dude...so i know i'm not hera. we've established that, and it doesn't bother me too often. sometimes i get tired of tending the hearth, but then i think: i don't have to squabble with the head of the household. and i like that. we fight, sure, and i try to find all my security blankets but realize: i've melted down all the knives into dainty chains and thrown everything else into the fire for embers and ashes. and i know that keeping you around--keeping my sanity too!--is hella awesomer than shredding an arm and being in ouchies for days.
but it sure would behoove us to be a little clearer on everything. you're frightening online, and i think you may be more exasperated and snippy than angry and threatening-to-leave-y...but i can't tell. your word choice is honestly, and OMFG you are going to kill me, a little "ghetto." i don't know how else to explain it; it's trashy, low-class, but not so much those as "ghetto," which is less about money and more about a culture i know you're a part of.
and i'm a total English Queen and Grammar Snob and just all-around middle-class, someone from a distastrously polite, well-informed, educated family. and i swear 700% more than my relatives put together, but i don't snap people's heads off unless it's to swear something awful after waiting six years for someone to take...the...fucking...hint! not only that, i've been lashed out at for being cunty online when i've been jokingly rude or a lot more neutral than my word choice or perceived word choice has been--
--and you've gotten upset abouit that a few times as well.
so, you know, my e-mails just turn into deep, dark caverns of fear, flashbacks and triggers. and POW it's PTSD awesome time!!!!! everything i think, want to do...is and turns into "must cut self," "must hit self in head," "must die," "must kill self," and "must make it so i was never born so that the other thoughts don't infiltrate my zeus*barrier and ruin everything and make him leave and then have to hurt myself because he's already left and therefore hurt myself before he leaves so that i know how the pain feels and can just coast on that so that when he leaves i won't hurt any worse, because it's been so long i don't remember how to numb myself."
and OMFG would i LOVE to sink that ship. not turn it into a submarine with/out a periscope.
the funny part is that this afternoon, as i was stirring together the cherries, orzo, red wine vinegar, olive oil, feta, basil, fried rosemary and shallots for when t&r get back tomorrow, it hit me that you might not have meant "i'm going to fucking leave you if you don't fucking stop freaking the fuck out, and i am not even gonna fucking look back, you goddamn cunt, so you better fucking die if you want to stop loving me," but "you've told me that you push me away and that when you freak out you get worried that i'm going to leave and start using the freak-out to push me away, goddamn, so just quit it, goddamn!"
because, yeah, i have told you exactly that. so my heart went all lemmingsuicideleap and my logic went all BLORTsuicidePLUGUPTHEHOLESflashbacksFLASHBACKSPTSD and my breathing and pulse were all balumph-a-LUMP-a-THUMP-a-dizzying-WHUMPx1000. and i was all I MUST LEAVE BEFORE I DO SOMETHING LIKE CUT MYSELF AND OMFG FLASHBACKS OMFG IGNORE THE FLASHBACKS IGNORE WHAT I USED TO DO and don't cut or try to die because OMFG ZEUS would leave so MAKE HIM GO NOW so if i cut he won't find out and YELL at me.
so this time i wanted to really stop freaking out and harassing you...because OMFG my freak-outs serve no purpose...and i ended up sick for 30 hours, barfing and spraying and barfing and spraying and cramping and headaching.
i think it's a whole lot better than cutting or hitting myself or looking for pills or trying to drown drunk and bloody in a bathtub or looking for sex on craigslist with someone who might kill me or at the very least be someone who wants to beat the shit out of me just so i can remember that i freaked out on you and punished myself perfectly.
but you really aren't the same person online as you are face-to-face. i can't see your crinkly eyes. i can't look into them and know that i'm safe, that you won't hit me or tell me how worthless i am or threaten me or tell me that i'm lying about the abuse...that you won't tell me that you prefer me dead or look at me like i need to be raped and shown just what heartache is.
it's not that i forget that those are your eyes, always, even when they tell me you'd love to give me a good wallop in the head and beat me senseless. they always tell me that that's just a temporary pissy fantasy, and that you're gonna get over it relatively soon. and i've been there to see the change. and then get mayonnaise stuck into my face as i gag and squirm away and you giggle before stuffing your face with avocado, egg, cheese, bacon and bread, and lick the mayo from your lips.
i moved in with clif when i was 19 before i knew what was good for me. i'm moved by you, and usually you're good for me.
and if we're gonna give rise to some mini-resin, i have to circumvent the freak-outs, but when you KS me and get belligerent with rules you've just changed, it's not easy to see the truth. especially since, goddamn it, i told you: it's SK. for "stop keying." which i've been using since i was a tween, and which signifies that a typed telephone conversation is over, and when i'm sure i'm going to have to scratch up my arms or do something to feel a little pain, or plan a real doozy of razor blade mutilation, you ask why i'm so SUBBERNED, and i'm yours again, but i can't explain:
your spelling cheers me up eternally. it's like little constellations done in gold crayon.