July 1st, 2009
{{Two nights ago… (– or, three? Last night?) …I sat on the couch with The Rock, watching Kathy Griffin’s Life on The D List. We were laughing. Laughing hard. Then I did this thing where I laugh so much I kinda cry. Except it was a real cry. A burst of unexpected angst and unfounded sadness. It was like a cloud of free range despair hit me. Ungrounded and grazing desolation that found a willing host, then moved on to another pasture. And it completely freaked The Rock out because three minutes later I was laughing again.
Which brings me to this. I don’t want to write at this time. I need to process. Or not? Maybe not. I need to unthink more like. I want to hermitize. I want to burrow. And escape. And not have you guys judge me because I don’t pen anything insightful or borderline humorous. No, not judge. Just shake your heads sadly and say, “What’s happened to her? She used to be less clunky and awkward-phrasing.”
It’s just I’m a little emotional and also dead inside. There’s a lot to do. I’m putting it off. But it’s there. I feel it and I need to unplug.
And find a new lipgloss. That always works.
Meanwhile, please to enjoy the below. I wrote it awhile ago, but it’s an evergreen.
Also, pray for The Rock and his kindred. As should be evident by now, I don’t handle stress and bodily chemical explosions well, even resulting from something as wonderful as a move to cul-de-sac-atopia.}}
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I’m telling you this PMS is trouble.
Saturday night, I engaged in yet another argument with the Rock, where I broke down crying over some allusion to my mother and because he dragged his feet, I thought hallucinated, over whether to spend some one-on-one time with me Saturday night.
The thing with the Rock and I — we can argue. We’re both opinionated, stubborn, right-fighters, who get wrapped around the axle and don’t let go. We’re working on this, really, truly working on this. But when I’m emotionally unstable, all lessons learned go out the window and no way, no how can you tell me anything if I’ve determined I’ve been wronged.
I still wasn’t convinced it was the PMS. The Rock tried to tell me, but surely, my upsetedness came from another source. I mean, hadn’t I had the PMS now, for what? going on 2 weeks? I need to get checked out.
Anyway, we had the night to ourselves after having dropped both kids off at grandma’s house. And I was pissy because I mistook his suggestion to check out a music venue as hating me and wishing I’d just go away. So I retaliated with silence, because I know he loves it when I do that.
Inside, I’m roiling and thinking, “He just doesn’t get me. We’re not on the same page. Why am I so misunderstood? Is it too early for a steak dinner?”
And I’m DRENCHED in being wronged. And being sad. And missing my mom. And wanting a steak.
I knew it was going to be bad. Because when I get like this, I don’t let go. And I don’t even want to write this, because the Rock reads this and will now say “I told you so!” and then “It’s OK, honey.” Which will make me cry. Unless I’m not PMSing anymore. Which I am.
So we sat in the car and argued. Until he said something along the lines of I keep score and I did it with my mom and then I said, “Don’t throw my blog in my face!” And “You don’t know my mom!” and other stuff such as for example, “You don’t support me!” and then he drove us home.
At that point, the evening is ruined, so I sit in the car and cry, great rocking sobs of being persecuted and alienated.
I decide to sleep in the car and slump on the center console over which I lay my sticky purple yoga mat to cushion the points. Three minutes later, I walk into the house.
The Rock is splayed face down on the guest bed and I leave him there.
I walk upstairs and cry more in the bathroom, until I hear a feeble knock on the door. The Rock opens it and says, “How can I make you feel better?”
So then, of course, that’s the straw. And I heave more sobs and think, “I’d never do that. He’s the hero in this relationship. He always reaches out to me, and says sorry even when he shouldn’t have to, and I’m horrible and awful and no good, just no good. No wonder everyone hates me.”
After I say more crap because I can’t gracefully accept love when it’s offered, we snuggle on the couch while he falls asleep and I watch 48 Hours Mystery.
And the storm passed, for now. But that’s exactly how it is: a cyclone, a hurling frenzy of debris and wind and rain moving in to destroy a town. It whirls, it twirls, it’s unpredictable and dangerous. It’s Mother Nature. But that doesn’t make it OK.
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{{P.S. Did I post this once already? And stop sadly shaking your collective heads at me! I don’t need your pity!
Oh OK, hand it over.}}








