He has got it in his head that he wants to buy land and build a house. "Just a small, simple house", he says.
The more he talks about this house, the more elaborate it gets. I won't go into details; I'll just give you two words: black helicopters. If you don't know what I'm talking about, google it.
I, on the other hand, am quite content to stay in my magic bus on a lot we rent. Living this way means I don't have to worry about property taxes, property maintenance, or fixing the fucking septic system when tree roots grow through it or something.
Then there is the matter of my concern over how on earth I'd ever maintain a property or keep myself in it if something happened to him. His response? Term life insurance.
I think he's missing my point.
My journey into recovery has taken me to a strange place. It is a beautiful new world; a world that is not ruled by "supposed to" or consumerism. It is a world of living with intent, considering the consequences of my actions, and living well with less.
And here this asshole goes planning this life of responsibility that ties us to one fucking place. Not just one town or city--one specific plot of land.
I can't get that asshole to do simple maintenance projects in a yard the size of two school buses (busii?) and he wants to build a house on some land that we will then have to maintain?
This asshole will spend hundreds and hundreds of man hours and countless thousands of dollars building deer stands thirty feet in the air, "hog tubes" and deer feeders and hog holes and whatnot; but he won't fix the fucking deck two months after he watched me fall through a broken board and almost fall down (and almost drop the dog in the process)? He won't spend half an hour fixing the gaps in the fence that the dog could squeeze through if she chose to do so. He has left this giant trash can full of fucking battery acid out here for a fucking year. The picnic table that is falling apart and taking up too much space in the yard? Still there six months after I asked him to get rid of it. The pile of jeep doors, coolers, wooden pallets, and empty buckets is still behind the magic bus months after I asked him to get that shit put away properly.
This is just part of the list of shit I am going to hand him when he gets home from work.
Now, I'm not a totally unrealistic bitch. I know that he isn't going to be doing this shit after work. What he will be doing is hearing me bitch every time he goes to his hunting lease to build another deer stand or clear more brush or install another animal feeder. I will bitch so much that he reaches that point of "anything to shut that bitch up". If that doesn't work, I will wail and cry and sling snot and ask him why he doesn't love me and Mollie enough to make a nice house for us. I will boo-hoo pitifully asking him what is it that the pigs and trees and deers have that makes him love them more than he loves his girl and his puppy. I will howl and weep and ask him what we have done to him to make him not love us anymore.
(Is that old behaviour? Absolutely. Is it a low blow? Without a doubt. However, all is fair in love and war, and this is war.)
Our home looks run-down and trashy. I swear to gawd it looks like Sanford & Sons done took over, and he has time to invest countless man-hours and thousands of dollars into improving his hunting lease?
That's fucked up.
I bet he fixes the shit if I go out there and make a royal mess of trying to do it myself. I wonder just what kind of catastrophe I can create with a rotty old picnic table and a gate that won't open?