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Posts Tagged ‘my story’

After the third night of crying myself to sleep I took the bull by the horns and told him that his “blow-up’s” had to stop.  I couldn’t sleep at night, I was arriving at work late and to class unprepared, and I constantly felt like I had just been hit by a Mack Truck. 

He replied with “I have to yell at you.  I can’t take my anger out on anyone else and so it has to be you.”  Faulty logic? Check.  I will not even mention the fact that this statement was said in all seriousness and that he was truly convinced that my role was none other than his emotional punching bag.

Though infuriated after such an asinine remark I continued forward with my speech, as surely that is not what he meant to say.  Oh but it was. 

After that it all went to hell.  I have heard and been told many things that I thought it impossible for one human being to say to another.  From your run-of-the-mill “None of this would happen if you would just listen to me and do what I tell you”  to the more childish name calling phase, one of my favorites being “You g.d., dumbass fucking retard”  (Screamed loudly enough for anyone within a five-mile radius to hear, naturally.) 

It’s not all about the words though, it’s also about action.  For instance, picking out cats, bringing them home, and then when one likes me better deciding that you “hate that fucking cat” and that you “want to strangle it and watch it choke to death”.  I, being the animal lover that I am, decided that the cats would be better off with their previous owner and so told him to make the arrangements to return them.  Though it would break my heart because they were my only companions in this hellish situation, they would be happier and not have to live in fear of being screamed at and chased, and I would not have to live in fear that he would snap and hurt them.  He called and set up a date and time and then can you guess what happened?  He never did it.  HE. NEVER. TOOK. THEM. BACK.  And every day after that???? He screamed about them and how much he hated them and how while I was gone he was going “to take them for a ride”. He also stepped it up a notch by stomping at “my cat” every time it walked into a room thus reducing her to a fearful pile of fur who hid in closets all day.  And do you know that to this second he still believes that this whole relationship fell apart because of “that fucking cat”?  It’s times like these that I question my, and everyone else’s, sanity.

p.s. The cats came with me and Zoey, the fearful pile of fur, is back to her old loveable, table sleeping, food snorfing self.

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