a different night

tonight i come home late from work.

you were home all day. i had a full day with lots of stress and i come home with a headache and an early period.

you make dinner, and then descend to your man cave, sleeping. i text you several times to say i have a headache; I’m dangerously tired.

i take the kids out and ask you to clean up. you just starting the kids’ lunches when we come home 45 minutes later, having done nothing.

I say I want to go to bed because my headache is worsening but lament having to clean up and still do chores before I can do that.

you don’t look in my eyes, ask where the headache is. you don’t offer me a hot pack or say, “I’ve got this. Go rest.” I don’t think that’s even a high demand. I’ve seen this displayed by husbands many times.

instead, you snap at me. say I’m being mean to you, I’m acting like my mom, like a martyr, you accuse me of not communicating properly.

and the whole time I have this headache, and a long day, and instead of care I’m given your raised voice, your rude tone.

You hate me.

I feel the weight of that labour: even in stress and sickness, after a long ass day, even when my impending period is making me even more tired and more sensitive, it’s my job to communicate better and ask you to take on more of the evening chores.

Even though when I do so, I’m a nag, or you snap at me with all manner of excuses why “I’ll do it later,” or “your cleaning standards are too high,” or “i really need to rest.”

I question myself, wonder if I’m so mean as you accuse me of being. I wonder if in your eyes I’m a nasty old nag with high standards and unrealistic expectations.

But … I’ve witnessed wives have headaches and long days and periods be treated with compassion and care, sent to bed with a loving and competent: “I got this,” while the chores and childcare just … gets taken care of. I’ve witnessed wives be prioritized. I’ve witnessed wives’ needs, no matter how many and no matter how harshly demanded, just get met without complaint.

I’ve witnessed wives be adored.

—

As I sob in the shower tonight, I’m reminded of the times I’ve attempted to numb this pain with a razor blade, wondering if maybe then you’d see me as I really am behind it all: drowning.

I grab the soap instead, softly rub it over the healing scars that tell the story of how I fell on the sword you sharpened for me.

I open my eyes:

I am a new person.

I won’t be destroyed by this.