I just need to accept who he is, and accept that I can’t change that, and then figure out if I want this for myself. It’s hard to chill out when my heart is breaking, but he doesn’t reach out to me when I’m in despair like I am now, he only moves farther away. He complains about how I need to deal with his Cav-ness, but he won’t deal with my tears and my aching heart.
It’s time to do like he does and say whatever. The only problem with this “solution” is that if I say whatever and truly mean it, then I’m going to stop doing all the things I do for him. I’m going to stop doing a lot of things for myself as well. Right now, he’s god-knows-where. He came home at 11:30pm (which means he left work at 11:25pm because it’s a five minute bike ride for him) and he didn’t greet me. I was watching the Tyra show but I paused it and waited for him to say something, when he didn’t I said “hey beautiful” but he didn’t respond.
I pressed the play button after a minute. He sat on the bed after a few more minutes. I paused the TV when he seemed like he wanted to say something. I don’t even know how we got into an argument. Oh wait, yes I do. He said, “I’m gonna go grab a couple beers and play some video games or something. What do you want to do?”
I replied, “I want to fall off the face of the planet.”
He asked where that came from, and I told him that he asked what I wanted, and that I had told him what I wanted. Then he said, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I said, “Why haven’t you smiled to me in the last two days? Same difference, isn’t it?”
“You haven’t smiled at me since I got home yet,” he said.
“You didn’t even smile at me after morning sex and biking with you to work, which are two things you say you want a lot of.”
“Yeah, so you did that stuff one time. Like I’m supposed to get so excited because you did it. All I can think in my head is ‘about time’ is all.”
“And you expect me to keep doing it with that attitude?” I asked, getting angry. “If you made me tea and I didn’t drink any of it, and I just went back to sleep, would you ever do it again? You probably wouldn’t!”
He didn’t respond to that. He instead tried to defend himself in a different way by saying, “It was just an off-day. Everyone kept asking me all day at work what was wrong. I kept saying nothing, but no one would get off it.”
“But if it was an off-day then something was wrong. Why couldn’t you just open up and tell me what’s wrong?”
We went on that way for about twenty minutes. I said to him (again), “It’s not what you’re doing, it’s the intent behind it, the meaning of your action that is clearly illustrated by when you’re doing it, and how.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
I throw up my hands at this point. “You’re still not getting it!”
“Yeah-yeah. It’s about the meaning behind it. But obviously different actions have different meanings. I’m not stupid.”
We also touched on the drinking again. “Do you believe you have a drinking problem?” I asked again.
“No, I don’t,” he replied.
“But you wrote me a letter that said you believed that you do. You lied to me.”
“Not this again.”
“But that’s a real issue. We’re not arguing about nothing. This is important, because you do have an issue. The definition of a drinking problem is when it interferes with your family or your work.”
“My drinking doesn’t affect my work.”
At that point I should have pointed out how he was showing how little he cared about me to think about his work before me, but I didn’t, I said, “It affects me. How can you say you care about me so much more than I care about you when you don’t care how your drinking affects me? You were so drunk the other night you couldn’t operate a fan, and when I tried to tell you, you got mad at me, you treated me like shit because I was trying to help you. That’s okay with you?”
“It’s not the beer, it’s that I drank too many of them. I just need to learn not to get that drunk.”
“But it’s not like this is the first time,” I protested. “This isn’t even the second, third, fifth, tenth time... This is like the twentieth or thirtieth time you’ve come home drunk and treating me like shit.”
“Well I’m working on it.”
“Continuing to drink isn’t working on it. Quitting is working on it. Admitting you have a problem is working on it. If you continue to drink in your regular life than drinking will always be a part of your regular life, and getting drunk is a very logical result to drinking!”
I began crying at this point, but I didn’t actually stop talking to cry, I just let the tears fall while I spoke. I’ve already learned the letting the tears take over will not make him stop to comfort me, it won’t make him see how much he’s hurting me, and it won’t make me feel any better.
After about twenty minutes, he stands up, says “whatever” and starts to walk away. I said to him, “When did I walk away from you and say whatever? You’ve been doing it to me from the beginning. Every time you get sick of it you walk away and say whatever. I’ve done that to you how many times? What? Like one, two, maybe five times in our whole relationship? You think that doesn’t hurt?”
He just shrugged me off and went out to go buy his couple of beers, and he’s not back yet at 1:14am. I didn’t really look at what time he left, probably shortly before midnight. Once he was down the stairs, as usual, the flood of tears comes over me. I tell myself to stop, but I couldn’t just stop immediately, not yet have I gotten far enough to cry for a few seconds and then stop. But I down to minutes from hours.
He came back upstairs about sixty seconds later, and ignoring my tears asks, “think your parents would mind if I took the car?”
“Yes,” I said, without much contemplation. I’m not sure if they would mind, but I can’t imagine my mom would say, “yes, go ahead and leave my daughter in her room crying so you can go support your bad habit of drinking.”
