Wants

I’ve been thinking a great deal about all the things I wanted in life. I’m not talking about material things. I had all the stuff, all the crap we buy and accumulate to feel good, feel our life is successful and blissful.



I was a big buyer of stuff. Anything my wife and kids wanted, I got them. She’d plan a shopping day with “the girls”, I’d hand her $500 dollars. Every weekend I’d go to Walmart and come home with DVDs for my younger son. A couple of times a month I’d run by Barnes & Noble and bring home stacks of books and CDs.


Our refrigerator was packed with fresh high-priced foods. The wine rack full of expensive reds and whites.


Our home was packed full of brand name things. We were real consumers. No one lacked for anything; no one went without. There was no want. Or was there?


There was so much I wanted. I’ve come to realize, that I never got. The strange thing is the people I most wanted from never even bothered. I’m sure if they read this they’d say “why didn’t you tell us”? They don’t read the blog (my ex “it’s despicable!” my folks “why do you have to write about all this?”) and anyway, how do you explain to someone you doubt their feelings for you.


I watched an interview the other night with former President Bush discussing his newly released memoir, “Decision Points”. In it, he reprints a letter he received from his father on the eve of his inauguration as Governor of Texas. The letter (which W can’t read himself because he chokes up reciting the words) spoke of his father’s love for him. It was about the pride his father had in him.


My own father has never written me, never told me anything. He has always been remote and distant, never sharing with me any insight. The only time I ever was rewarded any emotion from him was when I screwed up.


Even now as I sit in this place he visits and complains about “the Democrats” or who’s been a pain in his ass, or his new windows. He’s never said a word to me about this situation, never asked about the hole in my soul over the loss of my wife and sons, never told me if he thought I did the right thing in confessing and giving everything away.


I’m 51 years old and I know nothing about my father. My entire life he shared his opinions, but never said a word about who he really is. In the past six months, I’ve learned more about my father and his family from his estranged sister – my aunt – than I ever knew. The facade of Protestant morality, of Christian virtue, has been lifted. As I suspected, my grandmother was vindictive and opinionated (I knew long ago she wasn’t particularly fond of my wife; she thought I could have done “better” and should have married someone who put me first). I’m OK knowing all that. At least the family isn’t pretending to be something it’s not.


All a child wants is to be loved by his mother. My wife was wonderful with our kids. I watched her nurse them, comfort them, caress them. I’m not sure they know how lucky they are having a mom so loving.


I wanted that. Instead, my mom required me to conform. Everything was about appearance. “What will people say, what will people think?”


Independence was wrong. I had to be and act the way she expected. Discipline was more important than love.


My mother to this day believes someone is “screwing her” out of something. She is overwhelmingly angry and negative. I can’t even recall all the times her insensitive remarks hurt my wife. Imagine having to explain over and over again to your spouse “that’s just mom being mom”.


She’s better about her church, her younger son (she speaks horribly about my brother then wonders how he “ended up” the way he did), the way I was treated in court (though, everyone else deserves to be locked up), her life. She thinks everyone blames her for everything and yet, every situation depends on her feelings.


My mother has never been happy, never been carefree. She is judgmental and difficult. And with the exception of my ex-wife, her attitudes, her disappointment in my life hurts me more than anything.


All I ever wanted in a soul mate was a woman to love and appreciate me. I thought I had that. Perhaps (sorry, but Freud may be right about a few things) I was so willing to do anything, undergo any disappointment, for my wife because I was so starved for affection from my mom.


All I know is, when she and I first met it was magical. But, I told her “I love you” first. I pursued her. My life, my career decisions, my impulsiveness, and my refusal to ever say “No” to her about anything, all began early on. Her family, candidly, didn’t give a shit about me or even her. Her parents were, are, self-centered narcissists. They did nothing for us as a young, married couple. Every problem our relationship suffered early on was a direct result of them. I found I married a perfectionist, a woman who couldn’t just be happy being in love with me.


It’s difficult to admit that all you want to hear is “I love you; I miss you; I need you”. My wife said over and over she didn’t need me to be happy. Ironically, that was my overwhelming obsession.


I wanted to hold hands walking on the beach. I wanted to walk in the house, be kissed and told “I love you”. I wanted to be able to put my arm around my mate while we fell asleep. I wanted a wife that wanted me emotionally and physically.


Now I sit in prison and wonder, will I ever be given a chance to get what I want?