I always thought Jim would be a psychiatrist’s “What About Bob”. If you haven’t seen the movie, you should. It’s about a neurotic, yet charmingly funny patient named Bob, who wears his psychiatrist out to the point of a nervous break down. It’s very cute, and catchy. But Jim wouldn’t be funny, he would be mean, and even cruel, and of course he would still think he’s a great guy. But if a psychiatrist were to ever treat Jim intensely, the unlucky doctor would most likely end up having a nervous break down like Bob’s unsuspecting psychiatrist. Because Jim has an irrational, and keenly disturbing excuse for every rational question. In his mind it makes absolute sense, and there is no way to tell him otherwise, even when presented with logic. He will never answer a moral question about his behavior with straightforward responsibility. He will constantly deflect, or deny, and eventually change the subject. In his irrational minds eye there is always a rational excuse for being cruel.
Jim is my ex. We have a daughter. She is the only good thing that ever came out of our relationship. Jim and I have always had a turbulent relationship. Of course in the beginning everything was good, but there were lots of red flags. His sudden mood swings, his bizarre reasoning, twisted self serving logic…you’re probably wondering by now why I ever stayed with him. Mainly because he would just wear me down. We would break up, he would promise to be better, we would break up again, so on and so forth. Between those “so on and so forth’s”, were lots of mind games, sexual taunting about other women, critical observations about me, my hair, and my makeup. Of course he would always say he was joking when I got fed up. An insult is still an insult, even though he tried to excuse it by saying it was in fun, it was still emotionally exhausting.
He would relax on the couch, yes, he sat on the couch back then, and glue himself to the TV while I spent my evenings cooking and cleaning, doing laundry, and other mundane chores I would have loved to have help with. I ran all the errands too. Once he got home from work, he would sit his ever-growing fat ass down on the couch all evening, never offering to help, never asking about my day. He just watched television. Every now and then he would comment about something he found irritating about me, like the way he said I stomped through a room like an elephant, or suggest I needed to wear my hair and makeup more “slutish”. I don’t know how many times I explained to him if he is the only one laughing, then it is not funny. But either he chose to ignore me, or he found cruel pleasure in belittling me. I think it was the latter. To me it always felt like there was a dark cloud hanging over our evenings, hell our whole relationship. There was always a storm brewing. Then one day it dawned on me that I was just going back to him out of habit, that I did not care for him at all anymore. Years, and years of being bullied by him left me hating him.
I also realized it was only about winning with him. He still tried to tell me throughout the years after we broke up that he would always love me, and would always try to reconcile. But it wasn’t love, it was just winning, claiming a “prize”. Just like the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks. You go through all the trouble to find that tiny prize, play with it for a few minutes, then toss it aside. But dammit that was his prize, and nobody else was going to have it. But in reality, if Jim were honest with himself, he would know it wasn’t really me he even wanted. He only wanted someone who no longer wanted him, so he could “win” and feel better about himself. Because invariably after Jim and I would get back together, things were still the same. He would act kinder once he got his “prize”, then right back to being a selfish jerk, bloated with indignation if I complained about his sudden relapse, “I’m a good guy” he would say with all the self absorbed pomp of a psychopath.
Granted he did nice things at times, even generous things, but that does not make him a good guy. Even the devil has his reasons for giving somebody something they want, because there’s something in it for Satan eventually. That was one of Jim’s favorite sayings, “what’s in it for me”? People that say something like that every time they do something for somebody, always has an ulterior motive. It’s either for relentless, self-indulgent praise, or something to hold over their head. There would always be a day of reckoning with him, time to pay the crazed piper. The emotional blackmail was relentless. In Jim’s mind he was the poor victim, doing these nice things, and he was so under appreciated. Generosity here and there cannot wipe out the years of emotional, mental, and at times the physical abuse I had to endure at his hands. Jim never played a fair game during an argument. He would think of the cruelest, and darkest daggers to throw at me. And if I dared to cry, he would tell me I was just feeling sorry for myself. And that would bring more tears, because it would never even dawn on him how his cruelty whittled away at me emotionally. After all, he was such a “good” guy.
