The Edge of Madness

Okay. Let’s be honest here. I am a woman. I know. It’s a shocker. Being a woman comes with... certain baggage. Well. This is my week to carry that baggage. This week has been worse than most. Along with the “baggage”, I’ve been having problems with my knee. My dad says it might be my meniscus. My mom says it might be a cyst. I say, I don’t have health insurance, so I guess we’re not finding out any time soon. This is the same knee that attaches to the femur that attaches to my Granny Hip (if I’m missing a few bones or connecting pieces in that sentence, don’t correct me. Not today, anyway). Oh yeah, and let's not forget the massive cold sore that popped up on my lip earlier this week and has continued to grow to the size of a small country despite my best efforts to shrink it. To say I’ve been in pain is an understatement. To say I haven’t been drugging myself up would be a lie.

I woke up this morning with a horrible headache. I wouldn’t say migraine. But maybe a potential one. I went out to the shed where Jeremy was practicing his song set for church this weekend. I told him, “I have a horrible headache.” He said, “Listen to this!” and proceeded to play me his latest arrangement, kick drum and all. He must have finally noticed my face, because he asked me, “Do you want me to go pick some medicine up for you?”

This is kind of a huge deal. I’m always making spur of the moment trips to Walgreens for him. He gets debilitating sinus headaches, and Advil Cold & Sinus is the only thing that works. When his headaches get too bad for him to drive, I’m always happy to run up to the store for him and get him a box. Every time I do, I have to sign the little thingy, and show them my ID so they can enter my purchase into the computer. I’m sure the pharmacists are convinced I’m trying to start up my own meth lab. I tell them every time, “It’s for my husband. He gets really bad sinus headaches.” I don’t know if they believe me.
Anyway, he offered to get me medicine. Yay! He loves me! I told him we would need a few other things too, lunch stuff for the kids, etc., since he was taking my car to work and we’d be stuck at home all day. He told me to give him about 30 minutes and he’d be in.

So I went and tossed myself on our bed. Stared at the ceiling in a stupor. Settled a few disputes between the kids by hollering out to them. Debated on whether I needed a reaching stick. Jeremy came in and made a few phone calls, and I waited for him to come and ask me what he needed to get at the store. He finally came in the bedroom, looked at me lying on the bed, and said, “Babe, if you’re gonna go to the store, you need to go! I’ve got to leave soon!”

Double speaking husband say what?

My reaction was immediate. And irrational.

“He doesn’t love you. Of course he doesn’t love you look at you you’re crazy you're completely crazy and fat you’re so fat and look at those sweatpants no man likes a fat crazy girl in sweatpants and you’ve been wearing them for two days you big fat slob and when was the last time you took a shower and aren’t you out of deodorant you are so disgusting with your big cold sore and did I mention the FREAKING SWEAT PANTS?!”

Big, blubbering, “ugly cry” tears leaked down my face. I shrieked incomprehensibly, “But you said YOU were going to go!!!!” He managed to get out, “What the-??” before I swooped in again, standing on unsteady legs. “Never mind!!! I’ll just go! I’ll just GO! Get out of my way!” I pushed past him into the bathroom, slammed the door shut. Stared at my face through a hormonal haze, and thought, “He doesn’t love you”, and crumpled into tears again, all while putting my contacts in. It’s no mean feat to put contacts in your eyes in the middle of an irrational crying jag. I definitely get points for that on some Drama Queen chart somewhere.

If you’re waiting for Jeremy’s redemption, waiting for me to say he knocked on the door and gently took me into his arms, soothing me with loving words, telling me sweatpants are sexy and offering to go to the store for me, you’re waiting in vain. I marched out the front door, right past a very bewildered man saying, “I... I just don’t understand.” If I had completely snapped in Food Lion, holding the cashier hostage until she gave me every package of Chips Ahoy in the store, and then shoved tampons into the eye sockets of every man I passed, it would have served him right, for unleashing me on the public like that. Any jury would have found him guilty of negligence.
Thankfully, I managed to control myself. I only bought the jumbo bag of Tyson’s Fajita Chicken Quesa Dippers. Which I will NOT be sharing with my husband.

In Jeremy’s defense... He did call me after he left the house (presumably where he felt safe enough to speak to me without fearing I would rip his heart out and eat it), and apologized profusely. I still don’t know where we got our wires crossed. I KNOW he offered to go the store for me. Somewhere in between his telling me that, and his coming into the house, it got lost in that big man brain of his, lost amongst the list of all the things he had to do before he left for staff meeting.

I’ve come back from the brink a little bit. Talked myself down with frozen, store bought quesadillas and Diet Dr. Pepper, a hefty dose of ibuprofen, and Phil Wickham’s “Songs for Christmas” album (not a word about my choice of music. Not if you know what's good for you. Also if you don't own  it yet: buy ittttt).

Lucky for Jeremy, he’s gone for the rest of the day. It would only have been a matter of time before he pushed me completely over the edge.



(I realize this post is ironic coming so shortly after my last. Again- best not to mention it, mmk?)