Shake it off

My partner was gone a couple of weeks. When he got back, lots of things were discussed. But the thing I want to talk about first is my hand waving.

A few hours after getting back, he says ‘come here’. He’s standing about 5 inches in front of me. I figure I’m going to get a hug. I brace myself. I can do it. I can take a hug. His hands reach up – but it’s not a hug. He’s going for my face. He’s going to touch my face. Not hit, just touch. I can’t stand having my face touched. I don’t know if he saw something in my expression or if my face wasn’t his target. His hands sweep up, past my face, and bury themselves in my hair. He says: you washed your hair.

I don’t know why he feels compelled to make these kinds of comments. Every time he touches me, he mentions my skin is dry, like I didn’t know that. I won’t let him put lotion on my back (the only place I can’t reach) because every single time he does, he hurts me. He puts so much pressure on, it’s like he’s trying to oil bovine leather. I can feel every ridge of his fingerprints, as he scrapes up and down my back. How does he even do that? Is my skin so sensitive I can feel them, or is he doing some kind of angle and pressure that turns them into sandpaper?

So, he says ‘you washed your hair’. I back up, smack up against the refrigerator. I slide to the right, away from him. I walk into the living room (only a few steps) and I see I’m making ‘go away’ motions with my hands. At least, in my head, they are ‘go away’ motions. Also seeing it as someone standing, looking at myself, they look remarkably like ‘flapping.’ I was so distressed, I was literally beside myself.

I think the main problem was I got surprised. I was braced for a hug and that didn’t happen. But for pete’s sake, all he did was touch my hair. How that triggered hand flapping, I don’t know.

Munchausen by proxy?

A while back, forget which day, I mentioned on this blog that I’d really wished I could talk to a psychologist over the phone. It was the Ellen Show post if you want to glance at it. As far as I remember, it is the only time I’ve mentioned it.

Last week, partner came home from a meeting with his psychologist. (I was unaware he’d even gone, I thought he was giving a blood sample.) He hands me a note, which was the telephone number he’d gotten from his psyc, a number for phone consultations for a psychologist. I thanked him. And a few minutes later, my heart broke.

I do not recall saying anything to him on the subject. I’d only mentioned it here.

Now, I know at one point he was monitoring my online activity. Things he’d say on subjects I’d googled a few days previously. I found the dongle on the back of my computer. If he is – well, basically stalking me – I don’t know how he’s doing it. He’s the tech-savvy one, not me.

So him coming home with this number shattered me. I felt very violated.

But I checked the stats on that page, and it only looks like it was me that reviewed the page. So let’s say I did say something to him about it and have forgotten I did.

This is the person who says he’ll get me water/tea and ‘forgets’ by the time he’s out the bedroom door. If he forgets so easily, or quickly, how did he remember I wanted that phone number? Because if I had said something, it would have been months ago. Long enough that I’ve forgotten I said it.

I can only imagine what he’s telling his shrink about me. I know how he lies, with silence and a downward look. Maybe a little handwringing and a sniff. A monotone ‘she does the best she can.’ which is true – but the monotone voice says ‘not a damn thing’.

Sometimes, yes, he does need to look after me. When he remembers. What is he telling his shrink? I’ll be damned if I know. But… here’s the rub. I’m starting to feel crazy. 

He has never had to look after any person other than himself. Ever. He’ll help his mom or dad, sure, but there’s always someone else there, as ‘back up’. It is not his job! He’s the ‘sicko’. HE IS THE SICKO. It’s everyone else’s job to take care of him. That is the way things are.  It’s how it’s ever been. And he seriously resents having to look after me.

Unless I am in the hospital. Then he’s there every day. Moisturizing my feet. Combing my hair. Reading to me or watching a TV show on a laptop. People tell him how amazing he is. How dedicated and loving. They admire him.

Munchausen by proxy? Well, no. Not unless he’s triggering my illness. And I can’t say he isn’t.  Maybe he just likes the admiration people give him. Doctors and nurses. It makes him feel important. 