The reason for this specific Jim story is because of what transpired this past week. I had a heart attack on Memorial Day. Due to extenuating circumstances, I found myself staying with Jim. I had tried that in the past when I was looking for housing when I moved back from Texas. It ended badly then, and it ended badly this time for pretty much the same reason as last time. Me being on the couch instead of holding court with him at the kitchen table, adoringly hanging onto his every word, being submissively obedient. You would think after thirty years of conversation, he wouldn’t feel so overwhelmingly ignored if we just did what other “couples” did. I could never comprehend why he felt it was so necessary for us to be in the same room…as long as that room was the kitchen.When we were younger and still together, I barely had time in the evening to watch TV with him. I was busy trying to take care of my son, and attend to all the household chores. He didn’t care if I was in the same room with him, as long as he got a hot meal, fresh laundry, and a clean house, he was happy. If he made noises about me watching TV with him, all I had to do was ask him for some help, and he shut up. But as he got older, and we parted ways, he became psychotically needy.You see, Jim is a kitchen chair potato, not unlike a couch potato. He used to be the typical couch potato, but the older he got, the less comfortable it was for him. So he gravitated to the kitchen table, and there he will sit until the day he dies. The difference is, in his illogical logical reasoning, he is somehow less “lazy”. Mind you he has all the trappings of a couch potato. He has his TV on the table, which is always on, his cigarettes, his snacks, his newspaper, and anything else he desires within arms reach. But because he is in an upright position, even though he’s laid out in his chair like a beached whale, rolls of beefy flesh hanging off his body like a fat cow, he still thinks he’s living a healthy lifestyle, as compared to a couch potato. Since he doesn’t work, he literally sits at the kitchen table all day long, except for when he excuses himself to his bedroom for his usual midday nap. From sun up, to sunset, you will find him at the kitchen table, smoking one cigarette after another, eating junk, and continually mesmerized by whatever mindless program he is watching. If I happen to be relaxing on the couch, he will loudly squeel in delight about something he’s watching. He’s hoping to bait me into the kitchen, to lure me like a hapless fish. I realize he’s lonely, but it is of his own doing. He has no friends, and no interest in socializing. He blames everybody else for his uneventful life, his boring existence. He is Lord of the kitchen table, it is his little kingdom where he either approves or disapproves of his captive audience’s behavior. And I do mean captive audience, because if I don’t come into the kitchen to sit at the table with him, if he sees me on the couch for what he deems too long, he will bully me, chastise me, condemn me, and tell me how ungrateful I am, and just be an asshole in general. I just keep waiting for him to declare “off with her head” like the vengeful queen in Alice in Wonderland. He will complain about the way I lay on the couch, or lean against the armrest, as if those are somehow unacceptable positions, even though in the rare times he does relax on the couch, he leans against the arm rest with aristocratic pomp, his legs spread across the cushions.
I’m not comfortable in the kitchen, but he couldn’t care less. He somehow fails to see he is no different than anybody else laying or sitting on the couch. Yet it unnerves him! Especially if I’m on my iPad. I’m usually writing an article, or a story, or working on poetry. I don’t care much for TV. When I am in the kitchen, I am not allowed to be on my phone or my iPad. I must endure watching an endless variety of TV junk food. The image of me on the couch is a reminder to him that he is all alone in the kitchen while I’m lazily enjoying the comfort, and luxury of his old, tattered couch. How dare I “ignore” him by being in another room, as he chooses to do also. But his choice is the correct choice, the right choice, the responsible choice. I must endure his secondhand cigarette smoke, and his secondhand criticism.
But this last time was the straw that broke the camels back. I had only been there two days. Because I was on the couch, and did not want to eat, he started yelling at me with all the anger, and drama of a jilted bride. His face was red and his lips drawn back. He was furious! After all, he was doing me a favor, and how dare I not grovel at his feet, how dare I try to rest on the couch barely three weeks after a heart attack. How dare I not come into the kitchen to show my gratitude. He doesn’t do anything for nothing. Somehow he equated me being on the couch, with me being disrespectful, and ungrateful. He yelled at me with fury I had not seen in years, practically spitting his words at me. He rattled off my “crimes” like a demented judge, his voice hoarse from anger. I knew trying to calm him down was futile. He had crossed the “scary line”, as my daughter and I had come to call it. I began crying, he told me to quit feeling sorry for myself, that I was only thinking about me. With my head bowed, and tears still running down my face, I made my way towards the kitchen table. The walls in the kitchen were stained with nicotine, his ashtray was full of cigarette butts, and a thin veil of cigarette smoke hung over the table. He was cussing and thrashing about like a madman. I knew the only way to get out of this situation without it ending badly, would be to go along with everything he said, to be compliant, passive, and of course, grateful. He seemed to conveniently forget about the days he lingered on the couch for hours while I did all the cooking, never once hysterically demanding he come in and keep me company, never made him fear for his life if he didn’t.
I forced myself to act like everything was fine, like I was used to being screamed at by a crazy man. I commented here and there on the television shows, feigning curious interest. I knew this would please him. I did the dishes without hesitation, quietly making sure to not miss a spot. I was afraid to say anything because the last time I said something about having to do the dishes once again, he told me to shut my mouth and do the f****** dishes. He rationalized that since I was staying with him, he could treat me like an indentured servant. He would walk past me when I was at the kitchen sink with an air of lordliness, and dismissively toss his dirty dishes in the water without comment, letting me know “my place”. Because I was living there he had the right to treat me anyway he wanted, or so he thought. After I finished the dishes, I dutifully sat back down at the table and waited for the right moment to speak. “Can I go in the other room now” I asked meekly. I could tell this somehow made him feel powerful, and in control, me asking if I could be excused like some obedient child. If it’s one thing Jim loves, it’s to be in control. He granted me permission to leave the table with a stony look on his face, a look a father would give a naughty child. Before I got up, he chastised me again for behaving so ungraciously. I suppose in his mind he can justify being a lazy, bloated, countless excuse for a human being, because he’s sitting in a chair.
I realized then he thought his life was like an episode on TV, one long episode where he is the main character. The good guy who always knows what’s best. And the good guy always wins. So when I go “off script”, he panics…he might not get his happy ending. He lost control, and we can’t have that.
I am done thinking he can act normal, I am done thinking that he can see a bigger picture. The only picture he wants to see is the one on the television set, or the little episode that plays out in his deranged mind about how I’m supposed to act. And God help me if he doesn’t get the ending he wants. Because he will force the ending he wants. And like a good little character actor, I’m supposed to do exactly as the tyrannical director says.
But this little show is cancelled now. He can just sit on his chair in front of his television set all by himself, no captive audience, no friends, no life.
The End
About the Creator
Robin Edwards
Robin is a veteran, having proudly served in the United States Air Force. She worked as a speech therapist for several years before retiring. She enjoys writing, working on art, and margaritas!
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