Talk about your garden variety moron . . .

Yanno, my trip to Dominica put a lot of things in perspective for me. I mean, I talk a lot of shit about fuckin Yei for a week, but on the serious tip, while I was down in Dominica, I really realized what's important in life. And I am so over raising a 53-year-old child. I dunno if it was coming home to realize that lover wore the same nasty pair of jeans -- without washing them, mind you -- for the whole week I was gone or the fact that he let his laundry pile up while I was sick (he said he did that because before I left, I told him not to worry about it, but fuck, I came back really sick -- doesn't that kinda indicate that maybe that would need to change a little??) . . . Or I dunno, even the fact that he had clean pants hanging in his closet and he even had another pair of jeans downstairs in the dryer but he was too fuckin lazy to go get'em . . . and by the way, the stuff in the dryer didn't dry very well (my mistake, I didn't set the dryer high enough) but do you know how clothes and blankets smell when they've been sitting wet in the dryer for two weeks? Which means that after I got home and lover went down to get his other pair of jeans out of the dryer, he didn't even have the common courtesy to put the blankets and other clothes back in the washer for a rewash. And all the while, I'm celebrating the fact that he made me jello. God, I feel like such an idiot sometimes.

But you know, all that crap . . . why am I in a relationship where I constantly have to explain common sense stuff to somebody who's fiffuckinteen years older than me? I love my lover, really I do, but what kicks me in the gut is that these kids -- these sweet little, poor-as-dirt kids -- kids who have nothing in the world except the clothes on their backs, these kids were more considerate in a week than my moron at home has been in the past month. FP, I had to do all of my own end-of-life paperwork by my self -- no help from him in even locating the forms to print out. And I did it, all of it, plus you saw me packing for my self and doing all the laundry and I made sure that when I left, the only thing my darling dear really had to do was eat and clean up after himself. And I get back -- it's been 100 degrees in my classroom every day, so I'm heat sick (in fact, I spent the first two days there so heatsick that getting out of bed and surviving the day was cause for celebration) and I've got this nasty stomach flu and I'm weak and I'm tired and overly emotionally and physically drained -- and I'm, like an idiot, celebrating that lover made jello for about three or four days, meanwhile not only is he allowing the laundry to build up til I get better enough to do it, but he's also harboring this pissyassed grudge because he said somethin stupid that fucked with my head and he got the 'a' answer instead of the oh-honey-it's-okay 'b' answer he might've gotten if I hadn't've been up for over twentyfour straight hours, put together my living will and my last will and my advance directive, packed, done laundry, cleaned the house, and comforted his pussyassed separation anxiety-riddled mommy-please-don't-go crock of bullshit.

And oh, by the way, the key that started all this -- my key -- was in my backpack. I'd put it in the inside pocket on the Sunday before I left because he'd taken me to do a deacon visit at the old folk's home and I didn't want to take the chance on leaving my keys in the car when I went in. It was just in a different pocket than normal. Ask loverboi where his keys were when he had to pay some stranger to break into our car in the middle of the Giant food parking lot that Tuesday before I left.

So yea, he heard part of the 'a' answer before I left and he got the rest of it as soon as I got to a computer. And he carried that shit around with him and printed off the email to take into session and hid it in his back pocket, and he ambushed me with it while we were in session. Granted, in session, I was pretty angry about the whole laundry thing, but I honestly didn't know that I felt that way until we were in session talking about it. That happens sometimes. Often with him. Not with me very often, but it does happen. Boi can't claim he didn't know how he felt about the email. He purposely ambushed me with it, planned it out so that I would not find out how he felt, or even that he was still dealing with it, until we were in session.

That's a violation of one of our sacred agreements. Soon after therapist put us on the shared-journal thing, Boi tried to ambush me. I'd written some pretty angry responses to some pretty stupid shit he'd done, and he'd tried to sneak it into the session without me knowing about it. But the thing is, I don't care if he needs to bring stuff to help him focus on what he needs to say. All I ask is that if we're going to bring stuff like that in, that we tell each other -- give each other the heads-up -- so nobody feels like they're being hit with something way out of left field. It's one thing to have shit come up unexpectedly in session; it's a whole nother thing to come into session loaded for bear and not give your lover the courtesy of a heads-up about it. Boi decided that ambush was, again, his best option. He printed out the email about the key and while we were talking about the laundry, he said 'i wanna talk some more about the key. i brought the email so we could discuss it'. No shit, that's the first time I've heard that he had anything going on about that. I had honestly forgotten about the whole incident.