It makes me feel sick.

Condiments are the first to go

I used to love to cook. I didn’t have a lot of time, being a single parent, going to college and working one or more jobs. On top of having bad asthma. Cooking was fun but needed to be streamlined.

Since marrying my current partner cooking became a joy and less of a chore. I had time I could invest. And I did.

But as time went on my disabilities got worse. I had to shorten the amount of time I spent cooking. There’s only so much energy I had and eating took some of that up. So I started shortening the prep time.

The condiments were the first to go. The side salsa’s, the rich creams or sauces. My partner would cut things for me and that helped. Pre-cut onions, potatoes, veg made it easier. But he refused to learn to cook. I once tried to teach him how to boil hot dogs but he refused. ‘It was too hard’. I’d already dummied it down from frying or bbqing. Boiling a dog – honest, it doesn’t get easier.

After the condiments were the sides. Steak and potatoes? Want corn or peas with that? … But it became just a baked potato. Butter, chives, cheese, broccoli, salt and pepper…became baked potato with butter, sour cream and salt and pepper. Steak, veg, side salad, took too much energy.

Soups became cup a soups. Fish became fish fingers. Cakes became microwave cake-inna-cup. Microwaved TV dinners on the menu. I got an hot air fryer I use a lot for frozen stuff, like french fries, which are a weekly meal. Just fries. Sometimes with catsup.

Ease of cooking is top priority. Eggs are eaten a lot, fried or scrambled, usually. I would love a real meal. Like American Thanksgiving meal. I think those times are over.

My usual go to is burritos. Refried beans from a can, grated cheese, hot sauce, sour cream. That’s my basic. If I got more energy, one or more of ground meat, lettuce, tomatoes, black olive, onion. But it’s rare to have the full monty anymore.

Terrorizing

My partner drives like a maniac. And I’m not talking like the joke cliché of a woman screaming ‘slow down, you’re going to kill us’, to the man driving 10 miles an hour. No, I truly mean he drives like a mad man. He knows how to drive, but the second he gets behind the wheel, his dick grows 10 sizes and he becomes aggressive. We sold ‘our’ car two years ago. He didn’t tell me how much he sold it for, and I never got any of the money. Since he sold it to a friend, I suspect he basically gave it away. I was just glad it was gone and I didn’t have to make up excuses not to go anywhere with him.

This story wasn’t the first time I was in a car with him. But it was in the first week.

We’re going up a long road. Far ahead, I can see cars sitting, waiting for the light to turn green. There were four lanes, and they all had four or five cars in line. We’re maybe a quarter of a mile away. He’s going the speed limit. Once we’re on the straight, he speeds up. And keeps speeding up. My foot involuntarily makes breaking motions. I tell him to slow down and he ignores me. The point where I would have started breaking, if I were driving, comes and goes. The point where at our speed, I don’t think we’ll be able to stop without hitting the stationary cars, comes and goes. I said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I brace myself. He says, ‘They’ll move out of the way.’ (remember, four cars deep, sitting at a red light. They are going nowhere.) When he finally hits the brakes, the nose of the car goes down, I’m thrown forward and we come to a screeching halt. Inches from the car in front of us. I must have looked pretty pale. He just laughed and laughed.

He did it once when his brother was in the car. His brother pitched a mild-mannered fit and told him to stop. He did stop driving like that when his brother was in the car. But he still did when it was only me.

Before him, I was a good, solid driver. But I was in a different country then. The roads were smaller, very winding, and I became very afraid of being on the road, in a car with him. I became so afraid, I didn’t update my license and have never driven again.

The years passed, I became more afraid. First, I always hung onto the door handle. Then I hung on to the seat belt. It just got worse and worse. He’d aggressively move into the flow of traffic. Cut people off. Stopped hard. Rode on peoples bumpers. My heart would pound, I’d hold my breath. And after a few years, I just closed my eyes, held onto the seat belt, and waited to die. If I told him to slow down, he’d go so slow, barely over idle speed.  I was afraid someone would ram us, expecting us to be going the speed limit. He’d sneer and say, see, I’m slowing down.

