June 11th 2017

The Male is being stupid. in People suck. Cats are awesome. Dogs are alright.

•  June 11, 2017, 5:13 p.m.
 
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• Public

I rarely talk about fights I have with the Male in any public way, but this is a big enough deal that I want to make sure I remember it, and act on it, as money allows. (As in getting another house, and moving out. Tax auctions here are ‘da bomb’. Big, cheap, houses galore.)

He seems to be suffering under the delusion that he has some superior class of resilience to common, age related problems. Or That he’s immortal. Or maybe he’s so terrified of mortality that it has a “triggering” effect on him. I dunno. I do know that it has to stop, or this relationship will.

He won’t go to a doctor. The last time he went, he was told he had high blood pressure, and prescribed pills; which he didn’t take, and opted to tell me that the doctor was wrong because he had just been working outside in the heat, so that was why his blood pressure was high at the moment it was measured. Then he never went to a doctor again. Not for over a year now.

I tried to get him to use the free blood pressure cuff thingy at the Wal Mart pharmacy earlier this year, and he acted like a dog defending some prize bone from other dogs. I don’t remember what he said, but he flat out rejected the idea and called it an insult.

He won’t even talk about life insurance, like the idea that he’ll someday die, like the rest of humanity, offends him. When I brought that up, months ago, he said “I won’t listen to your latest obsession!”, and left the room, blaming me, like it’s only my autism that makes me think that planning for your inevitable demise might be a good idea. (Seriously. WTF?)

It’s over 90 degrees Fahrenheit here now, and he carries home our groceries, by hand, from the nearest decent store, (which is about a half a mile away); and he threw a conniption fit when I tried to get him to call a cab. “I’m not some eighty year old invalid!”. I said no, you’re a sixty year old smoker, who eats garbage, (hot dogs and pickle loaf, primarily), and walks a mile in the heat every day, carrying pounds of stuff. No doctor would look at your lifestyle and say it’s a good idea! He said “What if went on and on about you dying? You might not make it to sixty!”, and I said “No, but if I die before then it’ll be because of some weird, freak, thing; or bad genes. Not because I was out knowingly doing things that could get me killed. You don’t see me out dodging traffic on the highway every day, and that’s essentially what you’re doing”.

Of course I keep bringing it up. He’s right about that. It’s a major, unresolved, problem; and I will keep bringing it up until there’s a solution. - If he just won’t give me one, then I’ll fix it myself, the only way I can. By leaving.

I’ve had it. I’ll give him a few days to calm down, then I’ll bring it up just as nicely as I can. Either he gets life insurance, starts saving for his own burial or cremation, or starts calling a cab any time he has very much to carry; or I’m leaving him. I refuse to care for someone who won’t take care of themselves. I won’t stand by and watch my best friend of the past twenty years kill himself with his own pride and stupidity. If he were a cat, I’d force him to go to the doctor, (er, vet), push the pills down his throat, and get the groceries myself, in a nice, air conditioned, car. But he’s a human being, of debatably sound mind, and he gets to make his own horrendous, idiotic decisions. - And this one he can make BY HIMSELF.

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Last updated 22 hours ago