I’m not sure why he needed to go anywhere requiring a car to pick up a couple beers. I guess he changed his mind about his plan. Beers never took him more than five minutes to acquire from the corner store before.
I’m kinda relieved that he’s not here right now though. Arguing with him is too hard after feeling like I’m so lost all day. I’ve been a drift... I’ve been talking to my mom most of the day. Hardly even talking, but rather, just listening for a lot of it. Too depressed to make a bowl of cereal when I first got up... I got out of bed at 5:00pm.
I woke to Crusifer calling me and was delighted to hear his voice. We chatted for a while and I asked why he didn’t call me last night. Why he didn’t borrow someone’s phone if his was dead. He eventually just hung up on me. I’m so tired of trying. I poured my heart out to him again on the phone...
I told him that I couldn’t look at hot girls any more because my heart had no room for anybody but him. “I’m just horny” he says. I told him, “I know, but this has nothing to do with being horny. It has to do with what’s in your heart.” I keep trying to explain how his actions are telling me that I’m not one of his real concerns. Why do I keep trying to explain this? If I’m really not, then I’m not, and I probably never will be because I’ve been busting my ass trying to prove my love for him all this time.
The cooking (and not just any cooking, but exactly what he wants, when he wants it), and the cleaning, (and carefully organizing his clothing, which I stopped doing because he clearly didn’t care), and the scanning and editing his art, and organizing all the files (which takes hours of focus) which he has never really appreciated either. Now this week I visited him four times at work. I rode with him to work once, I came to pick him up another time. I washed him in the shower, and he washed me. I gave him pedicures, and manicures, as I always do. I picked out his hair the way he likes. I did everything he said he wanted, including the morning sex and everything. I got on top.
What he doesn’t know is that I also bought him a birthday present this week and am working on a surprise for next week. What about all the times he came home to candles and his favorite underwear? I quit that because half the time he either argued with me, or wanted to do “something else” or whatever. He’d probably deny this, but in the future he’ll deny how he completely pushed me out after his coveted “morning sex.” He puts so much emphasis on what I do for him, and then claims I do nothing for him even when I do everything he says he wants. Either he’s not being real with himself about what he really wants, or he just doesn’t care what I do regardless, or he’s blind to everything I do. No matter the answer, none of it sounds like love to me...
With Tre I was stuck on “what if I can’t find someone as attractive?” and “he’s so strong, and I might not be able to find someone who can protect me like that” and so on. Then again, I was also stuck on the weed. Now I feel like I can’t find another artist, much less a goth/punk artist. But I guess that’s just a superficial excuse for the fact that I’m attached to him and everything about him including his flaws. I should know by now that his hobbies are unrelated to what’s really important between us. It’s not the hobby, but that we do it together. And we’re not doing much of anything together.
It’s not pay that you get for your job, it’s if your job allows you to enjoy your life and to be proud of yourself. It’s not if you’re attractive, but if you’re confident in your body. It’s not if you do or don’t give gifts, it’s that you mean well and are thoughtful in giving your gifts. It’s not if you have money or if you don’t, it’s how you spend how much or how little you have. This is what I keep trying to get through to Crusifer. It’s not if he goes out or if he doesn’t, it’s if he comes home fucked up, or coming home all excited because he found out that this hot chick wants to fuck him... Those things ruin everything. If he called me while he was out, came home when he said he was coming home, told me ahead of time, and gave me affection when he got back... Everything would be different.
I might have gone to the gay pride parade if no body didn’t hurt like hell. My glands are swollen, have been for two days now... My neck won’t allow my head to turn all the way in most directions. When I sit down my stomach muscles clench too hard for comfort. When I stand up my thighs adamantly complain. My hips are sore when firm pressure is applied. My arms feel heavy.
This is the day Crusifer tells me El and Connie want to take him to Zor Valley. Do I want to come? Of course I want to come, but I can’t, and good-luck making anyone understand that. I’m in enough pain already, but if I went, I don’t think there is a chance that I wouldn’t get sick. I’m shifting between enjoying the extreme heat up here to being a little cooler than I like. Signs of a mild fever. Swallowing don’t “hurt” per say, but it isn’t comfortable. I would stay in bed, but that would hurt my muscles even more by the time I got up again. I’d just be stiff again, like yesterday.
My body freaking hates me.
I don’t think I’ve been this depressed since I was with Tre. I feel trapped. I’m arguing myself in circles, and at every turn I have a physical problem to overcome, and an emotional problem to overcome. Every turn in my chair strains some muscle...
He says I always am in pain, as though that’s reason for him not to care. So if I got in a serious accident tomorrow and lost use of my legs, I bet you his sympathy would last about ten minutes. Not that I so much want the sympathy, I just don’t want to face what it means that he doesn’t have any...
He’s going to go without me I guess. If he really does, which I expect he will, since he spent the last two nights away from me without problem, I think I know what I’ll do with my day.
I suppose vomiting the night away, and not getting to sleep until five o’clock still doesn’t warrant it being called a drinking “problem.”