I slowly stopped going out with him. I stopped socializing because I couldn’t take being in a car with him, and my disability made using public transport impossible. If I had to go, I’d spend the entire trip with my eyes closed. One day he noticed my eyes closed and just laughed. He practically pissed himself, he laughed so hard.

I thought he was just being a dick.

But looking back now, I think it was torture. Not a joky kind of torture, but real, dangling off a face cliff torture. Every single time I got in a car with him driving, I expected to die. He put me in physical danger day after day. He liked the control, I guess. My face full of fear. Pale and trembling. It was fun for him. A good laugh.

edit:

I guess I should say how this has impacted my life. I can’t drive. I’m afraid of narrow roads. I will not get in a car with my partner driving. My socializing has tanked, I just don’t now. (I can sit in a taxi, though, without fear. I expect them to be respectful drivers and so far, they have been.) The sound of a car’s breaks squeaking, even if I’m not in a car, makes my heart pound in fear. I am terrorized of cars, driving, travel, and roads. I think I might be for the rest of my life.

MWSA

It’s been a rough week. For a change, it’s not my partner who’s giving me a hard time. He’s been really nice these last few months. I don’t expect it to last. No, it’s not him. It’s everything else.

World events. I read and watch the news. Since Trump got elected president, the world has gone to hell in a handbasket. I am not a Trump fan. I do try to keep an open mind. Just one example: I figured, no one had ever tried to out-crazy Kim Jong Un before, maybe it’ll work? I kept giving him excuses. I did try. But it was like every time he opened his mouth, he said something that got my back up. … anyway, I hadn’t planned on this being an anti-Trump post. I wanted to touch on the tariff thing he has going on with China.

He keeps telling people how the tariffs will mean China has to pay us more. How they will pay for our commodities. Over and over, until it got to the point where I wasn’t sure how tariffs worked anymore.

This is called gaslighting. Being told something so often and repeatedly, that you come to believe it, even though you know it’s not true.

It’s not just Trump and his menagerie of sycophants who are currently and continuously in the news, as disgusting as they all are. But then there’s Alabama* putting a life sentence on doctors who give women abortions. I felt physically sick when I’d heard. Women are not going to stop from having and enjoying sex (sorry guys, that horse got loose a long time ago). What this law is going to do is make women go to dangerous lengths to stop a pregnancy. My grandmother had a wire clothes hanger termination when she was 17. My great-grandmother did it. Now, women only need to take a pill. The ‘fruits’ of rape do not have to be born. And one of those places that will sell you that pill is China. Unfortunately, they don’t have any regulations on how safe these pills need to be. But when you’re against a wall, a lot of women will take the chance.

It makes me sick thinking of the unholy choices women are going to have to make.

Then there are the deaths of Doris Day and Tim Conway. Two people I admired even though I never met them. Their deaths make me sad.

Then there’s Barr, for god sakes, the damn head of the DOJ, spouting conspiracy theories. And Trump saying now that Meuller has turned in the report, any further action is treason. Investigate the investigators! I’ve read the Meuller report, all of it. Repeatedly saying ‘no collusion, no obstruction’ is just another attempt at gaslighting. I’m getting gaslit from my partner, I sure in hell don’t need it from my president, too.

I’m not sleeping well. My stomach hurts from tension. I keep getting stabbing temple headaches. ‘Mindfulness’ is a placebo that isn’t working. Even my mental safe place isn’t working. I feel shattered. Cracked just enough to have all hope slowing seeping out my eyes.

And this word, ’embolden’. I don’t like this word, I don’t think it’s accurate enough. Reporters saying; so-and-so was emboldened by Trump policy… No. These people have always been here. They’ve always had brass balls. They’ve always slug their tar and sludge. They’re not ’emboldened’. They are enabled – empowered.

