Going Out for a Pack of Smokes

ScallywagMagazine.com’s Relationship Columnist
Blanche Légère

I’ve been thinking about starting up smoking again. I know it can kill me, but probably not as fast as my marriage, or my next attempt at suicide. Who knows, “Going out for a pack of smokes” might actually save my life.

“Went Out for a Pack of Smokes”
Acrylic on Canvas: Trevor Sylvain

I’m either in the middle of, or possibly at the end of my second marriage. And I’m either in the middle of, or possibly at the end of my life. I don’t know; I’m not a fucking psychic. I guess what I am is a confused, slightly depressed, almost 40-year old who just ate a pan of gluten free brownies, with a beer chaser and I don’t have the answers.

I broke up with my husband a few years ago, when he was just my boyfriend. Actually, I broke up with him lots of times but that last time really stands out because it was the night before I was committed to a mental hospital. I had been really depressed for over a year, and had to wait an additional seven hours in the emergency room, before they were able to move me into the nervous part of the hospital.

After a lengthy intake process, and physical exam, complete with cavity search by a doctor who looked EXACTLY like Seth Myers, my depression suddenly felt more manageable, my stomach relaxed for the first time in over a year.

“Seth Myers” – Spit, RIT dye and 2,167 Chiclets
Week 1 – Art Therapy

But it was only 72 hours of in patient relaxation, because shortly after I got out of the nervous hospital, my boyfriend and I got back together. A few weeks later, much to my astonishment, we got married. My stomach has been in angry knots ever since.

It’s not all his fault. I’m not great at relationships, but every time I try to talk about it… nothing happens. I mean, my words come out fine: he just has no reaction or response. It’s like I’m married to, and not fucking a statue.

Last night when I tried talking to him about how much our marriage was in trouble, the center of his face was completely obscured by dark shadows. I could only see the outline of his head; the center of his face and all his features were totally erased by darkness.

He looked like he was trying to remain an anonymous whistleblower during an episode of 60 Minutes. But like always, I was being the informant, exposing all the wrongdoings that have happened in our marriage. I’m the asshole. I’m Rolf the Nazi, blowing the whistle on the Von Trapp family. And instead of running away from me, or speaking out, my husband hides, faceless and quiet, an angelic headstone in the Austrian cemetery that is his mind.

Maybe I’m completely insane (probably) and my husband and marriage are complete hallucinations. Maybe I don’t hear anything from him because he’s not actually here. I guess that’s entirely possible.

Sing “Do-Re-Mi” one more time and see what happens

It’s hard to really be objective about the state of my marriage. Maybe it’s fine, perfect even. I’m probably just depressed. I’ve been in various stages of depression throughout our entire relationship. A depression that seems to ebb and flow, but never really goes away. And I can never quite remember if the depression started before or after we met.

And my poor husband! Just imagine what kind of hell he’s trapped in. How can this be fun for him? He thinks our problems would not exist if I just didn’t think or talk about them. He thinks things would be fine if I just gave him more blowjobs. I could start dropping to my knees more, and talking about my feelings less. He’s got a point; you can’t talk about your feelings if your mouth is full of cock! I don’t know, maybe this is what marriage is supposed to feel like… you know all one sided unhappiness, 1950’s and rapey. Maybe what I want marriage to be is totally unrealistic!

Maybe I should just dig down deep, open my legs and shut the fuck up. I made a commitment at that county courthouse between taking work calls and my meds. I owe it to us and to the institution of marriage to make this work!

Sure, I’m wearing an elegant gown but this giant wax vagina wave will surely be the end of me
Acrylic on Canvas: Trevor Sylvain

Also, I just can’t escape the thought that if I leave, that somehow I’ll be punished. That I’ll be sentenced to a lifetime of bitterness and a fat, unused vagina full of dust and spiders, and that if I get another divorce, my tits will instantly sag, I’ll become homeless, inherit the body and soul of a crone, and start eating babies to try to regain my youthful looks only so that I can, once again, use my hot youthfulness to trap, and then ultimately marry another man. And all because I want another chance at a relationship that’s a little less touchy, and a lot more feely. And really, how dare I.

Anyway, all this is to say that my name is Blanche Légère and I’m going to be the relationship advice columnist here at Scallywag Magazine. I’m not a psychotherapist and I’m sure as hell not qualified to give advice, but I’ve been to a lot of therapy sessions… some of them even voluntarily. So go ahead and email me your questions at scallywagmagazine@gmail.com. But I probably won’t answer you, because I’m a flake.

And also a cunt.

Namaste.

— Blanche

You can write to Blanche here: ScallywagMagazine@gmail.com
Or drop a line in our contact box.

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