This past week has been of those that you would just like to rewind and start over. Too many obligations pulling me in too many directions and when the dust settles I can see that I accommodated the wrong people. Worse, exhausted and on my last – no really – my last nerve, I lashed out at the one least deserving.
After twelve hours of sleep followed by a day in jammies and slippers, I am beginning to feel human again.
When will my husband learn that doormat and wife are not synonymous? He would like me to live in a landscape of limitations where he rules by virtue of his testosterone. Instead, I systematically (and ever so gently) remind him that he is an ass.
Sometimes, extenuating circumstances like a 1,235 mile round trip in less than 48 hours to attend a funeral pushes me to the brink. When I get little thanks and even less consideration – I’m over the edge.
The real problem here is that it’s entirely my own fault. I never was very good at math, but an idiot can figure out that 48 hours of pure stress followed by two days of recuperation and a stack of backed up projects at work, when measured against an hour or two of argument over not attending his uncle’s funeral, is not equal.
As a good (single) friend once said to me, “I am not responsible for anybody’s happiness but my own.”
Perhaps if I have it tattooed to the back of my hand where I can see it everyday, I won’t forget again.
And if I try really, really hard, I will set a better example of placing and respecting my own boundaries in a healthy marriage (in all relationships for that matter). Then maybe I’ll be less apt to lash out at the wrong people.
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