This week, I feel shattered. There’s too much going on and I feel overwhelmed. Beaten up. Enough. The world needs to go sane again. MWSA. yup yup.

*for some reason, I published Alabama as Virginia. Senior moment! Corrected.

Prejudice

I really try not to be prejudice. If I see myself doing it, I focus on it and scrub it away. It started when I was little and saw my father making nasty comments about people who didn’t have the same skin color as us. Basically, I was rebelling against my dad. As I got older, I felt it wasn’t just a rebellion – it was the right thing to do. I still feel like that but it’s grown to include more than just race or nationality.  Everyone on this planet is human. We are the human race and to hate or prejudge someone on the color of their hair or skin or eyes is ignorant. To hate a group of people on their religion is ignorant. To hate a group of people because of their culture, or job or ability or sex, or damn it, for flipping anything, is our dark side whispering to us.

When I was growing up the only time I saw black people in the movies, was the Angry Black Man.  During these formative years, I was taught to fear the Angry Black Man. The Angry Black Man will hurt me. Kill me. Rape me. Probably in that order. The first time I saw a black man who wasn’t portrayed like that in the movies and television was Bill Cosby in I Spy. Even my father liked Bill Cosby! It wasn’t until I saw Will Smith, who I quite liked, that I realized I’d been brainwashed from all those movies. Mr. Smith didn’t scare me. He looked like a nice person. I had been brainwashed, and it made me angry. I didn’t hate black people, I was afraid of them. And from then on, I did my best to be ‘color blind’. Nowadays, being color blind is bad, or that’s the impression I’ve gotten. Then, being color blind meant I didn’t ‘see’ the color of their skin, I saw the person as just a person. (I actually got good at it. I remember being told: ‘You remember Debbie? The black girl.’ And it took me a while to remember Debbie was black. She was just Debbie.) Today, you should see their color, acknowledge their color, then… what? Ignore it? High five them for being black? They had no more control over them getting born black as I did being born white. If they’re a good person, they’re a good person.

I fully support the BlackLivesMatter movement. Damn, they have every right to be mad, fizzling pissed off. It’s just as dangerous today to be black in America as ever throughout history. The problem is cops are scared. Just like I was. They’re reacting in fear. It’s just got to stop. (I know, easily said, hard to do.)

But I do still have fears. These fears have built up over a lifetime. As such, I do understand where their hate is coming from. My fear hasn’t developed into hate. But my fear has developed into terror.

I grew up in a state of the US with a lot of serial killers. Men, almost always men, who abducted, raped, mutilated and dumped the bodies of women. I grew up in an environment of fear of the stranger. We were given a lot of advice on how to protect ourselves. From not leaving your window open during the night, to letting the guy rape you so he might not kill you. Don’t put your first name in the telephone book, never your address. (Even now I’m gobsmacked at the amount of transparency women give of themselves on social media. Are you fucking nuts? Why don’t you just scream ‘victim here, victim here.’ like Whoopi Goldberg in Jumping Jack Flash?)

Women were – are – targets. Soft targets. Easy to physically subdue, rape, abuse. Except for Polyana Viana who is my hero! All women should be like her. If all women could defend themselves like she did, there would be a lot less abuse.

MeToo. Oh, yes, me too. After the MeToo movement started, I made a list of all the times I’ve been catcalled, wolf whistles, molested, touched, grabbed, assaulted, propositioned, (almost) abducted, … well. I couldn’t remember every single time, as catcalls and wolf whistles were basically a daily occurrence, but the others… there were about 20 things on that list, and for weeks afterward, I remembered more and more. I’m nothing special – average pretty much. And all this stuff that happened to me, to thousands of women, it doesn’t matter if your pretty or not. Rape and molestation have nothing to do with how you look or how you’re dressed. It’s the fear of women and misogyny. It’s control. It’s assault. The weapon isn’t a gun or knife, its a penis and a fist.

