Fuck That.

We argued today, he and I. It doesnt much matter what it was about. Only that I suggested he try something, he told me he didn’t think it would work, and I pointed out that his statement was wrong, that he was, perhaps over thinking it.

He didn’t want to listen and so he offered his opinion again. I thought about it, turned it over in my head and came to the same conclusion. Tried to explain it a different way. We both became frustrated. The worst part is that he always ends up angry, emotional. I always turn into the bad guy. If I tell him that I feel he is completely discounting my knowledge and my opinion, even patronizing me, he will tell me that I do nothing but tell him he’s wrong. That all I ever do is ask him his opinion, just so I can shoot it down. I told him during this argument that he was wrong. Not in a horrible, nasty way. Not as a means of putting him down, it was more just matter of fact.  “Oh, no- that’s wrong, actually it’s this.” That sort of thing.

For this I was punished. He ended up sobbing on the couch, head in hands. Accused me of being “uppity”, and then said “Well, if I wasn’t suicidal before, after talking to you I sure am now!” I don’t know why this hurt me so much. This is fairly standard stuff with him. He is passive aggressive and can’t deal with any confrontation, so whenever things get tense, he turns into a ball of tears that simply lashes out.

But, these words hurt. He said that talking to me made him feel suicidal. He called me uppity.  I’m not uppity. But, I was badly bullied as a kid. I’m terrified of people, and so I don’t make friends easily. When I do make friends, I usually screw it up because I am so awkward and never know what to say or do.  I use “big words”, and it puts people off, I like to talk about politics and books and interesting stuff and it seems that nobody else wants to talk about this stuff.  So, I am as terrified of being seen as uppity as I am of just talking to people. It just seemed like a really mean thing to say. I won’t even get into the suicidal stuff. Can you just imagine being told that by your spouse, who professes their love for you regularly?

I’m not mean to him. I get frustrated and I have said things once or twice that I’ve regretted. But, I am never just so flat out mean to him. He destroyed me. I’ve got a social services planning meeting next week, with all those fucking important people, who know the worst possible secret you could have, and some see me every day.  People who look at me and judge me, because of what he did and my decision to stay married to him. People who are just waiting for me to fuck up, waiting for me to just fall apart completely so they can snatch my children away. I still cry over what he did. Not just occasionally, frequently. He destroyed me, but yet I spent the better part of a year, being there for him, comforting him, sorting things out for him.

And he calls me uppity? Says that shit about suicide? Because I pointed out that his assessment was incorrect. How is that right? How is that fair? I don’t deserve that kind of bullshit. Do you know what, though? I didn’t cry. I wanted to, I thought for sure I was going to, but I didn’t. I just felt really angry instead. Remember what I said about being bullied as a kid? Well, that instilled in me a tremendous amount of self doubt. Which means that every time we have one of these arguments, and he starts laying all this shit on me about not wanting to hear his opinion, etc. I immediately worry that I have been a jerk, that maybe I really have discounted his viewpoint. To the point that even when I’m fairly sure I havent done anything wrong, if I find anything I could have done better, I apologize to him.

I don’t get that same respect. Ever. Fuck that. I was angry. I’m sick of crying because he hurts me. Sometimes I almost wish that he would hurt me physically as well, because at least then it would be real. Not this fake nicey nicey shit he feeds me.  One minute he’s tucking me into bed and fetching me drinks and slobbering all over my tits and the next he’s telling me I’m fucking uppity and talking to me makes him feel suicidal? Fuck that. Be a scumbag or be a sweetheart, you can’t be both.

Fuck That. Fuck That. Fuck That.

penny drop

I’m so sick of crying. I seem to spend most of my time either worrying or crying or snapping at the children because I’m exhausted after spending the majority of the day worrying or crying.

I was laying in bed masturbating and listening to this song and fantasising about laying naked on a hot sandy beach with only the sea for company and not a single person for hundreds of miles around me.  Once I had finished and my hand fell away and my leg slid back down onto the bed, I found myself staring at my husbands cd collection. I started to think about that beach. How one day I would finally be successful and rich and I would simply say to my children (who will be grown by then, I’m sure) “I’m off on holiday! Here is the number of the hotel I will be staying at.” And I will give my husband many dollars/pounds/euros whatever and tell him to go on holiday wherever he’d like because I was going on holiday by myself. Also, I am always skinny in these fantasies.

This was such a lovely, perfect thought. Until I sadly realized that I am the only one who would like this. I would hop on a plane, fly to Jamaica and spend two weeks lying  on a beach, drinking cocktails and being pampered. He would drive to some campground and spend a week in a tent, probably being miserable. Additionally, he would be deeply hurt that I would not want to be with him, because he would only want to go on holiday with me.

This made me cry. For a new reason. Not for anger at what he’d done, not out of fear of the future, not out of frustration or pain. I cried because I’ve lost that. The person I loved, the person who I wanted to always be with, who I would never have wanted to go anywhere without, he is gone to me now. I cried because I no longer have love. It seems so silly and stupid given everything else, but in that moment, it was such a cold, empty feeling. He may love me, he may always love me, but I have no love left for him. That is heartbreaking to me. I loved him so much, people.  He was quirky and difficult but he was funny and creative and put me on a pedestal and nothing made me happier, more comforted, more safe than enveloping myself into his arms, into his self and being part of him.  Now, that is the last place I ever want to be. And I grieve for it, I suppose.