I understand how Ingrid Bergman’s character felt in the 1944 movie, Gaslight, when she suspected her husband, played by Charles Boyer, of slowly, methodically, and insidiously, driving her insane. I understand because I think my husband is gaslighting me.
Case in point: It seems I’m forever misplacing things. Rarely a day passes without me asking him to help me find my sunglasses, my lipstick, my cell phone charger, the book I’ve been reading, or earrings I clearly remember leaving on my dresser, but aren’t there anymore. Mighty Marc never hesitates to stop what he’s doing to assist in the hunt. And even though I do exhaustive searches before resorting to asking for his help, he always finds what I’ve been looking for. And when he finds it, he never throws it in my face – literally or verbally. Instead he says things like, “It was here all along, honey. You just didn’t see it – probably because you’ve been so stressed lately.”
He never reprimands me for what he probably perceives as lack of responsibility or poor organizational skills. Rather, he has an inordinate amount of patience – patience that could be defined as excessive – maybe even unnatural.
He’s so sensitive and intuitive to my needs that sometimes I don’t even need to ask for his assistance in finding something. He can be in another room and instinctively know, simply by the litany of expletives spewing from my mouth, and the sound of furniture and dishes being flung against walls, that I could use some help.
Several times we were in the car headed for a movie and after five minutes on the road I realized I couldn’t find my glasses, even though I was certain I had put them into my purse before we left the house. He didn’t denigrate me or say anything to make me feel guilty, irresponsible, or brainless. He simply turned the car around, headed back to the house, ran in and got my glasses. He even smiled. I think everyone would agree this is not normal behavior. Were I in his shoes, there’s little doubt I would have killed me.
And when I was confined to bed for an extended period of time with back spasms, he was better than any nurse I could have hired. He prepared delicious meals, picked up prescriptions at the pharmacy, propped my pillow and repeatedly checked on my well being. He did all this without a single complaint. His only request was that I call him if I needed anything. Anything at all.
He’s so much nicer than I am. I mean, he’s a care-giver, by nature. He smiles while tending to my needs, and his smiles are sincere. If he were sick I would absolutely take good care of him, around the clock should that be necessary but, a tiny part of me ………………….. alright, maybe not so tiny …………….. would wish I were doing something else. Anything else.
I’m not accustomed to this kind of loving attention. In my first marriage I was laid up with the flu for eleven days. On the ninth day of my sickness my husband, who was downstairs watching a football game, sent one of the kids up to see if I was still breathing. “Check the color of Mommy’s lips,” he instructed. “If they’re blue, shake her, and tell her I’ll be up at half time.”
I’ve concluded that Mighty Marc’s ‘round the clock attentiveness is unnatural and he must have an agenda. I’m seriously suspicious. He would probably like to have me committed so he can have full reign over the TV remote. If I’m carried away by men in white coats he wouldn’t have to sleep in his own bedroom. He sleeps there now because I can’t tolerate his ear-splitting snoring and he can’t stand my constant flopping from stomach to back to side. And, he would only have to shovel his side of the driveway, instead of breaking his back to do my side, too. Mostly he would gain a whole lot of extra time because he would no longer have to sneak around hiding my things toward a goal of driving me crazy – which does seem to be working.
I’m thinking about having speed bumps implanted in my brain to force me to slow down my thinking.
Leave A Comment