Coming home lately has become a chore. He’s already warned me that he’s feeling depressed. God, aren’t we all slightly depressed? Now, on top of kissing my boss’ ass and playing nice with my coworkers and applicants, I have to come home and console him.

I’m fucking tired.

I know this routine better than my morning makeup routine. I think I may even know his sadness better than I know my own. Maybe that’s what keeps my key going into the lock after 9 hours of hell at work.

Deep breath, tiffany. Turn the key. Turn the fucking key and walk into bed you made. Don’t you turn around and go back to your sister’s house  and give her the satisfaction of knowing her reservations about this man are right, turn the goddam key. Breathe.

It’s game time. 2 hours of game time that we have together on the days I go in early. 120 fucking minutes. God, let this man be exhausted because I’m still slightly in a good mood. If he senses I’m happy while he’s extra low there will be hell to pay.

It’s dark here… not “we didn’t pay the light bill and it’s also night time” dark, but just as equally creepy. He’s not where I expect him to be – huddled up in a ball on the couch “watching” tv. His key is on the hook, so I know he’s here. Sigh. Why the hell would he break routine?

Hang key. Kick off shoes. No wait, leave those on – I want my entrance to be hot superwoman today. Deposit urine in toilet. Flush… gently. Make sure it’s gently. Tiptoe so you don’t make too much noise. He’ll lose his shit if he hears you before the kiss. Breathe godammit, you know the routine:

kiss him until he starts to stir. Whisper, “Baby, baby I’m home”. Be prepared to hear him tell you about the problems he takes no ownership for, how it’s everyone else’s fault, and believe it. He can smell disingenuousness sentiment. If you’ve passed the test he’ll lie and say he’s giving up on life. It’s a cue from your own depression battle. He’ll say nothing is good. Nothing in his life is working. Do NOT let the sting of those words show in your face or he will turn this pity session into a blow out.

You have got this. Breathe. Only one other place he could be…

The bedroom is dimly lit and he’s laying face down. His face is turned towards his phone. Sigh. He gets so tired he falls asleep midtext at least once a week. I lean in and start the routine.

“Babyyy, baby I’m home.”

kiss.

“Baby?”

kiss.

“Babe, I’m home…”

Kiss. Kiss. Kissssssss

“Are you okay?”

His eyes flutter open. Half a kiss back. Phew, maybe the routine won’t start tonight. Maybe he’s too exhausted. Maybe… what the fuckkkk?

Back away slowly but pretend you didn’t see it. He’s broken a rule. The worst one to break. It’s his fucking rule and he’s breaking it.

That’s not his phone. That is most definitely steel. And he’s definitely broken rule #1, his finger is curled up to the trigger. Fuck.

Breathe. Fuck. No, no fuck breathing. Disengage. 30k in student loan debt to learn how to be a counselor. Fucking disengage, tiffany. Unfreeze yourself. You wanted to be a sexy superwoman tonight, play your fucking role. Disengage. Man the fuck up, or you’re going to spend an eternity in hell with this fool. DISENGAGE

“Baby, your gun… your finger… what’s up?”

life can play out so quickly in your brain in the split second it takes for a finger to maneuver it’s way from around the trigger of a gun. Your blood pumps through your veins so hard as it prepares to exit your body. And everything that matters in your life suddenly becomes not appreciated enough. Maybe the seconds before you die (or think you’re about to die) are when you feel the most alive… and then you die, either literally or figuratively but you die.

There is nothing fiction about this blog’s story. This is my life. Maybe this is my death. This is my relationshit. And last night, was the trigger.

i need to leave.

 

 

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