Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

I’m afraid that the only way I’m going to get any consistency out of him is by acting like I’m ready to pack a bag and leave at any time. When I show affection, or support, or act like I don’t hate him (because I don’t) he’s unraveled inside 24 hours.

It’s fucking pathetic and I’m disgusted.

If I am not prepared to spend every moment around him being enraged, he goes right back to eating his own vomit.

Yesterday we came home from the park with me feeling hopeful, like this might actually work out.

He was gone at work for five hours and came home obviously struggling. Like he was about to start bawling at any moment.

And he continued running me over when I talked, cutting me off to correct me, arguing with me about what needs to get done, and why, and when.

He managed to stop being a roadblock long enough to let me wash the children by myself, and it was the first bath I have ever given the children alone since any of them have been alive. Normally he’s always there, repeatedly offering to help until I say I could do with his help, then resenting me for “needing his help”, or he’s just assuming it’s his job, blustering through it at high-speed and anger while I try to poke my head in.

A normal day is him controlling, arguing, snapping, bitching, resenting, and thinking the worst of everyone around him. That’s normal.

He breaks from normal and life is beautiful flowers and golden fucking sunrises.

It’s not normal that this is normal.

This morning the dog pissed and shit in my children’s’ room. Again. She somehow made it through three (THREE) locked baby gates when she heard his first alarm go off to come upstairs and do it.

Since every co-sleeping night-nursing breastfeeding mother is the lightest sleeper in the world, I was awake the second his first alarm went off along with the baby, so wanted boobs to go back to sleep. I said good morning to him, gently, and watched as he hit snooze.

Then the dog was suddenly and magically in our bed. She didn’t make a sound. I don’t know how she did it. There was no thumping, no clanging, no scrabbling noises. Nothing. Apparently she took a second while levitating up the stairwell to shit in my house.

I tried to talk to him about this. After he was up and out of the bedroom, I went downstairs and I fucking tried.

I shared my feelings

I talked about my frustration.

I said I needed him to be more engaged with the dog, more attentive, so we can provide what she needs successfully. I specifically pointed out what I thought would have helped: getting up with his first alarm immediately so she didn’t have a chance to pull her Houdini bullshit to crap on my floor.

That’s when he threw out the red herring.

“I closed all three gates behind me last night when I came to bed, I don’t know how she did that”

And my stupid fucking ass…. I fucking took the bait.

“Chevy, baby, I was walking around behind you closing the gates you weren’t noticing you left open all day yesterday.”

Now it’s not about helping with the dog, now it’s about me “watching” him. It’s about me “not trusting” him, it’t about how I think he’s a liar and an idiot who can’t do anything.

He left. The fucking. Building.

I saw it. His eyes glasses over and his posture became more like an animal. When he’s afraid his entire face changes and he literally stops looking like himself. Suddenly his chin is weak, his cheeks are fat, his eyes are swollen and sunken underneath a lumpy disfigured brow. His voice raises pitch. His body language becomes furtive. I swear to god, the man even gets fatter.

And I shouldn’t have taken the bait. I saw it. I saw it the second my mouth opened. I identified the spikes piercing my foot the second I stepped on it.

I even tried to redirect.

No go.

Now I’m fighting a backwards battle where I’m trying to tactically retreat back to the point as he keeps harping over and over about how it’s not his fault, blah blah blah, blah blah, blah blah blah. Insert all the reasons cum excuses you can think of here. I’m still trying to be reasonable. I’m admitting I’m angry, I’m not calling him names, I’m not being sarcastic. I just. Want him. To calm. The fuck. Down.

Then, my son waltzes down the stairs and into my kitchen making a big-ass production of yawning and being awake.

Ever see those cat videos where two cats are watching birds out a window together and something distracts or startles one of the cats and it turns and kicks the shit out of a third totally unrelated cat for no reason, just because it was already so emotionally frustrated?

I did that to my kid. I did that.

Out of nowhere I am raging at him to get upstairs, screaming, bellowing. He bursts into tears and cowers instead of fleeing and I just kept yelling at him. Then he bolts like he was shot from a bow up the stairs and out of sight.

Then my husband starts screaming at me, and I’m screaming at him.

And he’s five minutes late for work already.

By the end of it, he is literally shoving his nose into my face screaming at the top of his lungs some bullshit I never said, did, wanted, asked for, or demanded that he swears is true, and I’m right there screaming into his stupid fucking face that I’ve never did anything of the sort.

Slam! He’s out the door, rushing off to work.

And me? I get to sob for ten seconds before I have to pull myself together and apologize to my kids. I’ve gotten bizarrely good at cleaning up emotional wreckage. Either that, or they’re so scarred by it that it doesn’t phase them anymore. They have grown tolerant of what I find so intolerable.

I am so numb to myself that I am growing incrementally numb to everyone else around me.

Then he texts. It’s an apology. I was right all along, he says. I guess that means I won.



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