So, yes, I do have fear. And a bit of prejudice, because every time I talk to a man, every time I get in a cab, or wait for a bus…if I go out at all, I have to prejudge the men around me as a threat assessment. I use prejudging as a shorthand. Not the color of their skin, not their religion, disability, scares or tattoos. Their strength…their height…their ability and opportunity to restrain me. I try to always be aware of what’s going on around me. I try to wear things that I can move in, no high heels, no tight skirts. Nothing that restrains my hands or legs. My partner goes through life like walls will move out of his way. I explained to him how I always scan my environment and he just doesn’t get it. On the one hand, he doesn’t want me going out at night, because I’m a bitty woman and some man will rape me. But on the other, I don’t need to be aware of what’s going on around me, cause I’m a sainted woman, protected by God.

So this is a prejudice I’ve noticed and I need to work on it. I know there are good men, men who would come to my assistance if I needed it. Not all men are evil, nasty, malicious persons who need to hurt you to make themselves feel better. Like my partner.

 

Apologies, real and imagined

There’s been a lot of apologies in the news lately. Paraphrasing a few:

“I’m sorry if I offended anyone out there with my comments on skin colors.”

“I’m sorry I upset you with my joke about monkey babies.”

“I didn’t mean to outrage the hysterical womans libbers with my views on sammich making.”

There is making an apology, and then there’s a sneering apology, which means something along the lines of: I stand by what I said, but here is an apology for all the snowflakes out there.

The above (and the real-life comments they represent) weren’t actual apologies. Here’s an example of an apology.

“I’m sorry. What I said and did was wrong.” Taking responsibility for your words and actions. No excuses (I was joking), no deflection (you misunderstood me) and no blaming other people.

In the above examples, the ‘hysterical women’ are in the wrong for taking offense. Those who ‘can’t take a joke’ are in the wrong for ‘misunderstanding’ his humor. His prejudice is just the way it really is, if you don’t speak Political Correct.

When you read or hear someone making an apology, really listen. Are they just saying I’m Sorry, or do they qualify the statement with the REAL people who should apologize?

My partner once said this; (all tears and hand wringing) Forgive me for anything you’ve imagined I’ve done.

It took me a minute to parse that statement. I think it was the first time I actually thought about what he was saying, word for word. It was his use of the word  ‘imagined’ that caught my attention.

By saying imagined, he was saying he’d never done anything that needed forgiving for. After all, you don’t need to forgive something that never actually happened. I also noticed there was no ‘please’ said. This wasn’t a petition, a request, for forgiveness. It was a demand: “forgive me”.

I said: No.

He was truly shocked. “But you have to. Family always forgives.” And for him, that is true. His family always forgives him. They forgive him before he does anything, good or bad. He went through hell when he got sick. Every single day, he could have died. They forgave him everything, every breathing moment. He expects that. He doesn’t think about what he does or says, because all his has to do is say ‘forgive me’, and it’s done. He’s washed of all sins.

He has never taken responsibility for his words or deeds. He is never held accountable for his actions.

I said: “Tell me something you’ve said or done that you know is wrong, and I will forgive you.”

It was three years before he figured one out. I forgave him.

 

 

The Ellen Show

I’ve been struggling with depression. Not cut your own neck depression, but curl up in a ball and rock, kind of depression. My brain just cycled around all the things I’ve screwed up in my life. It’s a long list. There’s a person on my social media list, who is constantly posting affirmation memes. In honesty, it drives me nuts. Get over it or shut up! Which is totally the wrong thing to think, much less say. I do understand. It’s how she’s dealing with her shit. It’s not how I do. Which got me to thinking, how do I deal with it?

Up until now, distraction was my game plan. I play an MMORPG. Or, I did, until just recently. I’ve not played for a couple of months, and it really is impacting my mental health. Without that distraction, I sink deeper into depression. It was literally my only social contact (as I don’t count social media as ‘contact’). So without that distraction, what to do?

Browsing through youtube, I came across an Ellen DeGeneres show. I watched it, got a giggle, and watched another. And another. Soon, Ellen was the only thing youtube suggested to me. I’ve known of Ellen for a long time but didn’t watch her. Now I was watching a couple of hours every day. She really did cheer me up.

