Sarcasm Central

We’re in Love, We’re in Hate

Happy New Year everyone!  I’m changing things up around here today.  Below is something I wrote a while back, a snippet, a scene, a slice of time and of pain and anguish.  Would I give you anything else?  Of course not!    I don’t really feel that this piece goes much further than this and I’m not really sure this could be considered a short story.  I often write snippets, just tiny little scenes that bring you into someone’s life.  Maybe it’s flash fiction. although is probably too long for that.  What do you think?

“You don’t love me, you don’t care,” I state, staring intently into the open cabinet at our white plates, not really seeing them as they begin to blur through my tears.

I know I’m lying, I know he does love me, but right now my depression is slapping me across the face like a cold black wave, shocking me with its intensity.  I want to cry, I want to beat on his chest, sob about all the horrible things that have happened to me.

“Do you know how much this sucks?  Do you know what this means?  I’ll probably have to be on birth control for the rest of my life and I’ll probably have pain for the rest of my life too.  Not only that, we might not be able to have children.”

My husband is silent.   He’s always silent, there but not, and I know he can hear me but he refuses to say even one word.  I pull some dishes out of the cabinet and slam them onto the counter with a loud rattle.  Goddamn my life.  Fuck this.

“Babe, you are not listening to me.  I am going to be in pain forever!  I will never be med-free now.  My dream of being completely natural will never happen now that I have Endometriosis.”

He still isn’t really looking at me, shoulders hunched, face entirely impassive.  Say something!

“Don’t I already have enough to deal with, with my anxiety?  Isn’t my life already enough of a shit show?  Everyone else has these damn perfect lives, amazing lives with no problems.  They always get exactly what they want, the fucking bitches, while I have more and more shit piled on top of my head.  How much more can I take?  I know I could feel better if I could get some exercise, but I can’t even seem to manage that.  I’m so tired.  I’m so emotionally fucked.  I just want to lay down, fall sobbing to the floor and never get up again.”

He is still silent, playing with something on the counter, eyes downcast focused on what he’s doing.  I feel my blood start to pound in my ears, why won’t he say something, comfort me?  Can’t he see how I’m hurting?

“You have no idea how bad this hurts me physically.  If this shit was happening to your penis you would definitely think something was seriously wrong with you.  I feel like I am going to die.  Say goodbye to me honey, cause I have some kind of terrible disease and I’m not going to live much longer.  And you know what, maybe that’s okay?  Maybe I don’t give a shit what happens to me because living is the worst punishment there could ever be for me.  It’s always fucking something.  There is no rest.”

Silence. I rip open the silverware drawer, metal clanking metal.

“Fucking Christ!  And next weekend we’ve got that damn party to go to and you know I can’t handle that without drinking and you know how I hate myself and feel horrific afterward, so then I’ll panic for the entire next week and my skin will be atrocious too.  Have you seen my fucking skin?  It’s like breakout city because my hormones are totally fucked.  Can you please look at me, say something?!”

He looks at me and his eyes are sad, but still he says nothing.  I stare.  Finally, he says,

“Babe, I don’t know what to say to you.  I don’t know how to solve your problems.   I don’t know what to do.  I hate seeing you like this.”

“I just want you to listen to me.  I want you to hear what I’m saying.  Honestly can you feel a bit bad for me?  Can you host a pity party for me? Is that too much to ask?  I’m a total hot mess right now and I need to let it out.  I need to talk and I would like it if you would talk back to me, help me, come up with answers with me.  I need that.

He nods his head and goes to sit on the chair in the dining room, head in hands.

“I don’t know what to say,” he says again.

“Babe what if I can’t work anymore.  What if the pain becomes too great.  What if this Endo and panic combo destroy me?  I couldn’t stand to be dependent on you.  I want to pull my own weight, but sometimes it feels so hard. Everyday feels hard, to get up, go to work, be exhausted by the end of the day, never able to really take care of myself or my health.  I just want to stop.  Just stop the fuckin ride, cause I want off.”

Silence, but at least I know he’s hearing me, even if it makes me want to strangle him.  I pull glass containers out of the fridge, left overs, and slam each of them on the counter in turn creating the music of my misery.

“How can I leave the house with this skin?  I am 30 years old and my skin looks worse than a teenager.  I look horrific.  I feel horrific.  I want to die.  Babe, I don’t want to live anymore.  Living is too hard.  I don’t want to go to work tomorrow, I don’t want to even eat this food, even that is too much work.  But of course I have to eat.  I have to fucking feed this mess of a body that is totally letting me down.  I always thought I’d be fine.  I always thought, get off birth control, start a family.  It’s easy.  But it’s not easy.  I’ve been off the pill for 6 months and nothing, nothing but pain and agony, trying to figure out what is wrong with me.  I feel like I have a goddamned bladder infection every month and the cramping is killing me. I only feel good for 2 weeks out of every month, the rest of the time is pain, every single time I go to the bathroom.  Do you know what that is like?  It’s a basic function, something I have to do every single day.  And sometimes the frequency is insane too.  Babe, someone needs to help me.  I can’t handle this shit anymore.”

I yank open the microwave door and shove a glass container inside and punch at the buttons.  This is so damn normal.  But nothing is normal anymore.

“My body feels like a stranger to me.  I don’t understand me anymore.  None of the typical responses are the same.  Everything just feels…weird.  Can you please fucking SAY something to me.  Please. I fricken beg of you.”

“I don’t know what to say to you,” he repeats and he looks so tired, like I’m wearing him out, like my drama is worse to him than my actual problems are to me.

“How about you tell me what the fuck it means if we can’t have children.  Tell me that our lives are not totally fucked if we can’t.  Tell me how you feel.  I need to know.”

He looks at me for a moment, rubs his eyes and finally comes to stand near me, putting out one hand, touching my hip, turning me toward him, pulling my stiff body into his arms.

“Babe, I love you and whatever happens, happens.  If we have kids, we have them and if we don’t, we don’t.  There could be some benefits to not having children.  I don’t want you to worry about it because it will be what it will be,” he says and it’s exactly what I needed to hear.  I crumble into his arms, sobbing.  I thought life would happen a certain way and that hasn’t happened.  Life throws its curveballs and we are forced to catch them or fall.  I would fall without him.

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About Victoria Sawyer (281 Articles)
Victoria Sawyer is a blogger, author, aspiring graphic designer, social media enthusiast and mental health advocate. Shocking, honest, sarcastic and humorous, Victoria aims to make readers feel tangible emotions and physical sensations through writing that brings you into the mind and body of someone suffering from panic attacks, anxiety and this strange often darkly hilarious thing we call life. She published her novel Angst in 2013, which realistically and often graphically depicts life with mental illness. Along with crazy blogging, Victoria enjoys reading historical novels, playing with her naughty cats, engaging in rants and metaphysical existential meltdowns and using punctuation to excess in everything she writes.

2 Trackbacks / Pingbacks

  1. Wedded Hell | Angst
  2. When Life Gives You Shit, You Give it Hell | Angst

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