"August to February"

It came up again last night. The fact that he worked from "August to February" while I am working now. It did not go over well. Of course. What was he thinking? So I laid into him. I just cannot take that. It angers me so much.

How dare he say that. How dare he act like what I am doing right now is anywhere near to what he is doing. And all my explaining, and my yelling gets me nowhere.

Telling him I work 50 hours a week, telling him I get one day off a week since February, does nothing. I exploded in a fit of memories. The sad thing, or maybe the good thing, is that these memories no longer pain me. They no longer hurt me, or make me cry. They are now just facts. Just moments of my life that I can no longer get back. Just facts.

The memory I happened to remind him of last night was being a young newlywed, and home every night faithfully, and cooking and cooking and cooking. I made the most deluxe, gourmet, delicious meals I could. All sorts of chicken dishes, experiments with potatoes, noodles, steak. I was truly the most perfect housewife. The classic housewife.

How many nights were there - I lost track - where I would spend hours cooking and perfecting, and he would not show up? So often. I would eat by myself, barely able to taste these delicious meals, in front of the TV.

So last night, we lay in bed, and I chastised him for ten minutes straight, telling him it was not the same. Me working my ass off? Not the same at all. I work, I am working. I am not out smoking crack. I am not getting high. I am working every minute I say I am working. And all that money I get? I bring it home. I bring it home and attempt to pay portions of bills before I even allow myself the slightest gratification of buying something for myself.

And what did he do? I'm sure he knows. But to remind him - he invested in drugs first. He invested in his physical and mental high before he realized he had no money left to pay the bills. And we were forced again to ask for help. And I went through another month of stress, wondering how in the world we would pay rent.

Sacrificing myself - telling him that sure, we could eat macaroni every day. Sure, Ramen noodles. In order to save money. And all along, we never really had to do that. All along, he was an addict.

After the fight last night, or, more accurately, I once again went on and on at him, we lay there in silence. I longed to touch him. I wanted to feel his skin under my fingers, to feel him there. But I kept myself full of pride. I didn't allow myself the satisfaction of feeling him. He was naughty. He needed to be punished.

Maybe I was the one who was punished after that outburst. He said one thing the entire time, and I don't even remember what it was. Even after I was done with my verbal assaults, he lay there in silence. I know he was awake. He went to the bathroom afterwards. I felt bad. But not bad enough.

I want him to have a taste, just a taste, of what it is like to be in my shoes. What it was like. Did he never think about his wife at home, crying? Staring out at the window at every car passing by, wondering where her husband was? No. He didn't think of that. And I want him to understand how it was for me. I want him to see, to feel, how it was in my shoes.

But he never will. Will I always be like this towards him? Because while I am no longer sad about the past, I am full of anger. Full of anger and more substantially, hate.