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1940s detective in a dark suit and a fedora: "Alright, Horny Housewife, start squawkin'. We know you done it. We found the murder weapon on ya. What we still ain't got is a motive. We'll get it out of you, see? That bright light is already gettin' to you, ain't it? So why don't yous just go on and confess…?
Horny Housewife: For years I had a recurring dream:
I'd be doing chores around the house, finishing work at my office, talking on the phone, and busily checking lists. I'd glance out the window to my backyard and suddenly remember: my horse! I'd forgotten to feed him for days…weeks…months? Not only that, but he was achingly lonely. I'd ignored him for so long.
He was such a good horse. He loved me so much. He always tried so hard, and he asked for so little: a visit from me once in a while, a ride here or there, a few oats or carrots, and just the slightest bit of love.
I'd completely failed him. I'd feel an overwhelming sense of guilt and I'd swear never to neglect him again. Just then, the phone would ring and guess what? Poor little horsey would be relegated to the bottom of my "To Do" list once more.
I had this dream dozens of times for five or more years, and I always awoke feeling the same way I did in the dream: guilty, heavy, slow, and sad.
Finally, I described the dream to a good friend. You know how sometimes you can't think of a word, and it's driving you crazy, so you call a friend and describe the meaning of the word you can't think of? And as you're explaining the meaning of the word, the word itself suddenly pops into your head, and you shout it out like a lexiconical orgasm? And your friend is like: "You…are…bananas!" That's what happened when I told my friend the Guilty Horse Dream.
I wasn't halfway through describing it before the dream's meaning came to me in an explosion of self-awareness: I was the horse.
"Of course you're the horse," my friend said, like I'd asked him the sum of 2+2. Well, thank you, Dr. Freud.
I ignored my own needs for many, many years. I married twice, both times to men who didn't have the capacity to be my partners or friends. I worked in the world of nonprofit, where, like Sisyphus with his boulder, I toiled endlessly, inevitably finding myself back at the bottom of the mountain at the end of each day. Although writing was important to me, I overwhelmed myself with expectations of perfection, to the extent that I stopped writing altogether. I made friends, not because I enjoyed them, but because they needed me. I never sat down by myself in a quiet empty room and did nothing.
Yes, it was all my own choice. Of course.
It reminds me of that great exchange from Murder by Death :
Butler: This is where the Madam slept. She murdered herself in her sleep.
Detective: So it was suicide…
Butler: No, it was murder, all right. The Madam hated herself.
And so it went. I murdered myself in my sleep, and hardly anyone ever suspected. In fact, you're the only one I've ever confessed to.
HH
For more from the Horny Housewife, please visit:
http://secretmemoirsofahornyhousewife.wordpress.com/
