my truth

I wanted to have a conversation. I wanted him to be interested in what I’m doing and the fact that this is the best week of my life, that I feel so good. I wanted him to care. I wanted him to at least read my blog.

He said he was exhausted. He said he had a long day at work. He asked me if I would vacuum this weekend. He said the dust in the house was murder on his allergies.

I said yes, I’d vacuum. But would he read my blog? He said he was tired.

I said, I’ll be home at 9. He was sleeping when I got home. Then he woke up and was mad at me. When I tried to speak my truth, my perspective of the situation, he stayed mad, told me his perspective was the only right one, that I was wrong, and he left. He wouldn’t talk to me.

In the morning, I asked if we could talk. He was on his way to work. He said if I’m here when you’re home. I asked if we could eat lunch. He said he doesn’t when his worker is gone. I said not eating lunch isn’t healthy. He said look in the mirror. I said I’m healthy, dude.

I don’t want to live my live my life in a back and forth of my truth is the only truth, and I'll defend the superiority of my truth to the end. I need someone who talks to me and listens to me.

I want someone I can be creatively engaged with, someone who I can talk to about books and authors, someone who would at least go to readings with me sometimes and perhaps talk to me about them.

I want someone who wants my growth as a writer and is happy for me when I find it.

I don’t know how I didn’t serve his needs yesterday, other than the fact that I was frustrated that the only things he could say to me were “You look pretty. Will you vacuum? I’m tired.” It made me feel like a housewife when I had been engaged with writers, writing, and building my self-esteem and confidence as a writer all day and then could not talk to him about it. That made me feel crappy.