Misery is a gift that keeps us from getting too comfortable and remaining static. Oh, how I love sarcasm. Misery is straight up miserable.
I’m not good at hiding emotion. Even if I don’t verbalize something, my face is quite a tattle-tale. I’ve been having a hell of a time controlling angry outbursts, and for the most part, I’m doing a fantastic job. I’m proud of myself for not throwing a shoe at manchild’s face when he makes me feel bad about asking him to take care of his laundry or put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher.
He picks up on my irritability, and it bothers him. Boohoo. This is what he wants:
Unfortunately, he isn’t the King of all Cosmos, so this is what he gets:
I can try to justify it as a response to my life turning into one fuck-my-life event after another, but that makes it sound like I’m trying to absolve myself of responsibility for the ways I act and react. Instead, I say I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on him, or avoid speaking to him out of fear of what I’ll say. Words can hurt. As far as I’m concerned, I just can’t win.
I don’t know what else I can do. Ideas?