maybe i'll fry up an egg

Existential ennui. A problem we only have when life is luxurious enough for it, no? 

Lately I've found myself hoping that Roi would screw up in some major way again. Not yet, not now because I still couldn't handle it. But maybe a year from now when the economy is moving again (will it ever move again as it used to?) and when Lexie has moved on to college so I can go for my masters, and when I'm strong again like I continually will myself to be on the daily. Because then I'll be ready to leave I tell myself, and the leaving will be good. 

In this vein I've made a couple of meebly surveillance sweeps. Checked the caller ID, browsed his internet history, nosed into his usual hiding spots for alcohol and painkillers. Blessedly I find my heart's not in it. In part because I've found nothing to raise my hackles, and what's more his behavior has been consistent. No signs of trouble. Nothing on the radar. 

Unless you count his unusual spike in sexual interest after coming home from a physical therapy appointment where I learned she had worked on his hip, and had him change into a flimsy set of shorts to do so. Or how when he left he saw his physical therapist and another woman talking and he was sure they were chatting about his physique. All of which plays into the fantasies that drove his particular flavor of sex addiction.

I suggested that his sudden libido surge (after six months of sexual anorexia) might have been triggered by these events, but he looked me in the face and said rather sincerely that, no, in fact he was just a "regular guy for once". 

Because regular guys are always convinced that two women talking must be fawning over his build. Because when Roi looks me in the face and says something sincerely it must be true. 

I walk into the kitchen, stare into the refrigerator and have a thought about the nature of sexual fantasy in "normal" relationships. Maybe's and what ifs float around lightly in my head without taking any kind of root. Maybe he got triggered. Maybe bringing that home to me is progress. Maybe I don't know shit about what healthy sexuality looks like anymore. Maybe I'll fry up an egg. 

Updates from the Land of Endless Insanity

My neurofeedback treatment continues to go well and I feel I'm improving daily and more my "self" than I've been in a long time, but the jury is still out on how much of my "self" is problematic versus my situation being problematic and where all the lines are.

Lexie is doing reasonably fine and she and I have become increasingly close over the last year.

Our cat died recently and that devastated me. That event was sandwiched neatly between Roi doing prescription drugs again under the auspice of shoulder pain, and Kyd coming home intoxicated for the first time in a long while and raining chaos and blustering, slurred anger down on everyone for a few hours before passing out.

All the while the country's economy is still hanging on a precarious edge and jobs remain scarce in my area so prospects for leaving or for affording the in-depth, comprehensive close treatment Kyd needs feel ever far off, though I continue to look, continue to try while pedaling the wheels of my own recovery as fast and steadily as I can to stay one hair ahead of slipping back into anxiety or depression.

One day at a time, one day at a time I tell myself.