After twelve hours of sleep followed by a day in jammies and slippers, I am beginning to feel human again.
When will my husband learn that doormat and wife are not synonymous? He would like me to live in a landscape of limitations where he rules by virtue of his testosterone. Instead, I systematically (and ever so gently) remind him that he is an ass.
Sometimes, extenuating circumstances like a 1,235 mile round trip in less than 48 hours to attend a funeral pushes me to the brink. When I get little thanks and even less consideration – I’m over the edge.
The real problem here is that it’s entirely my own fault. I never was very good at math, but an idiot can figure out that 48 hours of pure stress followed by two days of recuperation and a stack of backed up projects at work, when measured against an hour or two of argument over not attending his uncle’s funeral, is not equal.
As a good (single) friend once said to me, “I am not responsible for anybody’s happiness but my own.”
Perhaps if I have it tattooed to the back of my hand where I can see it everyday, I won’t forget again.
And if I try really, really hard, I will set a better example of placing and respecting my own boundaries in a healthy marriage (in all relationships for that matter). Then maybe I'll be less apt to lash out at the wrong people.
. . . . . . mid
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