Being human, means sooner or later, even an HoH is wrong.
What happens then? my friend (who has told her husband he may only kiss her ass, not spank it) asks.
In my twenties, or even thirties, my answer would be different than today.
Truthfully? Maybe even early forties.
Growing up in my family, the thing was to always be right. Argue the other person right into the ground. Use any means necessary.
Quite early on, I rejected that behavior. It wasn’t for me. That didn’t mean I was a doormat, or even known as a peacemaker. I was always willing to say That Of Which Others Will Not Speak. I didn’t insist you acknowledge my rightness–just listen.
Once in this long term relationship, I realized hanging on to rightness led to bad things. Tension. Distance. Anxious children.
And you know, that’s dangerous.
Use it or Loose it, right?
Ignore needs long enough and something funny happens. They stop being needs.
HE would never say he was wrong. HE might offer me a cup of coffee. HE’d tell me -while I was dressed in sweats, had hair standing straight up from my head and my nose red from crying-that I looked really pretty.
He would not say: “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
I wanted those words. Without them, it wasn’t enough.
I would have my say (You’re an asshole.) and move on, furious, that once again, for the sake of peace, I would be the mature one, letting it go. Halos fluttered around my head.
And at least I did possess the grace to be grateful for the wisdom to shut up. While I did feel like a saint, I didn’t act like a martyr (very often) and for the most part, there was laughter and peace, support and love, acceptance- in our home.
You learn a lot here in Blogland.
In submission, weird things happen.
I am a strong independent woman. HE values that. Once, in a blinding snow storm, his back was utterly and completely out. He was on the floor, and not moving, even with powerful drugs coursing through his system. One of our customers-an elderly frail man was also out of commission and needed firewood brought in. Seven months pregnant, I climbed into HIS plow truck, read the manual, slipped it into 4 wheel drive (this was the old days folks-when it meant climbing outside and doing things to your wheels) and drove off down the mountain. I’ve also plowed for the first time–ever—solo-at nice months pregnant. HE has always sung my praises publicly, treated me with respect, and thanked me.
He did not open doors for me anymore.
Trying on submission, I find it awkward and ill fitting.
I try to remember to ask. I clamp my mouth shut and follow his ideas. I ask for help. I tell him I’m upset instead of acting like Iron Woman.
He opens doors now. Coats are held out for me. He treats me like I am a piece of china-not like I’m helpless. Not like I’m incapable. Like I’m treasured.
He has said, publicly, in front of the children: I’m so sorry. I was wrong.
I am well taken care of –that way -regularly, frequently, and always first.
So: He can be wrong.
I sure don’t say: asshole.
Most of the time I don’t even think it.