Warning: This post is not about sex, but it does contain sexual content (text only, you fucking perverts!) and copious amounts of whining and self-pity. And most definitely falls into the category of WAY the hell too much information. You have been warned.
Last week I mentioned that I had a conversation with Wifey, and that I felt better afterward. I guess I was the only one. I went to bed after our talk, since I had worked the night before. The moodiness, homesickness, and depression are all still firmly in place.
She has decided to either go home on the 25th, and walk away from any possibility of us being together, at least here in the US, or she will stay for three years.
Why three years? So that The Boy can finish high school here. You see, if they go back at the end of this month, he will be able to pick up where he left off. He will be able to finish his tenth grade year there with no problems, despite missing three months. I’m not sure how that works, but that is simply how it is.
If they stay longer, but leave before he gets his diploma, there is some concern as to whether he will get credit for the classes he takes here. You see, it’s going to take him the better part of a year to learn enough English to be able to understand regular classes well enough to pass them.
And obviously, it would be a catastrophe of unspeakable proportions if he is a year late graduating.
That’s not the worst part. Hell, I’m not sure what exactly is the worst part of this whole clusterfuck. Wifey loves me, but she is not “in love” with me as per her definition. Her definition of “in love” is something akin to fairy-tale romance. Supposedly, she had this with her first husband, but not with anyone else since then.
I’ve never had it. Not the way it has been described to me, anyway.
She swears that I’ve done everything right. She loves me as a person. She is attracted to me. She cares about me. She has never had any man, including her first husband, ever be as attentive and understanding of her needs as me. But she’s not in love with me. And she fears that this means that I will not be happy in the relationship.
I have tried to assure her that, at my age, I don’t need fairy-tale love. I want someone who
likes me can put up with me, has a personality and outlook on life that is at least somewhat compatible with mine, and is attracted to me enough to want me to fuck her from time to time. Obviously, that isn’t the way I explained it to her, but that is the naked truth.
She’s convinced that what she can give me will not be enough.
I’m not sure I believe that this is a big factor in her dilemma, though, based on other parts of the conversation. She is very homesick. Despite the physically demanding life that she had there, it breaks her heart that her family is not all together. By family, she means herself and her two sons.
It doesn’t matter that her eldest son is 21, is in the last semester of his college education, and will very shortly be moving on with his adult life – you know, a job, a wife and family of his own, etc. Sure, they’d see each other a lot more if she lived there, but it’s not like he still needs Mommy to take care of everything any more.
She then told me that, even if she does decide to stay until The Boy graduates high school here in the US, unless her feelings change during that time, she will still want to return permanently to her home. You know, the one on the other side of the fucking Atlantic Ocean. She may return as a guest once in a while, but that will always be her home, and where she wants to spend most of her time.
What the fuck?!? Part of me wants to tell her to start packing now. I don’t want a wife for three years. I want a wife who will be with me for the rest of my life.
The rest of me wants her to stay. Certainly, after she’s been her longer, her feelings for me will grow. She will learn more English, and will learn how we do things here. Life will no longer be completely foreign to her. She will understand that Eldest Son is an adult, and a month or two each year with him will be enough. The homesickness and depression will pass.
On a more selfish and base level, I really, REALLY don’t want her to go. Before she got all depressed and shit, we actually had fun together. We talked. We went places together. I got to show her my little corner of America. We had awesome sex. Well, it was awesome for me, the five times that we did it, and she certainly seemed to have a good time.
She is the most compatible lover that I’ve ever had. She is very receptive to my style of touching and caressing. I am able to last long enough to take care of business, something that I have had major problems with in the past.
When I think about that, I’m ready to offer my left nut as a sacrifice if she’ll just stay. Then I remember that the last time we had any fun (sexual or otherwise) was over a month ago, the day before she realized that January 25, 2012 was rapidly approaching, and she had a decision to make.
Then I remember that even if she does stay, it will only be long enough for The Boy to finish high school. And who is to say that during this time she will be in any frame of mind to give me anything that I need?
I’m obviously not important enough to her in the grand scheme of things. I know that a mother will always be a mother first and foremost.
But, does it have to mean that there is no room for me in her life at all?
I really care about her, and I want her in my life.
But her actions say that she doesn’t really want to be a part of my life.
… ad nauseam, ad infinitum …
I’ve had enough of this fucking roller coaster. Can the 25th please just hurry the hell up and get here, so I will know if she’s leaving now, or in the summer of 2014 after The Boy gets his diploma.