Wait, wasn’t I mad at you? or Women v Men: Sorry, not sorry!

As you lay there in bed and address me gruffly one last time before turning your back towards me, I wondered, again, what it was that I had done?  What had I done wrong?  Did I disrespect you?  Did I ignore you?  Did I offend you?  Did I break your heart?

I think to tap you on the shoulder and question you about it.  I think to tap you on the shoulder and

tell you
I’m sorry,”

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Oh, yeah boundaries! (And why I forgot I had them)

For a while I have understood that I am in a codependent relationship. Perhaps to begin to work on my issues (or, even, distance myself from them), I have been reading material about similar situations, what they mean, why they happen, and their consequences.

My research has brought to light many things I didn’t know – or, perhaps, I did know, but I convinced myself that I didn’t (in order not to suffer them so profoundly).  There are the normal concepts – fear of abandonment (both of being abandoned as well as abandoning my partner that is hurting), the feeling that I’ve held on so long that if I just wait a little longer it will all get so much better and have all been so worth it, letting myself be convinced that I deserve the treatment I’m receiving because he’s having a bad day (everyday), fixing all of his mistakes because he doesn’t care about consequences, and letting myself be controlled by the fear of what he’ll do and the mistakes he’ll make if I ever truly leave…

But what I wasn’t considering, 

was the fact

that I have boundaries.

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The Great Depression: and The World Standard

At what point do you admit that if it’s you against the world that you must be wrong about something If you are constantly angry, if you constantly feel slighted, if every day is a fight – at what point do you stop to think: 

I must be

wrong

about something —

For every four days of fighting, you have two of apologies and one that really doesn’t seem so bad.  Then the final night passes, and it all starts again from the beginning like a broken record that keeps spinning the same lilting melody.  Your life becomes this daunting, unfulfilling thing, and you can’t help but to wonder why?

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Nature v Nurture: and Socially Unfortunate Behavior —

I’ll never understand why my mother feels the need to belittle people around her when she is feeling inadequate.  This is something that she has done since I was a child, and, unfortunately, it was something that I had learned from her (as well as a host of other socially unfortunate behavior).

I think I never understood the adverse effects

teasing could have on people –

until I did — 

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I can see for miles —

I am not good at many things.  However, I am good at reading people.  No matter what you say, I know what you mean.  No matter how you act, I know how you feel.  Though I do understand that people sometimes have reasons for not directly saying what they mean,

I can’t stand a liar.

I am not good at lying.  But let’s talk about the difference between lying and manipulation.  For instance, if I flake out on a friend, even if I have the intent of coming up with a totally believable excuse, I always fail miserably.  With me, you will always get the hard, honest truth (unless you’re asking me if that dress makes your @ss look big).  However, when it comes to work situations, for instance, I have no problem manipulating a situation to get my way.

For example, there once was a girl whom I thought was my friend.  Well, it turns out she wasn’t (I have learned to trust less, as hard as it is).  At first when she started acting towards me in a way I found hurtful, I was just that: hurt.  But then I got tired of being upset by her.  So I pulled the manager to the side one night, crocodile tears and all, and explained how I didn’t understand what I had done.  I used all the right words…

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Wanna fight?

The main difference between my husband and I is that I internalize every little thing while he externalizes his rage over, oftentimes, absolutely nothing.  While I will feel badly about something I’ve done (or even something I haven’t done), he is always angry about what he perceives is being done unto him.  Though I’ve always known this, he made it abundantly clear today while he shouted:

All this suffering is because

they have wished it upon me; 

I am cursed — 

It really comes down to taking responsibility for your own actions.  While I do not wish unto him (or anyone for that matter) the responsibility I feel for every little thing, I do wish he would stop complaining about everything and blaming everyone for each little inconvenience in his life.

For the millionth time, he told me he just wishes he could die.  While I am no stranger to the feeling, I am also painfully aware that I am the master of my own misery.  If I am on an upswing or I am feeling really rough, I know that only can change the way my life, my day, or even my moment is going.

We are all responsible

to create

our own

happiness — 

You know that person who complains all the time but never does anything to change his situation?  Yes, of course I love my husband and want to be there for him to hear about his day and to let him get that work drama off his chest.  However, there comes a time where the monotonous complaints are so regular that I get tired of hearing them. Continue reading

Happy being unhappy —

Though I wouldn’t call myself an artist in any professional sense of the word, I am rather left-brained.  It would seem that often madness and emotional turmoil go hand in hand with a heightened imagination and deeper need to nurture the soul through creative endeavors.

Growing up, my father always played the Blues.

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Always Been Crazy —

Throughout my childhood, I suffered silently through feelings of self-hate, paranoia, and the fear of disappointing my family.  Although I performed well in school – performed being the operative word – I was never truly happy.

My fear of doing “something wrong” stopped me from truly experiencing the life I was, at the time, blessed to live.  My childhood passed me by without any meaningful friendships – or, for that matter, really any friendships at all.  At an age where I should have had innocent relationships with my peers in order to understand myself and really blossom into the person I would have become, I studied hard, had manners, and always did the right thing.

But I was fat.


And this was always held above my head as the ultimate failure.  My wealthy relatives on my father’s side insisted that my mother had “made me fat” out of spite to embarrass them amongst their friends in high society.  My father asked, although out of concern for my health, whether I did not want to sit in a chair without taking up the whole thing.  And my mother continued to feed me.

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