Sunday, 08/26/2012 - 10:56 p.m.

It didn't cross his self-centered drama queen mind that no matter much I love this house, it's not home if he's not in it. And I definitely would not continue to live here without him if he "came down with cancer and died a slow, lingering, painful death" and his death benefit money paid off the house. I don't want the goddamn house if he's not in it!

He should ask me sometime about what I have under my pillow that I've been sleeping with ever since he gave it to me and why. Same reason why I keep the crystal pendants he gave me in their padded envelopes in my nightstand drawer. Same reason why at any given time I can lay my hands on the best note he's ever written to me in all our time together, spanning a decade.

A house is little more than a bunch of walls and empty rooms with a roof, you jackass, if you're not in it with me.

Which is way the fuck off of the original comment that started this whole thing. It winds down with me locked in my bathroom, trying to relax enough to pee while tears roll down my cheeks.

And it ends as I climb into bed without kissing him good night because I cannot bring myself to kiss him. It's one thing for me to suspect that he doesn't respect or value my experiences in the working world as the sole breadwinner for about 6 months while he took some time off, but it's quite another thing to be told point-blank to my face that I don't appreciate any of the pressure that's on him to be the breadwinner and that my few months as the sole income didn't really count for much and I don't know what real pressure is when someone else is depending on you for food and a roof over their head. I suppose those extra shifts of call I took or the nights I volunteered to stay 2, 3, or even 4 extra hours late on top of an 8 hour shift about three times a week or willingly taking on holiday shifts for the extra big paychecks isn't "real" pressure.

Fuck you.

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