A Come-Apart

Yesterday was a terrific day.
Today sucks.

Not every minute of it, but most especially this afternoon, within the last hour.

I'm at such wit's end, I can only type in clipped sentences right now:

Spencer drank last night at Kip's, coming home after another argument.
Kip continually called his cell phone leaving verbal tirades on the voice mail.
Spencer wanted more beer at home since he left it all over at Kip's.
I acquiesced and gave him the debit card and told him he'd have to walk.
I had had a couple beers of my own and wasn't going to drive.
We didn't argue, we had a good evening, drinking and watching Monty Python.

Today, Spencer wanted to go hang out at his brother's house [with more beer].
I took him over there, and went to visit a friend's business open house, in order to give her some moral support.
I did a little shopping, calling Spencer when I was done, to see if he was ready to be picked up from his brother's [it'd been about 4 hours by then].
When I get there, he's not ready, making me wait; my temper already building.
We get home, he gets his drunken ass in the house.
My patience is wearing thin.
He starts digging in my shopping bags, throwing one onto the floor to make himself room on the couch.
That's when I completely fly off the handle. [I think in the South they call it "having a come-apart].
Then Spencer rails at me for flying off at him, and we're yelling, he's throwing groceries, and Baby has run to the other end of the house.
Spencer's hollering at me, calling me a moron.
I'm hollering back that, yes, I am a moron, for putting up with all this.
I was wishing I was dead.
I cried [tears are still coming], but we've calmed down, and even had a bite to eat.
Spencer was still hungry so I put a frozen pizza in for him, thinking if I can get him to eat, I can get him to sleep.
In fact I hear his snores coming from the living room couch right now.
I had to turn to my blog so I could get it off my chest.
I just don't know how I can do this forever.
My temper is short, I've lost my patience, I'm losing my sanity.

And there's still some groceries I can't find, after their flight.

~Pym

Taze Me Bro

It's been almost 48 hours since Spencer began this weekend's binge, starting Friday evening, continuing through this morning--with a break of crashing out in snores on the couch for thankfully some hours--and he said to me as I went hurrying out the door this morning that he may not be home when I get back later this evening.

I was going out the door to first go shopping, then come in to work to get some stuff done. The hurrying part was because I just had to get out of the house. Friday night was fine because Spencer stayed at Kip's. Saturday evening he came home after they had another argument [shocking that two guys would get into an argument after a full day of beer-drinking] and I've been a bundle of stress since. It doesn't bode well for a relationship, when things seem to go better when you're apart...just saying.

In the middle of The Men Who Stare At Goats, Spencer came in last night, telling me about the argument with Kip. Then he wanted me to start the movie over so he could watch it. So, I started the movie over and then he kept saying, "I don't like this movie," and talking over it and looking away at the good parts. I said, "Fine, then leave the room; no one's making you watch the movie." And it went downhill from there...

Our communication can be bad in the best of times; add to that his couple dozen beers, my three, and we might as well each be talking to goats. Spencer's personality goes hot and cold, angry to loving, yelling at the TV to solicitude to me, from "I don't know why you married me," to, "I love you so much." This roller-coaster of not knowing how he'll react to anything raises my blood pressure and makes my nerve endings freak out. But then, in a lucid moment, he gives me the most beautiful compliment I've ever gotten: "You're the reason artists paint pictures." Waaah! Then it's followed with more wild talk and anger at the world. It all makes me want to run...literally having the impulse to run out of the house yelling crazy-cat-lady phrases...with only the fear of embarrassment or involuntary committal keeping me in check. Then tomorrow, when he hopefully sobers up, we'll probably have a wonderful day. Is it any wonder that this up and down road is leading me to LoopDeeLoo Land?

Sometimes I want to be knocked out for only a little while; someone klunk me with a frying pan, or taze me; then take me to a beach, coat me with sunblock, lay me down on a towel, and let me wake up with a book in one hand and a Corona in the other. Preferably a beach in Puerto Rico. I'd be more likely to have Benicio del Toro trip over me.

Breathing deeply, moving on for the day.
Thank you, Dear Reader, for being a "listening ear"; it always makes me feel better to get it out.
:O)
~Pym