All I can do is accept it at this point. Accept that he is who is he is, and that he’s not changing, and forget about any and all plans that I may have had. And then just chill out. I’m stressing my point to being the verge of being sick, and I’m paying for my stressing right now. That’s no good. I certainly can’t live my life feeling like this. Hell, I won’t make it through the summer at this rate. I’ll melt. (He, he, he, like my dry humor?)
I’m back to shivering. Moments ago I was sweating. This isn’t good. I suppose what I should do it go back to bed... But if I do that I won’t be able to move because I’ll get so stiff. This is quite the conundrum, just like my relationship. I’m torn between trying to show him how he behaves by acting like him, and by setting an example by treating him the way I want to be treated. I’ve taken the latter route around eight-five percent of the time, but... It’s difficult in this position. At the moment I’m not really doing either.
I’ve seriously considered getting high and drunk twice a week to show him... I’ve considered not being home when he got here... I’ve considered not calling him... I’ve considered not smiling... I’ve considered not initiating conversations... I’ve considered not answering his questions. But that would just make things worse, and I’d feel bad about it. I need serious guidance. But from whom?
Well, I suppose I already wrote the answer to that in my last entry, but we know I can’t just arrange that of my own accord...
I feel helpless. Anything new about that? Nope.
You know what else I’ve been considering? Getting a job. Being in this condition makes it a laughable prospect, because this is one of the large reasons why I can’t imagine getting an ordinary job. I’d probably get sick on the third day of work and be out for a week and then get fired. It could just be another excuse, but it sure as hell is a likely one. I’d love to get hired as the florist at Wegmans though. That might be fun, but we all know that getting the job you want is about as likely as winning the lotto.
But if I had a job... I’d meet new people. I’d see new things. I’d make my own money. If I worked part time I could still have time for some of the things I like to do, and if I got a well-suited job I might not get sick from it... I should apply for florist at Wegmans, just because, if I did get hired, I’d accept the job happily. It can’t hurt.
I’ve also been thinking about college again, but I don’t know how I could afford it...
I think I’m going to lay down and read now. Sitting up has become difficult.
I’m copying pictures from one of the various SD chips I own. I think I have three, and Crusifer has two. Sometimes I clear off one and have it in reserve to switch out with the one Crusifer is currently using so that I don’t have to clean a chip on the spot without warning. I figure now is as good as time as any to upload all the chips. It needs doing.
Unfortunately just copying the pictures from the chips is time consuming. Often copying like twenty pictures will take seven or eight minutes. I’m not sure why is takes so long. I don’t know if it’s the chip, and if my computer speed is irrelevant, or if it’s my computer and the chip is irrelevant, or if both play a part in the speed at which the pictures are copied. Perhaps it has nothing to do with either and it’s more about my operating system, or about the method I use to copy them, or even the size and quality of the photos? It’s running at about a minute for every six photos.
Did I ever mention how many files I have? I have 15 gigs of files, and only about 2 of those gigs are music or video. It’s all art, photos and text. The text is in poetry, journal entries, HTML, game-design and novel-writing. The photos are of tattoos, family, friends, but mostly me. The art is Crusifer’s art, my art, digital art, maya models, and mores. There’s also things like the board game files, which include over 2000 graphics for the cards, and many very large files for the board-map. And of course there is a large number of charts and the manual, though those don’t take up much space at all.
Fifteen gigs in the 21st century isn’t really a lot, but considering that it’s not music and videos is incredible. I mean, fifteen gigs of movies is only like five to seven movies. Fifteen gigs of photos and text... That’s a lot of photos and text. I pride myself on my collection. It’s all very well organized. (To be exact, I just copied 63 pictures and it took a total of about seventeen minutes.) For example, under photos there is “Crusifer’s downloads,” “Family & Friends,” “Events,” and “Pictures of Me.” Under each one of those is five to twelve sub-folders. Under events you would find “Hawk Creak,” “Christmas 2007,” and “Christmas 2008" as well as a variety of other events from the past few years. In the fifteen gigs there are over 1000 folders; go figure.
I guess Crusifer isn’t going to Zor Valley because El never called him back and isn’t answering his phone. I really don’t like his friends. They’re so not reliable. Probably why I don’t have buds. It annoys me to death when people say something and don’t follow through, especially when they don’t even call and let you know...
Speaking of which... I have not seen Tina since the day after her baby was born. I called her once, and we spoke for a bit. I considered visiting her that day but I had already visited Crusifer and I was tired. I called her once since then but she didn’t pick up. I should make a point to see her this week. If not tomorrow then Thursday. (I’ve made plans for Tuesday, and on Wednesday Crusifer might have off work.)
I suppose I ought to get to work on the Quest cards today. Now, while I’m waiting for files to copy is as good a time as any... 55 seconds remaining... And then I’ll make another copy, and then another, (into different folders to save me the effort of sorting later) and then I’ll be done with this chip and it will be on to the next. Mundane life... It’s only wonderful when you’re deeply and passionately and happily in love...
Aunt Mary is in love. I guess I’m happy for her.
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