Tonight sucked. I begged for it not to. I begged for honesty. For communication, for openness…for showing up for one another.
But that didn’t happen. I felt blamed. I felt accused. Parenting is hard enough without being 100% on the same page. And sometimes, we’re just not.
There was no communication, or mutual connection, or just simply fucking honesty. I tried. I tried so damn hard.
Instead, he accused me and he placed blame. He checked out. He certainly didn’t take accountability or even simply just show up to have a conversation.
Over an hour down the drain. And now I’m just upset.
I laid out for him the consequences of the evening. That I CLEARLY hear him telling me that he blames me for everything. He backtracks. Apologies. But it’s not enough.
I heard him clearly.
It’s all my fault. Everything always is.
I’m a loser.
I’m a failure.
I’m the problem
And I’ll never be anything less.
So I go into the bathroom and make myself bleed. Maybe way too much. Definitely way too much.
I hate him in the moment, but I’ll hate myself forever more. This wound isn’t his. This scar isn’t his.
This blood isn’t his.
Maybe he’s right, after all.
It’s all my fault.
It always has been, and it always will be.
Great. Another scar. Another bloody night, when all I desperately craved was honesty and communication. Connection.
At least 2 years have passed. Yet, here we are. Another bloody night, another fucked up memory.
All this has done is open the fucking flood gates. And I hate it.
I hate it so damn much.