The goal was to capture the feeling, describe what was said, what happened as a result. Here is my take on it.
We have had this argument so many times in the last year that it is almost like we are working from a script. He’ll say this. I’ll say that. On and on it goes. Always with the same result; frustration and little else.
We used to have this argument with a great amount of enthusiasm, yelling, doors slamming, name calling. We used to really get into the theatrics of it. It was almost like a pressure release for us to just throw all of our energy into the production. The words weren’t as important as the intensity.
Now it’s different. We assume our positions on opposite sides of the room, facing each other but still able to steal a glance at the TV when the argument lulled from one of us forgetting our “line” to keep it going on pace. It didn’t even really matter anymore. He still says this. I still say that. Neither one of us really cares what the other has to say. It is just an exercise in futility at this point.
It ends like most of them do now. One of us eventually says “I don’t really have anything else to say” and we go our separate ways. I head upstairs to the bedroom and crawl into our king size bed alone. He goes down to the basement where he will fall asleep on the couch yet again. I know this because it has been this way for the last three months at least. The problem has been around much longer than that.
Tonight, here we go again. We are both exhausted as we assume our defensive stances and the conversation starts. His says this. I say that. On and on we go. Neither one of us having the energy left to pretend to be angry, we just want it to end. To not have to close another day out with this feeling of being so tired of our situation. To either fix it or end it, but not keep living in it.
But we are both out of anger. We don’t have the hurt fueling us to be passionate towards each other, even about an argument. The fight has just been used up.
I tell him I don’t have anything else to say. I begin my ascent up the stairs, prepared to go to bed alone yet again. But he’s not done yet. He says it. He says the one thing that he knows will put an end to it all.
It stops me dead in my tracks. I turn around to face him and it’s not anger, but almost relief that overcomes me. I tell him that I am glad that he finally had the nerve to say what he had really been thinking all along. I had been waiting for that. I had been waiting for him to tell me truth.
I tell him that I will finish packing in the morning and then I will be gone, and I continue my climb up the stairs to the empty bed that is waiting for me. Exhausted but now relieved that we won’t have to have that conversation ever again.