Cleaning is Cathartic??

Ok, so I know cleaning can be cathartic. I just didn't expect the boil-over of anger that burned through my soul as I was scrubbing grease off of my stove this afternoon.

Earlier in the day I was doing great. Feeling calm, peaceful, happy. Listened to the morning session of General Conference. Sat down and read a book. Went and did laundry when prodded by L. Who hugged me and looked at me with this goofy grinny look and called me his queen and made me melt all over with gratitude and love and conviction that I'd fight anyone and do anything for this man. Then we came home and vacuumed, noticed the counters were in need of a good cleaning, and then BAM!  Not so good.

Pissed off. Angry. Scrubbing for all I was worth as years of resentment and anger poured out into the suds.

Who worked two jobs with two toddlers for years? Me. Why? Because Mr. Man had racked up TEN credit cards that needed paying off. And then got sick and was in the hospital for a month. Lost his job. And then didn't want to apply for another one when he was recovered.

I had to call his mom, who then bullied him into putting in applications and wrote a resume for him. Bought him dress clothes for interviews.

Mr Man who was upset when I quit my job to be a stay at home mom because -- believe it or not, I don't care,-- God TOLD me to. Audibly. Sternly. "You need to BE A MOM. YOUR CHILDREN NEED YOU."  And they did. So I did.

So he quit his. Because his job was expecting him to try to sell stuff, and he didn't like sales.

And then got sick again and nearly died when we couldn't pay bills. And had both kidneys removed because he has this horrible disease, and my brother gave him a kidney to keep him alive. And my kids were traumatized and my oldest needed anger management therapy. I miscarried twins and it was this big huge thing we all lived through while living with his parents.

And then when he was better, he again refused to get a job because he was disabled because he'd had a transplant. Although he wasn't disabled. He was in great health. His version of a job was Primerica, which IS SALES!!!

And I shook with anger as these memories rolled over me, pissed off and angry that I did my best to raise my kids, to get a degree I could use if he died. And he was angry that I wasn't using my degree to get a job.

And I was angry. ANGRY that he had a degree that he refused to use. He'd started school again to work in IT and didn't finish. He racked up thousands of dollars in student loans that will never be paid off.

I'm angry that after I left, I found out that apparently he'd been doing all the work raising the kids, cleaning the house, while I just sat around and did nothing. For 26 years.

Now. I did a lot of nothing while in the depths of depression. This is true. But I was always changing diapers, potty training, and doing what little I could when I was sunk low in the depths. But when I wasn't, I was doing Girl Scouts and involved and doing my best to teach and play and read and volunteer at schools, braid hair at midnight and worry and feel guilt over all the things I did wrong and, and, and, and,  you know... all that stuff that goes into momhood that no one ever really understands until they've been a mom. Or a parent figure.

AND that whole time trying to deflect Mr. Man's anger from them to me. Because I could take the irrational shouting and yelling about people not pushing the garbage far enough down. Or eating the wrong piece of cheese without putting it on bread. Or opening a bag of cheese when there was one already open. The shouting and anger that would go on for half an hour or more. That had my daughters convinced life wasn't even worth living because they could never do anything right. Could never please him.

Angry at the years of effort I put in, trying to change, trying to be good enough, trying to measure up and consistently failing. Angry that my marriage experience has more bad memories than good.

Don't get me wrong. There were good things. I have six kids. There was at least one part of the marriage that worked. But the constant anger we lived with overshadows everything.

I shook and ground my teeth as I scrubbed. Decided I should probably write this out. Because if it's bubbling up, it must be ready to leave.

You know anger is a secondary emotion, right? It covers hurt. Anger is so much easier to feel than the pain. And oh boy does it hurt. It hurts that I was never, ever good enough. Not good enough to try to work and provide for. Not good enough to try to control a temper. Not good enough, period.

It hurts so much that the idea of ever getting married again makes me want to slap the person who invented the idea of shackling me to someone, telling me I'd live happily ever after ... FOREVER.

Yeah, well, I don't want forever with that. I refuse to have forever with that. I'm worth more than that. And I much prefer the happiness I've found now, even if it is only for this life, than what I had before. Because what I had before hurt. It picked away at me until I broke.

I have an awesome support system. I have so much to be grateful for. So much in life to look forward to and live for. I don't want to spend my life resenting the last 26 years. I don't want to spend the rest of my life bitter and angry.

I am lovable. I am loved. And that is amazing.

I feel so much better after writing that all out.

Run-on sentences be damned, that felt good to purge.