June 24, 2003
Partial Account
I would just like to be straightup with everyone, in hopes that what I say sparks advice that I can glean truth from. Because, obviously, I am in no way impartial to the situation.
And don't pity me, either. We all know me.
Unless, of course, I deserve the pity.
I've got to be honest.
Sunday left me mostly devastated by OOTP, which, when calling Mike and relating this to him, he was full of compassion for me as he knew how much I had looked forward to the book.
The two of us, once together, depart to Wal-Mart to buy packing tape and The White Stripes' 'White Blood Cells.'
I can't count the times we've walked past the flower display at Wal-Mart, as my longing look goes entirely unnoticed. Maybe I'm shallow. I'm sure that a part of me certainly is.
He knows I love flowers. I've even asked him for some. He's even told me he'll get some, stroking my hair and surely thinking of the daisies that once were tucked there, the daisies he surprised me with.
Once.
I know I'm shallow. But what is five dollars for promised flowers when he spent over twenty on two new trance CDs?
We head home, er, his home (as I must inform you all, I am continually guilt stricken with the time I spend there; and Mike has reminded me, on too many occasions, with a laugh in his voice, that I won't be living in the new house; it's a joke, to him, it means nothing and he means no harm by it, but does he see the look of pain that crosses my face? does he see my desperation to know why he must so frequently assert this?). We watch cartoons, lounged on the couch, his hands in my hair. I learn, soon thereafter, that he needs me to drive him up to the car dealer in the morning so he can drop off the truck for some diagnostic tests. 8 o'clock in the morning. His voice is tentative as he asks, though why should it be so? When have I ever denied him anything?
I agree, and say that I must be getting to bed if I want to be able to crawl out of it, ever. He follows.
A few choice things are uttered in the throes of passion, the moment is cheapened for me. The conversation is exactly as follows, is there anyone to blame?
"I didn't like some of the things that you said."
Silence.
"O."
Silence.
I turn over, mumbling into the covers.
"What're you doing?"
His voice is hollow in the dark.
"Trying to think of what I said."
I am told, later, that this was my cue to tell him what it was. Instead, we are both quiet. I feel my heart hemorraging inside of my chest.
"Would you put your arms around me or something?" I ask, still curled up too far from him.
"I'm hot." He says simply, though there is still a scrap of blanket covering his body. And when has that ever stopped him before?
I know now that he is angry, as he almost always gets when I am upset and he does not understand. I've lit a match, of course, by now, how can I stop myself from bringing it to the fuse?
"Why do you always ignore me when I'm upset?"
The row starts. I am crying, he is cursing. He doesn't yell, he never yells. There's just this edge of ice to his voice, a vile sugar on his tongue. He would rather be silent than say anything at all, he is always the victim, I am always accusing him of something that should've meant nothing.
He makes it something, though, doesn't he? By failing to give any sort of reaction, by failing to apologize? But he won't sacrifice his pride, not for a moment, to save me days of agony.
I don't think my love is worth the sacrifice of anything, not to him.
"I don't know what I expect you to say, Mike. I just want you to say something."
He is scowling, in the dark, I can sense it if I cannot see it.
"Like what? I'm sorry?"
"No."
At some point I left the room, dragging my clothes on in fits of tears. He lets me leave. I sit in the Command Center for ten minutes, maybe more. He doesn't come. He never comes.
When I return, he is laying in bed. I don't know if he was trying to go to sleep or not. It wouldn't be the first time. I demand that we talk about this, but he claims there is no point, because I've made something inconsequential an issue. I feel that he has done the same. Who is to blame? Anyone?
I am not concerned with blame. I am concerned with this coldness that I perceive. When my tears have been reduced to sniffles, and our voices have lost that sharp, desperate quality, I lay down and he lays down behind me, his arm going around me.
And I know he is still angry. And I know this is a pretense to calm me, to keep me quiet.
This makes me cry harder, but I try to do so softly, so he can sleep. Because, now, I have reached the point where I am caring only for him, again. I've upset him, and perhaps unfairly. Was it a big deal? Maybe I should've just been straight with him, tell him exactly what he said, why it upset me. I had been depressed all day, was I taking something out on him? I think I was.
But does that excuse his unnatural anger at my tears? His tendency to turn the argument into my being irrational, and he innocent? We can't have meant all that we said. I didn't say much.
Did he mean it? And, really, why were some of those things necessary, when I was already in tears?
And when he rolls over to lapse into true sleep, it is I who lays a soft hand against his back, kisses his spine, bids him goodnight.
There are no tender touches for me. There are no kisses.
" 'night." He replies, with a false air in the words. He's still angry. I know he's still angry.
I cried myself to sleep.
In the morning he has smiles and kisses and embraces for me, there is something like remorse in his eyes but not quite, for, surely, now, he sees how small and fragile I am. He does not feel guilt. He sees only his weak little girlfriend, desperate for him in all things.
Or is that my perception of myself? What does he see? I have never been able to get him to tell me. He is not inclined to say good things, for fear they will sound false, so perhaps I can assume...? It's not important.
I needed him last night, but I need him every night. He asked if we could just "take a break for a few days" and "is that okay?" I said sure, it was, and hurried off of the phone.
I cried the entire drive home.
I cried myself to sleep, again, when I could not get ahold of him at ten thirty at night, when I called twice to no answer. I don't know if he was there. The likelihood of him being away is just as possible as him being there.
He didn't call. Is it significant that he didn't call?
Will he call today?
I won't let myself call. I need to talk to him, but he seems indifferent to the issue.
I know he is the best of men. I am saddened because of all of the things I adore about him, and this one thing, this one thing... and that is my one thing, that he won't just ignore or placate. What can he be expected to do? He is still a man. And I ask, this complete lack of understanding, this seeming desire not to, is that to be expected? Am I without hope that he will ever abandon it?
You can browse my journal and know that he is a good person, and that, nearly all of the time, we are content, more than content, in eachother's company. All of that is real, as this is. I have not embellished.
Am I wrong? Is he? Are neither? I think this is a problem. I don't know how to talk about it, and I am not used to encountering a situation that I cannot address.
I don't expect our relationship to be perfect. But it is, most of the time. So why, when it is not, must it be so foul?
I cannot keep myself from loving him this way.
astera at 10:26 a.m.