June 11, 2016 - 8:09 a.m.
Where we are
right now
robs me of sleep.
I lie here this morning, feeling stupid
that I thought we were doing better.
At the game, we had a code -
I'll say, "have you met my wife?" if I don't know their name.
You didn't follow. I dodged,
you threw me under the bus, even after I'd evaded one. "What IS his last name?" You asked.
Why?
And everyone thought we were fine. At least, that's what I thought.
So, we took pictures and smiled and I relaxed and forgot about the fact that these things make me nervous,
the 'being relaxed in a social environment with people from work' isn't always easy for me.
How can you wonder if I consider you, when you are my go-to, 9x of 10. When I talk you up. And up.
I humble myself. I scrape.
I admit, publicly, that I did wrong. I confess my 'quotation fingers crime'. Even that can get skewed. Is it ever my intention that matters?
And now, all these photos seem fake. Why did we take them?
When you knew, and I didn't, that this was all pretend? You were thinking the whole time, 'I don't want to kiss you in front of all these people'.
And then you said as much.
You put emphasis where there is none. "YOUR stupid burrito is dripping. Gross". And you can be as mean as you want to, say what you like. But if I try to explain that what I said wasn't intended as you took it... you can still say things deliberately... without having to explain or apologize.
Why did we even go? Because now I feel foolish. And the time that loomed over my head, feels magnified, as I lie in bed, unable even
to sleep.
I can't get away from this.
You use words like 'if'. If...
we are able to get through this...
And I remind you that I have.
I have gotten through things you've said and done.
Triggering things.
Things that stay with me, that I've worked so hard to forgive, but can't forget.
Why can I do these things for you,
but you are held to the standard of 'if'?
When all I want you to do is try.
You, who can withhold the words 'I love you'
when that's all I wanted to hear. I can't do this with you.
I will build those walls.
I feel them coming.
I am afraid you will be pregnant. And I will cry. Because I'm terrified. That this is what we've conceived: a sadness that doesn't go away.
A baby isn't a solution. Neither is a Jays game, apparently.
The only time you're really happy is with your nieces. That pure joy. You admit that this is true.
How can I compete with that? When honestly, I'd be happy with a fraction of the unconditional-ness you offer to them.
It hurts to be something that get such high standards applied to my actions and so little room to err. Especially when you dole out whips on a whim,
when I least expect it.
Should I learn to expect it?
So I give you a wide berth. Always aware of where you are, at any given moment. The same distance I give you is the one you claim inflames you. When I don't offer you a drink in our own home. How can you wonder if I consider you?
Are you a guest? Or do you live here? You treat it like it depends on the day?
Are you leaving, or are you staying? Is this my home to keep? It sure feels like a daily question.
And it coincides, like clocks, with the work that looms over me. Always on a day, a week, a life, that is less able than usual
to stand on its own two feet.
You've said,
you want to support me
but when I tell you how
you recoil and rebel.
Just don't make it harder for me.
Don't extend my nights past midnight,
with unexpected trips to the bar, to get you, to drive through traffic, to bring you tickets,
and then act like that choice was one I shouldn't have made if I regret it.
Because I don't regret choosing you. Choosing to do things for you.
But I do wish you wouldn't put me in this spot. Of having to make choices that feel selfish, when I need to be selfish
because i can't just sleep it off on a week day.
I have to get out of bed.
And now, on a Saturday, I can't even get myself to sleep. Because all I can think about is not sleeping.
Feeling stupid as the hearts roll in
on photos
of us smiling.
That are fake
because you never felt that.
Or if you did, I'm not sure anymore.
Because you don't feel enough affection
to be nice.
When you don't feel like it.
So I'm moving out
of bed, of vulnerability.
But I wonder why it always feels like I pull myself together for you. I show up. I clap. I smile and I mean it. But when it's my turn, it's terse. It's kicking and screaming. It's never 'letting bygones be...'
because I need some simplicity right now.
You get to be you.
While my day job of putting the brave face on, pulling it together
and figuring out how to move forward,
beneath a load that is breaking me
continues.
