To me, it felt like we were just sitting there one minute, having an allright time, and then the next minute I was being attacked. And as per usual, I started crying and searching my mind for the one wrong thing that I did to turn a good weekend into a total shit pile. I tried talking to him about this -- trying to explain the thought processes that go on inside of my head, the way that I can turn anything into my fault ("I shouldn't've said that ... I shouldn't've done that ... if only I'd done that differently ... gotta remember this, gotta do it "right" next time ..." because anything less than perfection is complete and utter failure. Of course, I digress. Can you tell I've been rereading my geneen_roth lately?)
So I came home and lay in bed and cried and thought that I didn't like the way that he fights. Specifically, I was thinking about the way that I fight, about the way that I try to find words to explain my feelings, my thoughts -- you know, touchy feelie hippie crap that doubtless leaves him feeling like he wishes I would shut the fuck up, grab my "Free to Be You and Me" record, and get the fuck out of his face (hey hopita: what's that you were saying about turning everything into your fault?). I prided myself on not being one to yell, call people names, or throw dishes. At any rate, lying here in bed, I started wondering if that's really the best quality. I mean, it seems like those people who throw tantrums (along with Fiestaware) at least know how to fucking defend themselves ... me, I just suck it all in, believe that it's all my fault, and sulk home in tears. What the fuck is up with that?
More to the point, just what is it that I think would happen if one day I decided to start yelling back? I can answer that in an instant: I'm sure that whoever I was yelling at would stop loving me, would leave, would never return. And geez -- if that actually is true of my loved ones, then I've got some pretty flimsy relationships, right? How did I become so incapable of recognizing that a fight is just a fight? That once everyone's had a chance to cool off, he'll call me ... He'll call me what?
Hmmm. I was going to insert a pet name there, only I couldn't think of one. He never calls me by any sort of nickname. Come to think of it, I don't think anyone does. I call people "Dollfeather" and "Sweets" and all sorts of pet names, but I'm having a hard time thinking of anything cutesy that anyone calls me. What's up with that? I want a nickname too, you know. And yes, "hopita" counts. I used to love it when AFRICArdo would call me "hopita" every time he saw me.
OK, so I digressed.
When a child is told anything often enough, they come to believe it. Heck, when anybody is told anything often enough, they come to believe it. If I wasn't "fat" I was "ugly." If I wasn't "ugly" then I was "crazy." No matter the age, no matter the adjective, the purpose is the same: to put me in my place, to make me "lesser than" so that somebody else could feel "greater than."
The moral of the story is that somewhere along the lines, I stopped standing up for myself. Now, at least I'm aware of it, although I'm still chicken to actually do it.