Tuesday, April 25, 2006

He read this, and I didn't throw up.

Sunday night, Eddy read my blog. All weekend, I was waiting for him to and when I thought about it, I would feel like throwing up -- I guess because I was afraid of conflict. I thought that he would hate me after reading it. I used to throw up a lot when I was angry and afraid to say it. I have not done that for a very very very long time although I still am angry and afraid to say things.

We were in bed, and I went to kiss him, when he pulled away and said that his depression and suicidal fantasies had nothing to do with me and that he wouldn't kill himself just because I left him, if I left him.

And I said, "You read my blog." Then after a minute, I said, "Statistically, though, the odds of you killing yourself are higher if I do leave."

He talked about his anger -- toward himself.

Eddy's anger comes out as anger toward everyone on earth. The guy tailgating him. The guy driving slowly in front of him. The guy slowing down to make a turn. People he works with. My family. His family. The cat who trips him and sheds. He talks angrily about them with me there.

I always feel like the anger is pouring out at me. I always try to cheer him up, distract him, calm him down. I feel like the anger is mine and if I could just swallow it all, then it would be gone and he would be happy.

I told him that. He said that I didn't need to do that.

I grew up doing this with my Mother. My first memory is me sitting on the kitchen floor with my Mom and Dad there. I was trying to put on a sock. I am very little - 3? My Mom says, "D" she is putting it on upside down; help her." She was angry. I remember wondering how I could put a sock on upside down if it only had one hole. I remember trying to get it on, so my Mom would stop yelling at my Dad. She always yelled at my Dad. She still does. I felt like it was my job to make it okay, fix it, calm her down.

When I say that I married you because you are like my Mother, this is what I mean. As with my Mother, if I could just fix you, then you could take better care of me.

But I am almost 40. I need to take care of myself. And let you take care of yourself. (sigh)

I am not used to this.




Blogger Bobita said...

Heavy, heavy!

I am so glad to have found your blog. You are carrying a heavy load.

I'll be back!

Tuesday, April 25, 2006 4:44:00 PM  

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