7-3-17

July is off to a very sh!@#% start. in People suck. Cats are awesome. Dogs are alright.

Revised: 07/03/2017 7:57 p.m.
  •  July 3, 2017, 7:28 p.m.
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So last night we had hamburger helper. So I have irritable bowel, and the hamburger is still causing me some pain. So I see he’s ordering a pizza, and I very nicely ask, “Can I request that we not get any sausage? I’m still in pain from last night.” - And He huffs, and closes the page, and yells, “I don’t know what to get any more!” And I said “I could make a list. It would be short. Ground beef, broccoli, onions, and anything with a lot of spices.” He says he has to shop to cook for two people, not just one. I say “So I should just endure excruciating pain so you don’t have to suffer the inconvenience of eating something besides hamburger?” He says the stores that he goes to don’t carry “everything”. I say, “Screw you, if you’re going to sit there and complain because I have colon trouble. Don’t order the god!@#$!@ pizza. I’ll eat toast”; and I left the room.
He came in here maybe ten minutes later, telling me when it’s expected to arrive. I said “Why should I care?” He said !@#$ you, and I returned the favor.
If this is what I have to expect for my future, I’m out. And since I have no way to physically leave the premises, that only leaves me one option. I’m thinking an extension cord and knotted tee shirts should do the trick. I refuse to just take this crap.
I will keep this “diary” apprised.
I passed the pizza, where it sits untouched in the living room; on my way back from the pantry, where I found some old shoes and relieved them of their strings.
If I don’t touch the pizza, he’ll get mad because I’m ungrateful and the food is going to waste. If I do, he’ll think it’s okay to treat me that way. And either way, my heart is pounding. I’m suppressing a meltdown. Eventually, when I feel “safe”, the dam will break and I’ll bawl, but right now I’m just terrified of getting yelled at again for things that aren’t even my fault.
I can’t talk. Walking feels like moving through water. Everything is slow and deliberate and horrible.
And we’re only on July third.
I can’t do this.
Maybe ten minutes later; he comes into my room with the pizza, giving me this cartoonishly mean look. Sits it on my bed, looks at me rocking, crying, and clutching my big stuffed digimon; says “Makes no !@#$ing sense!” and leaves.
I’m done. I just need enough of this bull !@#$ to accumulate to give me the courage to cut my life short. Because this sure as hell isn’t worth living through.
EDITED TO ADD: Yes, I could go to an abused women’s shelter. But they only give you six months, by which time you have to have a job and be out; and I can’t hold a job. That’s why I’m waiting to see a judge about SSI. ALSO, I absolutely CANNOT deal with screaming kids, and I imagine there are plenty of them in a place like that.

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