It wasn’t instantaneous. It took weeks. But I’m not as depressed as I was. I’ve still got a way to go. I really should see a psychiatrist. But gawd, that would require going out X amount of days, and all the prep work that means. I can’t just decide to do something and pop out the door on a whim. Two days at least, for planning. From shower to dressing to being able to breathe. I’ve tried finding someone to talk to, who would talk to me on the phone. That was a washout. That would truly be perfect for me.

So for now, I watch The Ellen Show, get some giggles, and hope it brings me up enough to stop rocking.

Egypt & The Impossible Task

This must have been about 10 years ago, now. I had a bucket list which included going to Egypt and seeing the pyramids and Valley of the Kings, you know, the usual. Partner was aware of this. One day, he says, “I’ll take you to Egypt. But only if you learn hieroglyphics, because what’s the point of going somewhere if you can’t read the language?

This was actually kind of a silly thing to say, ’cause people do it all the time. On the other hand, I’d always been interested in hieroglyphics, and hey, trip to Egypt. So I agreed, I’d learn hieroglyphics and he’d take me to Egypt.

I got a good book and started teaching myself hieroglyphics. I actually found it kind of easy. After a couple of weeks of daily study, I was starting to be able to ‘free read’. Without needing to flip constantly to the cheat sheet. I showed him how well I was doing.

What! He says. You can’t do that! You can’t read hieroglyphics! I can’t read them and if I can’t read them, you can’t.

I’m dyslexic, I said. They’re just pictographs. It’s easier to read than English, once I know what it stands for.

No. He thinks about it for a micro-second, then continued, I’ll take you to Egypt if you stop smoking.

In that moment I knew he’d given me an ‘impossible task’. Not his fault we didn’t go, right, as I was just too stupid to learn hieroglyphics. I put my pencil away, put the book on my bookshelf, got online and did something else. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t open the book again. As far as I was concerned, the subject and goal were over, dead. He knew I wouldn’t give up smoking for this. Especially since it was pretty obvious if I did give up smoking, he’d just come up with something else.

I think I was upset a couple of days. I remember I was mad about it for a long time. Just the fact he used a dream of mine to play games with me. And it was a building block of our marriage problems. It was a stone against him that never moved. I never spoke of it, but it was always there, influencing how I perceived his motivations.

A couple of years (!) later, he comes up to me and says: You can stop yelling at me about Egypt.

I kind of snort and say, I never said a word.

I know, he says, but in my head, you’ve yelled at me every day. So I’ll take you to Egypt. Except you’ll need to get better, health-wise. 

And there it was, the third impossible task. COPD doesn’t ever get better. You can stop getting worse, I’m told, but you never get better. So I patted him on the knee and agreed. When I get better. Knowing it would never happen.

I’m thinking of this because I’ve been thinking of picking up hieroglyphics again. It was fun, I did enjoy it, and I shouldn’t let his being an asshat stop me from doing something I like. And I just this second realized, it will probably remind him of his dick move every time he sees me with the book. And that will just be a side order of sweet.

Hey, I never said I was a saint. Or even very nice, although I used to be. I got over that.

Gaslighting

Scent.

A while ago, my partner bought a sheepskin rug. He comes in and hands it to me, saying: I bought this for me to sit on the floor with, but realized I hadn’t bought anything for you lately, so I’m giving it to you.

I said thanks, but didn’t say ‘what do you feel guilty about?’ heh. I felt it, nice and thick, the skin part very soft and supple, dyed black. I smell it, to see if there’s any lingering animal smell. And choke on the chemical smell, geeze it was strong. ‘It smells like chemicals’, I say, setting it down on the chair as far from me as I can get. He looks at me blankly, as if I’d said something totally insane. Later, he borrows it, and when he brings it back, he puts it at the head of the bed. I didn’t see it for a while, but when I did, I moved it back to the chair. The bedroom smells faintly of chemicals, but it was okay with the window open. He borrows it again the next day and when he returned it, he put it on my pillow. Again, I didn’t notice it for a while and when I did, moved it back to the chair. Suspiciously, I sniffed my pillow and gag, it stank. And he does it again, the following day. And every day, when I tell him it stinks, he says nothing. He doesn’t say ‘I don’t smell anything.’ Or ‘I can smell something, too.’ Just looks at me like I’m crazy and is mute.

