I decided to make the drive to bring a different lunch. There was no fork, no napkins, and it tasted “horrible” so that got thrown away too. I think I ended up making it worse than it already was.
I have accused some of these mood swings on steroids multiple times. When he is in a good mood, he will admit that some of his “raging” is because of them but its never towards me. Its always when he gets mad at someone else. On the outside, its hard for me to not show how ridiculous this sounds. Throwing a pizza at the the glass door of a restaurant doesn’t sound any different that a TV ending up in the pond. If one can be recognized as “roid rage”, why can’t the other? And oh how I wish all of this was because of some sort of substance. I wish I knew that if you took steroids out of the picture it would all become normal.
The one and only reason I don’t lose my crap about the steroids is because that was one of the only reasons we were able to have sex. And now that’s not even happening. I don’t even know if we have had actual sex in two months. Maybe I’m confused on how things work but even if we can’t have actual sex, couldn’t we at least be some what intimate?
If I could have the perfect night, I would meet him outside as I always do. He’d kiss me like he always does except this time, he’d actually stop for a second and see me. It wouldn’t be some quick peck. I mean, I probably checked the door 5 times thinking I heard him pull up. I probably looked down the street twice to see if I saw his head lights. I spent all day for this moment.
That is my life every evening except he never does see me. It couldn’t possibly hurt any more than this. To hear how I don’t love him. To hear how I overlook him, how I don’t care about him or don’t think of him.
I’ve never been graceful. I fall a lot. My arms and legs stay bruised because I always misjudge door frames and corners. If I get too excited, I scramble and forget important things. I write everything down in a notebook because I am honest with myself about my flaws. I forget napkins. I sometimes leave the cabinet doors open. I stutter if I’m under too much pressure and I cry easily. But I love hard. And sometimes, because of how I am, the harder I try, the harder I fail.