|Laugh? I thought I'd die.|
It exploded. Well, no, I made a comment to Tilly about being frustrated with the children behaving like ill-mannered animals, something like "when did basic stuff become a battlefield?" and got told "That's what you were like with this headache". Non-sequitor? I called it and got a further lambasting for being irritable and angry over the last few days. I responded that I was bored of having throwaway comments responded to with how I have a problem.
|Is this how it ends? Pools of glass and four thousand years of|
Tilly was angry back. I lashed out with a "once every 7 months as an average is probably a root cause for frustration and anger". Eventually we started on that. In the course of a long discussion she suggested I just "find someone else to have sex with" and maybe I ought to "consider getting it somewhere else". She then had the temerity to be offended when, after these comments, I suggested that she might have what she wanted in children and have never really wanted sex with me anyway. It gets better. She offered non-coitus actions, I queried this and, eventually, got the answer that she was just offering a hand-job. When I posited that this was unlikely to do the job she responded that I had previously said that sex wasn't all about the climax. I was angry. I said, honestly, that if she'd offered a hand job two years ago then maybe I would be interested, in the meantime, I'd be more likely to get release from myself thanks very much. At this she cried. She fucking cried.
|The effects of my self-loathing. Let's just ignore the part where|
Tilly claims to be compassionate is to build up the self-esteem
of others and skip to the part where she never does with me.
Because I'm a fucking doormat, apparently.
I was the bad guy. Apparently my low self-esteem and self-hatred had killed "us" back before we were married and then any sign of anything like that caused Tilly to retreat ever since. I called this in my last post on this subject. I hate being right.
She ended up making it a choice between her dreams and my needs. She can't write and self-actualise; be a parent to our children and do anything romantic with me - we get two of the three that's all. She admitted that she had cut down time with her writer friend online to spend more time with me but had then committed that time to her novel instead, a conscious decision she said. By the end of the conversation, I'd agreed to sit down and work through her novel with her and the offer of a hand job was off the table. She wins. Again.
I'm a fucking doormat.