I’m thinking of just giving it back to him, but before I do, he say’s he’ll buy me a new one, off amazon, and keep this one for himself.

Which he does. He put the black one on his bed, sleeping on it for several days. Then one day he comes in and says; I do notice a slight smell, like kerosene. I was pretty amazed he admitted to a smell, but for me, it was overwhelming, not ‘slight’. Is my sense of smell really that acute? Is his sense of smell that poor? Or am I getting gaslit? I suspect gaslit, because there’s just no way he couldn’t smell that.

The new one arrived, this one white. First thing I do is smell it. I hand it back and say it smells, too, but it smells organic, like it wasn’t cured properly. We go through the ‘you’re crazy’ stare and he puts it on his bed, on top of the black one. When I see that, I smell the white one, and yup, it now also stinks of chemical as well as organic.

The black one is now stink-free. I haven’t used it, its in the living room. I don’t know why I’m not using it, it’s pretty nice, really. Thinking about it now, I think he noticed the stink of the black one right off and though, Oooo, this will fuck with her breathing big time. I’ll ‘give’ it to her.

 

Taste.

We go through this every single time he cooks a meal. He’ll add so much seasoning, it’s barely edible. He loves salt, I’ve probably mentioned this previously, adding way too much to everything. But he also goes overboard with the pepper. And red chili pepper. Now, I didn’t grow up with red pepper, so a tiny bit goes a long way with me. He puts so much in, my lips blister. One meal, he puts two full red peppers in it. Then next, after my complaint, he puts in ‘only one’. Seriously, just a tiny bit of one is as much as I can take. But jalapenos? I’m all for that. He finds them ‘hot’, so I always go easy (or put none at all) in something he’s going to eat. You can add them if you want them, yeah?

He once made taco meat – adding so much taco seasoning the meat was black. It was gross. Potatoes, really how hard can it be? He always puts in so much oil I can moisturize my hands with it. But he always implies that it’s me that’s fucked up, not his cooking. I’ve gotten to the point I don’t say anything. If it’s just totally gross, I throw it out and don’t tell him.


Edit:

I’m going to add to this one, rather than make a new page on the same subject.

Continuing taste.

We reuse water bottles in our house. Filling the empty water bottle from the tap, we put them in the fridge to be used when cold. Our water supply is heavy in limestone. There are times when I feel like my tea has so many limestone flakes, that I can crunch it. My partner is the one who refills them and puts them in the fridge.

We’ve been drinking this water for close to 20 years. So a few days ago, I was shocked to taste my water. It was totally different. My first thought was bleach. It tasted of bleach. I sipped it again, to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. Yup, bleach. Is my partner poisoning me with fucking bleach? But maybe not bleach? I go in the kitchen, empty the bottle, and refill it directly from the tap. I taste it. It’s not as strong now, but still tastes kind of like bleach.

I bring it up with my partner.

What’s that stuff, not bleach but kind of like it, that’s put into water? He says ‘chlorine’, and I’m yeah, that’s it. Our water tastes like chlorine now. You should taste it.

He says; no, I believe you. Your taste is better than mine.

I don’t know how anyone couldn’t taste this. It smacks you in the face. I’m thinking I want to call our water supplier and ask them what’s going on. (I’m wondering if chlorine dissolves limestone? Would they put it in to do that, and improve their water quality?)

Two days later, the water tastes normal again. For sure, my dear husband didn’t add something to the water, it must have been an accident by the water company. But it just goes to show you my mental state, that the first thing I think of is I’m being poisoned with bleach.