It doesn’t matter what the fight was about.

It doesn’t matter if it was stupid, or silly, or blown out of proportion. It doesn’t matter if it was about the garbage or a bill or an unintentional word that made me feel stupid.

It doesn’t matter whose “fault” it was.

For me, what matters, is how you end it. Or rather, don’t. No resolve, no closure, nothing. You’re just… done.

I cannot stand being ignored. Or dismissed. Or forgotten about.

How can you walk out of a room, and know I’m still crying behind you?

How can you flip on the TV, and ignore the fact that I’m still angry or hurt?

How can you just let things sit like that between us, and not have it eat at you from the inside out?

The longer the silence goes, the harder it gets for me to squeeze back the tears that are seeping at the corners of my eyes. The heavier the silence, the harder it becomes to breathe. To focus. To think about anything else. The more I want to scream and shout and make you, finally, just LOOK at me. TALK to me. NEED to make things right with me.

I just can’t. I can’t understand.

Why do you not have some need to just reach out to me? To comfort me, to hold me and make things right.

Is it because you have the upper hand? Is this how you “win”? Do you get some sense of satisfaction from having all of the control? You say the discussion is over. You say the argument is done. You say what matters and what doesn’t, because you can say Nothing.

But I have nowhere for it to go. The silence morphs into the heavy black rock that sits in my chest and behind my forehead, and I have nowhere to put it. I squeeze back the tears because they are useless now, and the more they are ignored, the heavier the rock gets.

Do you even know what it’s like here in the glass box? Screaming and pounding on the walls, while those around you continue to walk by. Wanting to throw or kick or hit or do something that will finally be loud enough to cause the casual commuters to stop and look up from their normal routines. Do you know that sense of desperation and helplessness? Can you not feel how crushing that is to be irrelevant in your own home?

Would you care if you did?

I wonder if you know what it’s like to frantically peck at the keyboard, hoping to release at least some of the pressure through your fingertips. If only you can find the right words. Enough words. Enough words that it will ooze out of your muscles and bones and joints so you no longer ache. And out of your lungs so you can breathe. If you can just type quickly enough and with enough clarity, the ugliness will be out of you and onto the page and you will be seen and heard and someone will stop and look up and you will BREATHE.

Except the longer you write and the more you push It out of you, the more obvious it becomes that the phone still is not ringing. And here you are, here I am, plodding and pecking and pushing in the dark. Still unseen. Of no consequence. And the more I think “how long can it go? how long can it possibly go before it’s enough even for you?” the more I fear that long enough for you will be far, far too long for me.

And finally I breathe. A deep heavy sigh of surrender.

Because it doesn’t matter. And it’s not different. And I’m not seen, not like this. Not with the tears and the hurt and the locked jaw.

And eventually, I have to let it go. I have to. I have no choice. I just have to step out of the box and into the crowd and get on with the day’s routine.

Posted in Bitching Again, It's All About Me, Love and Marriage, On A Serious Note, just rambling