The Moment

I recently found myself having a moment. You know the kind. Total breakdown, freakout, screaming at the top of my lungs kind of moment.

I’m lucky my significant other wasn’t home at the time of this moment of mine, because none of it is his fault, at the same time that he caused it. So let me rephrase that- it’s totally and completely his fault, but it was utterly accidental.

I came home from an already meh kind of day knowing that he was going bowling with his friends. I had wanted to be alone all day (and was therefore kind of avoiding him) because the evening before, we had gone to see a “move in ready, needs a little work, but completely liveable” twenty acre retired farm. The Realtor assured us it was ready to go, and the owner was willing to lease it for a year so that we could fix it up before applying for a loan. We showed up to find twenty acres of disaster. The house had holes in the walls, a sagging ceiling, an uneven, torn apart floor, insulation coming through the ceiling, busted out windows, etcetera. And the barn needed to be burnt down. The entire place needed to be condemned, and I’m not kidding, because the entire way through, Boyfriend and I were both trying to see the bright side- we can fix this, we can fix that, this isn’t so bad… Until we got back to the car, covered in mosquito bites and prickers, and he put his hand on my shoulder. That’s when we knew we would never be going back, let alone buying the place.

After that failure, I woke up just wanting to be somewhere else. I left for the barn before he even woke up, and spent the entire day there, just sitting in the run in in my pasture. And then I went to my mom and her partner’s house for dinner and a movie, and I made sure to stay until I knew Boyfriend was gone before I went home.

I walked through the door at nearly midnight to find everything cleaned and tidied and vacuumed. And the pictures from my old apartment hung on the walls. The desk in the bedroom was clear for the first time in months, and our stuff was clearly separated, his jars of coins and lighters, pens and golf tees on one side and a little box filled with my comb and aspirin, peppermints and hair ties and mismatched bridle pieces on my side. He moved the shotgun over to his side of the bed, since I had just that morning bitched about it being on my side after I dropped my phone and couldn’t get to it with the gun in the way.

None of this sounds like cause for a moment. In fact, it sounds like cause for one of those movie sappy sweet smiles with the aw-he-loves-me music playing in the background.

It wasn’t.

I was angry.

Pissed off. Furious. Hurt.

And it’s good that he wasn’t here to witness me throwing things at the walls, but he didn’t mean to hurt me or make me angry or piss me off at all. He just thought he had a free day to finally clean like he wanted to (he’s the cleaner in our relationship- I’m the slob. I only clean at the barn).

I wanted to rage at him- why are you trying to make this shithole apartment seem homey when I’m trying so hard to find us a place to move?

Who gave you permission to hang my paintings?

Why the fuck aren’t you helping me find a place for us to live?

And why did you separate my things on the desk? Hide them away in some stupid sparkly box- where did you even get a sparkly box? We both know it’s not mine- like you’re trying to put me in some tidy little neat quiet corner and control me.

That isn’t even your gun! It’s mine! Who gave you the right to move it?

Great, you cleaned the fucking television. Since you love that television so damn much. You leave it on all night long and I have to go sleep on the couch because I can’t stand having a television in the bedroom, it’s so ridiculous, I can’t deal with the noise and the flickering lights and also, the next time I have to sleep on the couch because you and your fucking dog take up so much room, I am going to shove you both off the side.

I sound crazy. I feel crazy. I definitely shouldn’t post this online to prove how crazy I am, but I don’t know anyone who’ll be reading this and I’d much rather rant at a stranger I’m never going to meet than rant at my unsuspecting boyfriend who didn’t do anything wrong. Ranting makes me feel better. Mentally screaming as I write is much better than actually screaming and starting a fight over something stupid with someone who didn’t do a damn thing wrong.

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