What Is Mean?

I'm not trying to belabor an issue, but my wife thinks that I can be mean sometimes.

Now she would tell you that she doesn't think I'm mean. She and I have talked about this before. And I usually start by saying, with a grin, that she thinks I'm mean. And she tells me that she doesn't think I'm mean. Last night, she clarified (again) that she thinks I have the capacity to say mean things on occasion. So I'm not mean, obviously. I just have the capacity to say mean things on occasion.

She has said that the only time I may have said anything mean to her is in the heat of some heightened state we were in at one point, but she cannot remember any specifics. I'm pretty sure there was a time when she felt I was being mean, and I backed down rather quickly after realizing that I was being taken as being mean.

But I think that's what I've come to understand "mean" as being in my life. It's not something that I do on purpose. It's something that happens as a result of something I've done which causes me to apologize to the hurt party, letting them know that I did not intend any malice or harm.

I wouldn't classify myself as a mean person. I would classify a mean person as somebody who intentionally tries to hurt somebody. And I don't think that I try to intentionally hurt people. Ever. I have tried to intentionally annoy somebody recently by shushing him when he was trying to talk. I have intentionally cut-down a person who was intentionally trying to cut me down. I have verbally tried to shut down people who are attempting to bully me. But I am not intentionally trying to hurt anyone. Ever. Even Crusty Shitface. I have not nor will I attempt to hurt him intentionally.

And I'm not even going to say that verbally shutting down people who are attempting to bully me or cutting down somebody who is trying to cut me down would be classified as intentionally trying to hurt somebody.

If somebody throws a punch at your face and you are able to, judo-style, wrestle them to the ground without putting them in significant pain yet neutralizing the threat of physical violence, would you call that person mean? I would not. If somebody throws a punch at you and you absorb the punch and say, "that's not okay," and then they throw another punch at you, are you supposed to repeat your words? I believe that if you say, "That's not okay," and the action persists, it is appropriate for some consequence to occur, say, you shut down the personal verbally without actually harming the person. They have been warned, yet they persist. You either do nothing and victimize yourself or you stand up for yourself.

I will chose to stand up for myself.

I am not mean. I do not go around intentionally hurting people. Ever. Not once have I tried to hurt another person. Nor do I believe I ever will. I also will not tolerate people trying to pick on me or those I care about. That is not okay. And what I mean by that is that I will do something should the picking continue. I will do something, and you have the choice to continue your actions and see what I'll do, or you can stop, and my contemplations will not become actions. It's your choice. And I will not feel badly should you continue to pick on me or those I love.

I don't walk into your cube and tell you that you need to act a certain way in my presence. I don't tell you that your life is over because you're married with kids. I don't tell you your ideas about sports aren't right because you don't appreciate amateur football. And if I did, you can bet I would expect a reaction of some kind.

You wouldn't punch a wall and then tell the wall that it's mean because you hurt your hand. Don't prod me and then tell me I'm mean when I react. It doesn't work like that.

Now, it would seem that this topic has gotten under my skin more than I thought it would.

I don't want my wife to think ill of me. Out of everybody in the world, it hurts most to think that she believes I have the capacity to say mean things upon occasion.

And I don't expect her to change her opinion.
And I don't expect me to change my actions. In fact, I feel like a pussy when I don't react to people pushing me. It feels bad, as if I'm allowing people to walk on me. To walk on my family. And I do not like that.
But I don't want her to ... oh, whatever.
It doesn't really matter what I say.
She's going to continue feeling the way she feels.
And that sucks. Cuz I don't want her to think of me as mean. Sorry, as having the capacity to say mean things upon occasion.
And I'm going to continue to stick up for my boundaries and the boundaries of my family, even when she sees it as being mean.

a hard time

having a hard time keeping my head up.
feels like I'm close to drowning, but somehow i get just enough strength to keep treading water.
pretty lonely.
feeling alone.
feeling like it's not going to change.
knowing that these thoughts aren't right and trying to change my feelings and mood, but not doing a really good job with that.
sleep would be great, but it's hard.
drugging myself with Unisom every night for mediocre rest makes for a tough day the next day. and every day is the next day.
days are kinda running together.
want this era to end now so that i can start the next one.
want to sleep for a really really long time.
want to feel rested.
want to feel my wife again.
i haven't felt her in too long.
I'm wanting in this world now and i don't know how to alter that.
but i keep powering through.
at some point it must end, right?

Spine Shocks

I get these electric shocks sometimes. They feel like somebody has just hooked a battery up to my body. Most of the time I get them up and down my spine and in my neck. Sometimes they shoot out to my shoulders and even into my arms and fingers.

They happen when I remember things.
Things that I don't want to remember.
It's like my body is judging behavior that I have deemed unacceptable.
I was bad, and now my body continues to punish me for it.

