“Behave Shame.” I say and drop my leg back down and resume my polish duties.
“Never.” He replies and leans closer to the screen. “Save them pretty pink toes until I’m home tomorrow. You can show me the colors and I can maybe try to help you pick.”
This was so like Shame. He had always been so sweet with things like this. The man had spent hours shopping with me, always willing to give his opinion. I knew he could care less about shopping, nail polish, hair techniques, but Shame had always paid attention to anything I had asked. My attitude lately, however was to snap at him for his kindness. I felt like shit every time I was bitchy to him but couldn’t stop. I was in this crazy defense mode and I couldn’t control it. Tonight was no different.
“Stick to drumming Shame. This isn’t in your pay grade.”
I could see the hurt and the confusion in his eyes, but per his usual with anything emotional he hid it with an eye roll and a sigh.
We had also been in this cycle since the night he left. I spent the entire time he was away preparing myself for his ditching me again and everyday I was wrong. It would make me so mad at myself for not trusting him that my attitude couldn’t be hidden. Then every little thing he said I took offense to because I was reflecting my self-conscious BS onto him. Then when the guilt hit, so did the anger. I justified the guilt reminding myself that he left me with no explanation and no word and I had no choice but to prepare myself for his dropping me again. Then I would calm down before bed and promise myself that tomorrow I would ask him why he left… and then I would remember that my questions would lead to his.
I pretty much needed a bigger rug because I was constantly brushing shit under my current one. It was this cycle of constant worry, anger, guilt and pain. I was so used to putting on a show and keeping my mask in place that there were times you would think it was Cory I was dealing with. The guilt of that comparison alone was pulling me under.
“So what about you? How was your day?” I can hear the tightness of his voice as he asks. It’s like he is waiting for me to snap at him and it hits me then and there. Shamus is acting as I had so many times before… he was walking on eggshells.
Times of self loathing commence!
“Dress shopping.” I say robotically as all our other conversations run through my mind. How many times had he tried to compliment me or ask me questions about my day while he had been gone? There wasn’t a single conversation I could think of that hasn’t resulted in me snapping at him.
“You look heaven sent baby.” He had said once a few weeks ago. I had been in jeans and my TOOL t shirt. The shirt was old and faded from a concert years ago. Tool was Shames favorite band and initially it was why I had chosen the shirt. But hearing the sweet endearment set me off. I loved knowing he thought so highly of me, he always had, but hearing it, then made missing him all the worse. I didn’t want those memories when he left me again.
“It’s a fucking t shirt Shamus not an evening gown.” I snapped back.
“You could wear the ugliest thing baby and still look amazing.”
That had set me off entirely. We ended up fighting over Skype and I slammed my laptop closed on him. The next night he had shown up unannounced and I fell apart. I told him I would try to not be so insecure and I would never treat him that way again. We spent the entire night making up and when he left I swore we were stronger than ever. As I watched his plane take off, I felt that plummeting feeling in my stomach, convinced yet again that he wasn’t coming home.
I saw the defeat on his face and knew I was the one who was pushing him away this time. If he left it would be because I forced it. Even though I could see reason I knew that the minute he spoke I would drop reason and snap at him.
I hated myself for how I was treating him. I felt weak and needy. I knew if he was here I would feel that security, that safety that had become a drug to me. Then he would leave and the withdrawals would start right along side of my agitation.
He sighs audibly and I know he is going to ask me if I am okay. I keep my head down as I roll my eyes. I don’t even want to look at him and see the sadness, see what I am doing to him. So I continue painting my nails and wait for him to change the subject.
“Cassa?” He says my name as a question and the tone of his voice stops my painting. He may be asking for my attention, but the demand of respect in his tone sends a familiar shiver down my spine. I am taken back to when Cory would use that same tone and am reminded of the name calling, the slapping and kicking; the feel of bones crunching and the burn of freshly beaten skin. I look up immediately, but I show no emotion and make no argument. “What the fuck is your deal?”
Though he is mad I relax because this is Shame and I am safe with him. My ire rockets through me that I fell back into the abused woman roll at just the tone of his voice.“Can we not play the ‘Cass you okay baby?’ card tonight?”
“I didn’t ask if you were okay. I asked what the fuck your problem is? If you don’t want this,” he motions between his chest and the computer screen and I know he is motioning me, “then say the word. I can’t keep kissing your ass hoping for the Cassa I love to come through.”
Shame has never hit me, but that was a very harsh and very deserved verbal slap.“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I know damn well you haven’t been kissing my ass you’ve been up it every night asking if I’m okay and telling me how pretty I am. Jesus Shame you get old after a while. I keep waiting for you to talk to me about something other than how bad you miss fucking me and can’t wait until you do!”
That was the most irrational, I had ever been. Sure, he told me every night how he missed me, how he couldn’t wait to be inside of me again, but he also asked about my day and how the girls were. I swear to God, he was a perfect boyfriend and I love him so much I can’t rationalize anymore why I keep doing this. Even though I deserve more anger than he is giving me now I still defend myself and an argument that’s futile at best. I shake my head no and roll my eyes. “I’ll talk to you when I see you tomorrow. I don’t have it in me tonight to make you feel secure.”
Feeling lower than any other time in my life, and I have been low, I go to close my laptop before I completely lose it on him with more insane garbage that he doesn’t deserve.
“Close it and I give up on us.” His voice is dead calm and I halt. No way is he threatening me now, with what I have feared all along? How dare he use that as a weapon?
Completely furious and shaking with anger and a lot of fear I look at him. He is stone cold and not threatening. I see it clear as I see his face through my screen. He is dead fucking serious.
It was anger now that pushed me to do what I do next. Pure, undiluted anger old and boiling from the morning I found he had left without a word. My life unfolds in a series of events as I stay locked on his face. Every slap, every kick, every bloody nose and black eye. I realize then and there I blame Shamus.
I gasp at my own inner thinking’s and I hate myself… despise that truth of myself. Tears fill my eyes because I know without a doubt that this anger stems from my irrational accusations that he is to blame for it all. He broke my heart, shattered it, but what I did after he left, he can’t be held accountable for… but I blame him all the same. “At least you gave me a heads up this time.”
My voice is just loud enough, I know he heard me because he gasps as I slam my laptop shut.
We are over…so, very, fucking over. I think of Carrie Bradshaw standing in an amazing set of wedge heels and a cropped denim jacket in the ER where she ends things with Mr. Big. “We are so over, we need a new word for over.”
Sums it up I think!
