Jamison and I did not have a good night. By Friday evening I'm weary from my week - especially now - and I am cranky. He wanted to go to an art opening, and asked me early in the week if I would go; I said yes, but with an asterisk. I'm tired on Friday nights and generally don't like to go out. He knows this; I know this. Saturday night is much better, though lately I've been a bit agoraphobic because I'm stressed out. But I try. I do.
I asked him kindly if I could pass on the art thing since he intimated before that it was no big deal but simply an interest of his. But he does this thing that I hate where he subtly pressures me until I give in that sounds something like this "we'll only be gone a little while; we'll stop in, say hello, look around and come home. I want to spend the evening with you," and while this is of course a sweet way of doing things (and completely rational - I grant this also), I bristle at it. I bristle because of old wounds that never healed entirely and the resistance to coercion of any kind is my M.O. now; too many controlling men in my life before Jamison ruined it for him and because I have spent too many years of my life feeling powerless and helpless against tides, against the streams, my first reaction to even the kindest attempts at convincing me to do something I know I don't want to do for whatever reason is abject refusal on my part. The one thing I don't want to do, however, is force Jamison to have to pay for the sins of others, and this makes me conflicted at another level; I want him to be happy, I in fact wanted to spend my evening with him, and most of all, I didn't want him to be angry with me, or frustrated, or at that point where I'm irrational and his rational mind does not know what to do with/for me. When he asked if I was ready to go, I said I was tired, and that I had driven from Northglenn to downtown all week, and that I'd had a frantic and busy day from the start. I wasn't whining. He knows my tactics, and doesn't hear me at all: he says "put your shoes on; we won't stay long and I'll drive."
Inside my head says "this man is not going to tell me what to do" without regard to who is saying it. Rather than hurting his feelings, I retreat silently to the kitchen to run the dishwasher. Already, I've said that I don't want to go (nicely), I've told him more or less my reasons for not wanting to go, and I've stated clearly that I want to spend the evening with him but I'm not up for going downtown or talking to people. He spends all day in a tiny room at work, so I get that he needs socialization at the end of the day; I, however, spend the day with a million people - a large percentage of whom demand various things of me - and sometimes I need to be alone inside my own head. He comes into the kitchen and once more asks if I'm ready to go; he has clearly decided that he's "making" me go in my own best interest which I also hate. I don't want to be "handled" or taken care of this way; I don't want to be told or even hinted toward that he thinks he knows what is better for me when I'm feeling anxious than I do. I know for a fact that he does this out of love for me and not in any way to control me, but try to tell that to my brain.
I lost it in the kitchen. When I restated that I didn't want to go, he got angry and informed me that I never want to go anywhere anymore, that I am no fun, and that most of his friends think that I don't like them or that I'm a snob. He has told me these things before and it hurts my feelings, not because I care about any of those things specifically, but because it means that out of all the people in the world who don't get me, he's now one of them on this level. Unless you've been there, you cannot possibly fathom what academic life is like - what graduate school is like - the pressures and the continual engagement required of you. I never get a break. When I leave work or school, it's only physically; I am always engaged in the loop of what I have to do today, when I can call people back, what emails need to be answered, which students need "come to Jesus" talks, and what I have to read, write, submit somewhere, edit, plan for or do. When and if those things get done in the current space, I had better sure as hell be planning for the next round before it sneaks up and bites me right in the ass. It's an overwhelming life I lead that encompasses at least three full-time jobs and I feel lucky most days that I'm even capable of complete sentences.
In any case, I screamed at him, told him about the million things I've done all day (just today, even) and how all he did was go to work and come home, and that his job is the same each day and when clocks out, he's done. His response: I work hard too, and sometimes I'm stressed, but I still do what you want me to. This may in fact be true to some extent, but I can say honestly that I wouldn't give him one ounce of shit if he wanted to pass on something because of being tired or stressed from work. Not one ounce. Instead of losing it, I said "fine; I'll get my bag and shoes." I wanted to cry but didn't; I got my things together and got into the car in cold silence. Obedience, even, goddammit. Then he wants to be fucking nice to me and I felt so defeated, so helpless, so completely misunderstood. This is not the first time we've had this conversation/disagreement/issue. He takes my hand and says "I love you" which frankly only makes it all worse. Somehow I'm the bad guy, the one who needs "handling," the head case, the bad partner, and if I remain angry, I'm a bitch too. Then he decides we should "talk about it" and no matter what I say, it doesn't sink in for him and only makes me feel worse because I cannot express myself in terms he can understand.
And words and expression are my power. Without them, what else is there?
Throughout the evening, he tried to be tender, sweet, attentive, considerate but all the while I could only think about how much my feelings had been hurt and how desperately mad it made me. He made jokes this morning about how I'm not talking to him and I don't know how to bridge this gulf of comprehension (or lack thereof) between us. He is not a bad guy, has never been one, and yet I can't make him understand even the most basic center of who I am in this way. I suppose it's part of our human condition - this inability to ever really make another person grasp that inner part of you that doesn't make sense - but it doesn't help to know it.
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