I see this picture in my head of an ex-girlfriend and I feel guilty that I broke up with her. No, I feel guilty that I ever went out with her. I feel like I was lying when I told her that I wanted to go out with her. I obviously didn't want to go out with her, because we broke up. And so I feel like I lied. Or even-- a more sane thought-- I changed my mind about her. I initially thought I wanted to go out with her, but then I decided that I didn't want to anymore. I didn't like her enough to continue seeing her. And then I feel stupid, like, "Why didn't I see that sooner?" And now I have to hurt her. And I don't like hurting people. And then her friends write me emails telling me about how bad I am. Like they're confirming what I'm already thinking. They tell me I'm evil and a horrible monster. And even though I know in my head that they are going over the top, I just really hate hurting people, so I feel guilty. It's my fault that she's hurting, and so I must have done something bad.

And that was back in 2006.

And now I think about it and think that there's something wrong with me because I can't let it go. Because it still sends electric shocks up my back. And my wife tells me that I must be getting something out of it, and she tells me this because that's what I tell her. And I believe that's true. But I don't know what I'm getting out of it. And I don't know how to get rid of it. It feels like a sickness that I can't shake. I don't have medicine for it. I don't always remember it, but when it comes back, it's really hard to shake.

And I don't know when it's going to happen or what's going to set it off. And I don't know how to get rid of it.

Snake On A Porch

There was a fucking snake on my front porch this morning!

My wife said something like, "garter snakes don't bite," and, "there's nothing to be worried about," and, "it's a small one, everything's okay." But I know better! That snake was waiting to eat me! Anybody else see "Snakes On A Plane"??? I rest my case! And he had the perfect time of day, too: when I've just awokened and am groozy and woggy from an unproductive night's (non) rest. That's the best time to jump me and eat me! Like the perfect killing machine that he is! All three inches of him ready for dinner at 7 am!

But my wife handled the situation perfectly.
"Would you like to leave through the side door?"
Yes I would, Brilliant Wife!

She totally saved my life today.

How Did You Sleep?

I could've answered her this morning.

She typically asks me this question when we wake up. "How did you sleep?" And I usually get a little frustrated with the question. I don't know how I slept. I was asleep. I don't remember how I slept. And then she explains that she's asking if I feel rested. I don't know. I'm just waking up. Of course I don't feel rested. I wanna go back to bed. I wanna snuggle with you. I don't want to be up. Do I feel rested? If I answer "no" can we go back to sleep?

She asks me these questions a lot. And we go through this same dance a lot. And I don't get, like, real real frustrated. I just want to have an answer for her, and I don't. I feel like I'm not doing it right because I don't have an answer for her. And I never remember that she's asking if I feel rested. Probably because I haven't really rested and so I'm still asleep, but she always explains herself calmly, as if she knows that I'm not upset with her. As if she knows about this dance, too.

Maybe she's just talking to me. We like to talk to each other. Maybe she's trying to find something to say first thing in the morning and has nothing else to say so she asks how I slept. Maybe she's asleep, too, and this is like a morning stretch for us: we go through this same thing in order to get our brains working. Maybe. I don't know.

But through my frustration, I like it. I like that she's talking to me. I like that she's snuggling up next to me. Sometimes, she asks me right in my ear so that I can feel her hot breath on my neck. I like feeling her that close to me. I like feeling her arm over me. Her feet tucked into my knee pits. I like her. More than I've liked anyone else. Ever. She was made for me.

But she didn't ask me today. "How did you sleep," did not come out of her mouth.

Because she was asleep herself. And I had to gently pet her head and kiss her chin before she took that deep breath in that signals her rising.

Had she asked me, "how did you sleep," I could have answered her today: like shit. I woke up several times during the night and looked at the clock with tired eyes that shouldn't be looking at a synthetic green-blue digital readout that's trying really hard to be welcoming and soothing but falls short of the mark. I couldn't find a good snuggle with her last night. And I woke up with aches and pains like I'm a geriatric. I had a hard time walking this morning. I felt like a large dude whacked me with a rubber mallet over and over again. All over. I feel awful.

I'm kinda glad she didn't ask me this morning. I wouldn't have had a good answer for her. And I only want to give her good things. Good answers. Good kisses. Good feelings. Good things.

Yeah, yeah, I know that I can't always give her good things, you Contradictory Asshole. I know that life is good AND bad. It's not like I was born yesterday and I certainly don't need you jumping in and giving advice which is not asked for and beside the point.

The point is, I WANT something, and that something is to give my wife the best of the world that I can give her. And today, my world wasn't very good, and had she asked about my world, it wouldn't have been very good.

Instead of asking the question, she groggily put her arms around my neck, and sleepily returned the kisses I flitted on her face. And she told me she loved me.

And some days that's all I really need. I'm so glad to have my wife in my life. It's the best thing ever.

What I Would Say To You If You Were The Therapists That I Don't Have Right Now But Probably Should Have

So BloodyCumster signed our 9-year-old up for football. Then he paid top dollar for brand new sports equipment which he could've rented for a fraction of the cost. Then he's got the vagina to ask for compensation. My wife, quite aptly, told BC that if he had told us about football in advance, we might have had the opportunity to prepare for such a large expenditure. However, with such short notice and without consultation as to whether it would be best to rent equipment for an ever-growing 9-year-old versus buying top-of-the-price-tag equipment for a boy that won't be able to wear that equipment next year, BloodyCumster would be on his own financially. I love her for that response. She's brilliant.

