Don’t act the hero..it’s no use to anyone
HAVE I been creating my own campaign of misery by being the “hero” in my relationship?
My partner John has been working away on a film set for the past few months.
It’s been incredible to see him doing what he loves, hobnobbing with the cast and crew of a pilot he’s working on.
Every time he sends me a video of behind the scenes footage on set in Limerick I’m chuffed that he’s doing what he loves.
Then when I hear he’s off to dinner with the cast or he’s having a quick bite in a cafe famed for hand-crafted sourdough, a pang of jealousy engulfs me.
Instead of eating bloody gourmet sourdough I’m in the trenches of domesticity.
He phones me that evening and I’m a bitch.
It’s 9pm, he’s off to bed in his hotel and I haven’t even eaten yet.
I make sure to tell him how busy I am, like my manic day is a badge of honour.
I list everything, cleaning up dog poo as our puppy Peanut still isn’t toilet trained, emptying the dishwasher, doing school pick-ups and collections from activities and trying to hold down my job.
Pathetic really as he’s off helping to earn us a living and I’m being a cow.
It dawned on me when he came back on Friday that I’ve been making myself miserable, almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy.
I had a face on instead of hugging him when he walked in after working a 13-hour shift.
John told me he’d love it if I smiled when I saw him instead of complaining.
My heart wrenched, I love him so much and I had been wallowing in my downtrodden ‘poor me I do everything’ vibe. I
realise now on Saturdays when he’s home it’s like I’m diseased with the hero addiction.
I’ve been subconsciously busying myself in front of him to show him just how much I do when he’s not here.
It took injuring myself to cop on. In short, I go so into hero overdrive on his birthday, emptying the bin and telling
him he can’t lift a finger as it’s his special day.
Then I come out of the bin house in our estate and whack my forehead into the iron clad door that I hadn’t seen.
I was in agony after the wallop. I had to put a steri-strip on my cut nose and for John’s birthday dinner I looked like I’d been beaten up.
Bingate has taught me a valuable lesson. Every time I notice my bruised forehead it reminds me to slow down.
No one person is the “hero” in a relationship, it’s a two-way street.
I told John I needed more help.
I’ve since roped in more babysitters and asked my mother-in-law to take my girls for a few hours after school.
The place looks like a bomb hit it, I haven’t checked the girls’ homework.
But I’ve washed my hair, had fun with the girls and John hasn’t left me yet for being such a B.
I’ve let go of trying to do everything perfectly alone midweek.
The only person I was making miserable by being the hero was myself.