That's how many have passed since B married the mother of his children and 38 since he and I got together. Last week, we discussed it and decided he had to call her about a family matter involving one of his kids. Now, remember, he decided 30 years ago to never speak to her again.
Because you can't.
What a mistake the call was.
Not only did she not give a sh-t about the issue with her kid, she immediately went right back to their marriage and divorce. It was almost as if she had been brooding for years and used the conversation to spurt out everything she had stored up. Irrelevant topics and "who cares" abounded. Her narcissism continues to block any objectivity and critical thinking she might have been able to have possessed. That was how it was 38 years ago and evidently that is how it remains. "I have confidence that the father will grant access, but I do not have the same confidence in the mother," wrote the psychologist we all had to see before custodial arrangements were finalized in 1983; that was why B was awarded majority custody.
Miss Havisham anyone? Even though she wanted the divorce, I picture her sitting in her wedding dress in a dusty house blaming me for everything -- which, by the way, she still does.
"Is she in the room?" she demanded. "I don't give a shit about what Nancy thinks." "She's been in the room for 38 years," he replied and raised our kids. Frankly, I thought some progress might have been made, but I was wrong. This person is still stuck in 1980. "This is a dog barking," said a therapist I went to for help in trying to deal with her irrationality in the early eighties when I had to. That was very helpful when I had to deal with childcare issues. Logic? Reason? Sanity? Practicality? Forget about it.
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