When Silence Isn't Golden

Usually in this house, I'm the one giving the silent treatment. Today, that is not the case. "A" is giving ME the silent treatment. The odd thing is, regardless of how much I want him gone or how much I want this to be over, I don't like the way this feels. It probably has to do with the fact that I'm an approval junkie.

A lot of things don't feel so great these days... like the way I feel when he tells me he loves me -- emphatically, followed by the "you DO know that, don't you?" question -- for which he actually expects an answer. I almost feel like I'm being bullied into accepting that I'm a schmuck for not wanting to be married to him.

Let me back up though... because when last I typed, I'm sure everyone thought this would all be over soon. The Monday after I posted, "A's" company announced impending lay-offs. They said they'd be announcing the list of unlucky souls on September 29th. I just couldn't bring myself to tell him to move out in the midst of this uncertainty -- I'm not THAT mean. So, we waited. Last week, another e-mail came from human resources telling them that the decision had been delayed by a week (to this coming Friday, October 3rd)... and so into limbo we went.

The reason for the silent treatment, you might ask? It's complicated, but I'll do my best to take you down the emotional super-highway I've traveled these past few days:

On Friday I found out that I have a disease that could cause my hands to become deformed and have a significant effect on my digital dexterity. Since I've played piano for 35 years, this was upsetting news. The surgeon I saw told me that it was treatable and not to worry... but you all know me well enough to know that I came home and started researching on my own and what I found wasn't quite as simple as he made it sound. Depending on the severity or the grade of this disease that I have, I could end up having multiple surgeries over my life time and, if it's severe, could lose the full use of some of my fingers. Other possible outcomes include nerve damage and, at worst, amputation. Disfigured, gnarled hands filled with zig-zagged scars... yeah - there's a rosy outlook for someone whose greatest solace is sitting down to play a Beethoven Sonata.

So, in the midst of all of this, I get accused of being snippy to him and reminded of how sensitive he is (see above reference to being bullied). First of all, the man SHOULD have learned by now that when I get bad news you need to leave me the hell alone for a few days until I come to terms with it. AND he should have learned that when I go in to my music room and put on the headphones it's like putting a "KEEP OUT" sign in the doorway. When I start playing Beethoven, then everyone should clear the house because that means that I'm in a deep, dark funk. Really -- after nine years he hasn't figured this shit out?

All right... so I apologized for being snippy, teared up and had to work really hard not to end up on the floor in a puddle. (Did I mention that I had PMS too?) We move on to dinner time. He decides to make his "famous" hamburgers -- filled with Turkish spices. I'm in charge of the fries (or the bakes, in our case). We sit down to dinner and I have like two bites of my burger (which was gross, by the way -- why ruin good ground beef with all of that crap?) when he sees a commercial about a dad building a jungle gym for his son... he says, "I wish I had a child to do things like that for." In my state of emotional fragility, I earnestly ask him not to go there right now... Did he listen? NO. The SOB has the audacity to ask me if I would consider a surrogate so that he can have his own biological child. I'm not certain how many neighbors heard my response. It wasn't a nice one... I told him to go find some Turkish whore and make his f'ing baby and then stormed off to my office. Am I proud of that? No. Did I warn him in advance? Yes.

I came within an nth of telling him to pack up his shit and get out last night, but I knew I would end up sounding like a screeching fish wife and that I might end up being committed to an asylum instead.

All I can say is that I pray for a calm week at work. I pity the fool who gets in my face THIS week.