I felt like I could make my own tea, so headed to the kitchen. The water was heating and I told him I could do it. He said, no no, I’ll get it! I said, I’m feeling better, I can do it. Again, he said no, he’s on it.

Now, I’m not going to argue with the man over this. So I said ‘okay’, turned around and went back to my computer. I think my ‘okay’ might have been a touch too cheerful.

Five minutes later he comes hobbling into the room. He says, ‘I didn’t fill it all the way, I was afraid I’d spill it’. He sets it down and turns away. I watch. He’s bent over like he’s a 150, he’s taking baby steps like he’s hobbled. He says: ‘Im okay when I’m sitting still, but moving is painful!’* He groans, he huffs, he literally inches across the room. He’s overacting so badly it was embarrassing to watch. Once he was out of the room, and couldn’t see me (and I guess, thought I couldn’t see him) he straightened up and walked normally.

See, I was supposed to feel guilty for asking him for help. This is an old theme of emotional abuse: say he’s there to help and if you ask for help he will do or say something that is supposed to make you feel guilty for asking. It used to work, too. At one point I swore to myself I’d crawl over broken glass before asking him for help. Then I realized that’s exactly what he wanted – not for me to crawl, but for me to feel guilty. Screw that.

*This is one of the things I truly can’t argue with, as it’s something that I feel. When I’m having an attack, I’m okay if I’m sitting still, but if I have to move, I can’t breathe. And if its a pleurisy attack, the pain is indescribable. I’ve told him those exact words, I’m okay if I’m still, but it hurts when I move. The difference between us, is I’m telling the truth. Maybe he is, too. It just feels like he’s using it as a jab at my asking for help.

Lier – literal lying

It took me a couple of days trying to think of where to start. The easiest – or at least, shortest, subject would be lying.

At the start of our relationship, I thought he would be normal. Or at least, default with telling the truth. Sure, everyone lies. It’s a requirement in the human race. Children learn to lie around 2-3 years old. Telling the truth is not his default. Lying is. He lies about everything. Not so much as what he had for breakfast, although he has, but… his emotions, his thoughts, his beliefs, his morals. Some lies are huge, those he’ll keep track of for a few years, before blowing his cover and changing the story. Some lies are off the cuff, whatever pops out of his mouth. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. So long as it isn’t the truth, it’s all good.

The problem is I remember.

And as the years built up, lie after lie, I started to realize. Nothing he has ever told me is the truth. Now, there are times when I still believe him (I’m damn gullible), but I also know, 90% of what’s coming out of his mouth is a lie. He is lying literally, by tone or silently. And sometimes, like a normal person, a flat out lie to protect himself.

How is this abusive, you ask? Only someone who’s ever lived with a determined lier can understand. “I love you” is a lie. “I left the puppy at the farm” is a lie. “We don’t have enough money to pay for medication.” is a lie. Living with a lier is warping. And when they stick with a lie, it can become gaslighting.

Examples: Literally.

I ask him if he has 20 bucks. He says no. Later I find he has 25 bucks, in 5s. Literally, he didn’t have a 20, so ‘he was telling the truth’. Or how about this one. It’s a set up for a later day, when he may be asked a question.

I suspect I’ve had a heart attack and ask him questions about woman’s silent heart attacks. His response was: ‘Silent heart attacks are a great way to die! No pain and boom, you’re gone’. Two months later, he comes up to me and said: ‘I’m going to make us something for dinner. If you think you had a heart attack you should go to the doctor. I’ll make us tuna sandwiches.’ Turns, and walks away quickly. And I knew instantly, it was a set up so he could say ‘I told her to see a doctor about her heart‘, if the way I died implicated him in some way. He’d just neglect to mention it was two months later. That’s the thing about literal lying. It usually leaves something out, sometimes very similar to lying by silence.

He’s disabled. Severely in medical terms but in quality of life, not so bad. He used to go to retreats but they asked him to stop coming. He told me that they said ‘he takes up too much room.’ I got really angry about this – he’s disabled, he needs some things, and yeah, they can take up maybe 3 or 4 square feet. I was ready to go down there and give those guys a piece of my mind, it was discrimination! He talked me out of it – it’s their choice to make, etcetera. A few years down the line, he puts his computer station in the living room. Things started piling up there. Grooming products, a little bed, boxes of ‘to do’ papers. Within a month, he’d taken up their entire living room. And I remembered the comment, he was taking up too much space. He’d told me the literal truth. He WAS taking up too much room.