Thursday, January 21, 2010


Five minutes ago i was locked in the bathroom with a razor blade pressed against my wrist, tears streaming down my face. I wanted to scream, to hit someone; something and yet instead of screaming or punching a pillow I was just going to end it all; the pain and the worry and the unhappiness and the misery and uncomfortableness...I guess lucky for me the blade was too dull to do much other than scratch my skin...I don't quite know if I should be thankful for that or pissed off.

Most days I think I pretend to love my husband...then again I'm pretty upset right now so that emotion might just be a byproduct of my emotions right now..but seriously...he gets on my nerves, dealing with him is occasionally like dealing with a small, immature child who feels like everything must revolve around him and if it doesn't he has to make it about him.

It started at 6:45 this morning. The alarm went off and I rolled over, grumbling to myself as I shut it off. fifteen minutes later he comes in, and with hands that rival Popsicle, grabs my waist.

Um, hello, I was mostly unconscious...and your hands are freezing. Thanks for the rude awakening.

It was all downhill from there. I woke up in a bad mood and it continued to get worse. I went for my walk, got home, took a shower and went to pull my jeans out of the dryer. And of course it doesn't stop there, no, my favorite (and only pair that fit) jeans have a huge tear in them. So naturally I get upset and tell my husband he is going to have to go grocery shopping today as my pants are ruined.

He lays on the couch, ignoring me as I'm standing in the doorway clutching my ripped up jeans and trying not to cry, and doesn't say a word. Not a "It's okay, make the list and I'll go," or "Don't worry about it, we'll get you another pair." Not even a "Wow hun, I'm sorry, that sucks."

So I go back to my room, hoping against hope that maybe I can squeeze my fat ass into another pair, even if I have to suck it up and deal with them being a smidge too tight.

Yeah, no dice. All the pants I have are pants I got last year when I lost a ton of weight...go figure I gained most of it back and now none of them fit. *shakes fist angrily*

So...I do what I do best, figure out a way to try and repair the tear. After all, I am pretty handy with the sewing machine. So I get it out and manage to fix the tear temporarily and I try to explain to my husband why I was upset, which makes him turn the whole thing around where he's the victim and I'm the bad guy for being pissed that my pants were ruined.

So, yeah you guessed it, a huge fight breaks out where I'm a bitch and I act like a bitch and if he tried to help me with my pants I would have been a bitch and gotten mad at him.

So yeah, I'm a bitch and I'm in a bad mood, and I always take things out on everybody else when its my fault - my fault my pants ripped, my fault I'm a bad mood. I started it all. *rolls eyes* Whatever you say chief.

So...I go to leave, I have to get away from him or I'm going to lose it. He takes the car keys, follows me as I try to walk away from I go back inside and lock myself in the bathroom, radio on as loud as it goes. I just need five minutes to calm down and stop crying...oh and the crying...he's telling me how he doesn't bother to be supportive because I'm always like, "Eh whatever." Um, fucker that's because most of the time when you're being "supportive" its about shit you know nothing about. Like my "writing." How can you sit there and tell me it's good, or whatever if you've never read any of it. Oh wait, you tried to read it once, but you were all like, "Ugh, this is too girly, I can't read it."

So I'm crying because I'm mad and upset and I just need five minutes without him in my face ragging on me for being in a bad mood and he's standing there telling me I'm lying, that I'm not crying because I'm mad, I'm crying because he hurt my feelings.

Uh, and you're proud of that?

*Shakes head*

I'm just tired of the bullshit. I'm tired of being married to a twenty-eight year old man who acts like a seventeen year old child. Grow up already...just because something happens to me doesn't mean you need to make it about you as well. If my pants ripped and I need new ones, well I have three other pairs that will fit once I lose the weight I gained. It's a simple as that. I don't need to spend money on new pants when I'm working towards fitting into the ones I already have. He's all like, "Oh well none of my clothes fit me either." And I told him that his problem is because he's overweight and if he lost it his clothes would fit him too. Sounds mean, yes, but its true. We are both overweight and I don't want to die at the age of forty or develop diabetes or have health issues when I'm older. I'm doing something about it, I'm trying to make my situation better, but him, nope, he's content to be about sixty pounds overweight.

I know I sound immature and childish. I most likely do, but there's no one else for me to talk to besides myself who would get it.

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