fights

Hey you,

I’m cross with you tonight, and part of me writing these letters to you is to get everything off my chest. You told me something I’ve suspected for a while and I responded by saying I’m possibly not the right person to speak to about it. You told me you’d let someone in and they’d got under your skin, but that it was over now and they were parading other people around in front of you and you weren’t enjoying how that felt.

Well, join the fucking club.

I said that maybe I’m not the best person to have that conversation with, because you’re that person to me. I let you into every facet of my life, and you got so far under my skin you feel like a part of the very core of me, and you met someone else and now you’re parading it in front of me. And believe me, I don’t really enjoy how that feels, either.

But you got angry, and said that I lay all my stuff on you, and you listen, and whilst that’s true, my situation is a world away from yours. I’ve changed my life immeasurably. I’ve changed my children’s lives immeasurably, and I’ve shared it with you because, like it or not and whether you care to admit it, you were a part of it, and I wanted you to be. And despite all that, whatever it was, I still do.

But I’m irritated because to not allow me to explain any of it? To respond by having a tantrum and shut me down. Tell me that was it, and that you were ‘hanging up the phone’? Grow up. Just, grow the fuck up.

And the thing is, the absolute killer in all this is that I knew by telling you I found that conversation difficult, even in the gentle way that I did, I’d piss you off, and yet I did it anyway. I knew you’d react in exactly the way you did. I knew it because it’s not the first time you’ve overreacted to something I’ve said. It’s not the first time you’ve been allowed to rant at me, but have refused to let me respond. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that sometimes you can be incredibly childish for a man in his thirties.

Anyway, now it all makes sense. The thing you reminded me I’d said in Sausalito. The thing I wish I hadn’t said, but I did, and I couldn’t take it back. It all makes sense, and if you’re so keen on us being honest with each other, why didn’t you just tell me before?

So now I’m kind of upset. You can’t speak to people who love you in that way. You can’t hurt them and expect a jpeg of a dinosaur and a glass of wine to make it better. You can’t have the ball in your court all the time. So if I don’t reply for a little bit, maybe you should consider that I might have hung up the metaphorical phone on you.

Love, me.