Then BloodyCumster buys cleats for our 9-year-old. They are cleats that are so slippery on regular surfaces (tile in homes and stores, cement, etc.) that our 9-year-old must walk as if he were traversing ice until he reaches the safety of grass, where he can ambulate normally. So BloodCum tells me that our 9-year-old "must" take flip-flops with him to practices so that he can change into them when he's done and won't slip and fall and hurt himself. In my head, our 9-year-old can just kick the shoes off and walk in the house. However, BloodyCumster feels it necessary to force foothing apparel, so I'm gonna let him do his thing, as he can't force me to do my thing. So my wife and I take our 9-year-old to practice. Everything goes great. We take him to another practice. Everything goes great. And no flip-flops either time.

Then our 9-year-old has a game. He does really well. After the game, BloodyCumster takes our 9-year-old to Target, where he slips and hurts his back and now he is going to the doctor today at 1 to make sure he's okay. He was with BloodCum, not me. I wasn't even aware of the trip to Target until my wife told me about it moments ago.

And here's the funnest part of the whole shindig: BloodCumster calls to tell my wife about our 9-year-old's injury, and the reason for the fall is because he TOLD me that our 9-year-old should wear flip-flops after practice so that he doesn't slip and fall.

Lemme recap for you, in case you missed this (because if you're sane, this will take a second to comprehend):
1. I was not at Target when the slip and fall happened
2. I did not know about the trip to Target where the slip and fall happened
3. Our 9-year-old has never fallen in my presence nor has he missed football practice because of a fall he's sustained while under my care
4. Our 9-year-old was in BloodCumster's care
5. BloodCumster had verbalized understanding of the great possibility of a slip and fall occurring due to the slippery nature of the cleats, even going so far as to making "rules" to prevent such an occurrence

And after all of this, the reason for the slip and fall, according to BloodyCumster, is because I hadn't made our 9-year-old wear flip-flops after practice over a week ago.

I'm at a loss as to what to say.

This is the man who is in charge of our children's care for more than half of their lives. Apparently he is unable to maintain their safety and is unable to provide a sane or logical reason for their injuries. It's like trying to parent with a lunatic who has completely lost touch with reality.

He fell because I hadn't made him wear flip-flops over a week ago??? What kind of bullshit is that??? How about this for more logical thoughts on the matter:
He fell because you bought him cleats that prevent him from walking on any surface other than grass.
He fell because you took him to a store that has not been floored in grass.
He fell because you didn't take him home after the game.
He fell because you weren't watching him closely.

Or maybe you want more neutral reasons:
He fell because gravity works.
He fell because all people fall and it was his time to go down.
He fell because he tripped on something that anyone would trip on.
He fell because his cleats weren't made to walk on slippery retail store flooring.

But BloodyCumster goes for the step-father blame. He goes for the crazy, Hail Mary bomb blame. Giving me more power than I'm deserving of. Completely stripping himself of any responsibility and, therefore, any power to prevent or help the situation. Making him look even insaner than he already looks.

Fuck, this man should have been aborted. What a waste of space.



...at this point in our therapy session, I would hope that you would offer me great drugs that would help me feel better and give me some great mental health treatment so that I could go about thinking differently so that I might use my cognitive therapy in conjunction with my prescription medication to alleviate my anger and frustration. However, you're just a silly blog and suck at writing prescriptions. I would really like some prescriptions right now.
Crap.

Two Days Post-Move

I'm exhausted.
I've returned to work after moving from our old house to our new house.
We moved some stuff on Friday.
We had movers come on Saturday to move our big stuff (like a piano).
My wife, mother, a friend and myself all moved other stuff while the movers were doing the big stuff.
After the movers left, the four of us continued to work.
Sunday, my wife and I continued to move stuff.
Today is Monday, and we'll be moving stuff later today.
Tomorrow is Tuesday. We'll be moving stuff on Tuesday.
At this point, I hate stuff.
All of it.
I want it all gone.
When I think of "stuff" right now, all I think of is sweat raining off my forehead, down my back and chest and pooling in my taint and asshole, and then chafing. And somewhere in there, my muscles feel like bowling balls dipped in really hot salsa, preventing me from moving quickly or with any comfort.

The upside of this is that we have a new, kickass house.
The boys are excited.
My wife and I are excited.
It's a great house.
Really great.
And I got to buy it with my wife.
And sometimes I'm still giddy that she's my wife.
That she married me.
That she likes me.
I'm overjoyed that she turned out to be my best friend.
But on top of that, she likes it when I kiss her.
And she wants to kiss me back.
And she makes me laugh.
And she's got a great butt.
And she is the only person I want to be with no matter where I am.
I love her more than this kickass house.
And the fact that she lives in this house with me makes a world of difference.

But today, my asshole has some kind of painful rash-thing going on with it and my muscles are screaming like infants being trampled. And I want to throw away everything I've ever owned. It all sucks. Except my wife. And our boys. And the house. And my mom. And the friend that helped us. And the movers were okay, too. And my wife.