See I kinda knew that one of the reasons Boi pulled that shit was because he was scraping the bottom of the barrel, looking for something to hit me with as I was leaving, so that my mind would be so focused on him and on figuring out what was wrong with our relationship, I wouldn't have time or energy to focus on anything I found cute and fuckable in Santo Domingo. And oh yea, I found something definitely cute and fuckable in Santo Domingo. Only one, though. I must be losin my edge. But I digress . . .

Boi hadn't planned on telling me that 'the problem' was about misplacing my keys. All he'd planned on telling me was that there was something wrong, but that it could wait til I got back and we'd discuss it in session.

Now, if you're about to get on a plane to go halfway round the world and your lover says that to you, yea, kinda you'd spazz. You're even more likely to spazz if you haven't slept in over twentyfour hours and all of your time and energy that wasn't spent on packing was spent on taking care of your lover, comforting your lover, and making sure your affairs were in order should you happen to die before returning home to your lover. Yea, that 'something's wrong in our relationship and we need to discuss it in therapy' would send a panic attack through you even if you don't have panic attacks. Which I do.

But Boi never planned on telling me the truth of what was 'wrong'. He only planned to bait me, to give me just enough information to send me over the edge, just enough so that I'd spend my week away wondering what the hell was going on. On some level, I saw through his charade and I called him on it. I took the bait and said, 'what the fuck?'

Who wouldn't?

That's when he had to come out with the truth. That there was nothing really wrong. He was just pissy cuz I couldn't find my keys. That's when I went off the deep end, FP. I didn't go off the deep end when he came home acting like a little pussy because I was leaving for a week. I didn't go off the deep end when he locked his keys in the car and had to pay a stranger to break into the car, in the middle of the Giant food parking lot. I didn't go off the deep end when he decided to play games on his computer, watch TV, and then sleep half the night instead of helping me decide what to pack or even helping get the laptop ready to go. I didn't go off the deep end when I had to make those hard, horrible decisions about unplugging me when I'm brain dead all by my self without any input from my pussypissy partner who's still acting like a bitchytwitchy little girl every time somebody says the word 'death' because he's still suckin his thumb and not dealin with the death of his mother. I didn't even go off the deep end when his shit got me so frazzled that the only way I could relax and enjoy the last few moments at home before I took off was to put his whiny ass to bed and go out for a Slurpee run with you and my kid.

I did, however, go off the deep end when the 'problem' he felt we needed to discuss was a fuckin carkey.

I'm so sick to death of this. I probably wouldn't've given it another thought if it hadn't've been for his attempt to ambush me when he knows that I go into session with all my weapons laid down and with nothing in my back pocket that he doesn't know about. I wish so much that I could be back in Dominica. It felt so good to be around people who knew what family meant, people who know what's important in life.

In the end, I know that it all boiled down to Boi being jealous of my being able to go to Dominica without him. He's been all over the place, even been a Korean linguist and he's owned his own businesses and just done all sorts of shit that I'll never want to do. But he's jealous of where my sense of ministry takes me. He's jealous of the number of people who confide in me and he's jealous of me having people who would pay for me to go and work in another country, but who would not even think to ask him if he wants to go. Hell, Dude, diva la musica is arranging to pay for my hotel and conference fees in November for the conference in Pittsburgh; she'd even take care of my transport, which I may ask her to do, actually. You know, of course, that Boi had to pay his own way to Puerto Rico for that conference, as well as his own conference fees. The only reason he didn't have to pay for his hotel room is that it was actually my hotel room and I was nice enough to share it with him. The church took care of that for me. Boi envies a lot of what I do and he's afraid, too, that if I travel somewhere and fall in love with the place or a person there, that I'll just stay gone. He doesn't realize that when he pulls shit like fucking with my head and ambushing me in what's supposed to be a safe space, he's pushing to get the exact same thing he thinks he's trying to fight against.

Anyway, I'm sorry for rambling on like this. I've probably said the same stuff fifty times just in this one email. The stuff with your loveydearest kinda brings this shit with Boi into really close proximity.

Hey, I've got an idea. When we go to Santo Domingo in February . . .

:-) I've gotta get down to school Chat with you later,
R