If I start crying, I won’t be able to stop. I haven’t really done very much crying in the past few years, to be honest. I’ve more or less deadened my feelings for so long that all I’m really capable of these days is venomous sarcasm. I save all the happiness I have to give for my son. Why bother crying–all it does is cripple me anyway. He doesn’t care when I do it, not like in the beginning of relationships, when a man’s initial response is typically to make the crying stop, to soften his tone and maybe apologize for his harshness or insensitivity. You know, the campaigning stage.

Besides, crying takes up too much time and I just don’t have it. I should be working on a huge paper that’s due tomorrow night–because he won’t allow me to work on it during the day. Instead, I’m stuck here trying to clear the garbage from my head so I can concentrate.

He was in the garage when I came home from work. Our autistic 5 year old was on the couch in the house alone, watching YouTube on his tablet. I went out to the garage just to tell him I was home and to grab the shelf brackets I’d spray painted a few days ago, and before I got a word out, he blurts “I haven’t been out here that long! I just came out here a few minutes ago!”

“Okay.” I kept myself neutral, grabbed the brackets and went inside, because I can tell he’s high as soon as he opens his mouth. It doesn’t take much for either of us to get stoned. I take a single toke once or twice every few months after my son has gone to bed. A single toke because I’d otherwise turn into a dumb zombie. It makes him hyper to the point where he runs his mouth on a constant basis. This is on top of being drunk. He tends to think he’s God’s gift to comedy and Just. Won’t. Shut. UP.

So after announcing 4 times that his hatch thingies came for his boat–because he get’s crazy repetitive as well–he asks if I was able to get most of my project done while I was at work. I let him know I got a LOT done, but I still had a ways to go.

“Will you be available for him tomorrow?” he asks, meaning my son.

“Well, yeah, that’s why I plan on staying up late tonight and tomorrow night. So I can spend time with him.”

“Cause I wanna work on my boat tomorrow. I was only able to get out there once today.”

Says the man who will be off for an ENTIRE summer, by himself in just a few more weeks. He *needs* to work on his boat, knowing full well that his wife has a huge assignment due and that my semester is only TWO WEEKS from being over. He has the balls to pretend he’s concerned about me giving our son attention, when he really just wants to fuck off and play with his boat. Can he wait until next week? Of course not.

“Well, priorities, y’know…” I said, keeping my voice cool. And yes, I meant it like THAT, which brought out the “what’s THAT supposed to mean” in him. Yecchh! I can’t even stand this person I saddled myself with. I don’t even have the energy to explain how important this is to my being able to pass–because he KNOWS. He’s a fucking TEACHER. I just don’t even have that kind of energy to waste anymore.

He’s the one who gushes about how *proud* he is of me for going back to school. He’s the one who told me to stick it out and push through (so I could finish sooner) when I told him I felt burnt out and was thinking of taking my first summer semester off. He’s the one who brags to his family about how his wife (the high school drop-out) is going for her Master’s. And now? This is just another of his back-and-forth, gaslighting flip-flops. He’s so “supportive” until he actually *needs* to be supportive.

While I was playing with my son in the kitchen, DL stumbles in and slurs that he’s taking Wednesday off (WHY??? Take a day off when I’m at work!) and we should go see Harry Potter. Again, I explain to him that my classes are almost over and I have a LOT of work to do. I won’t really be available to putz around for a couple of weeks. (Note: this doesn’t mean I haven’t been cooking dinner on my days off and taking care of my son, and *trying* to keep a clean house whenever I’m home.)

“But you’re off on Wednesdays.”

“Off of work. Not off of school.”

He walked away, grumbling like he hasn’t already had 13 weeks to get used to me doing nothing but homework on my “days off”. This is only my FIRST semester out of the EIGHT I’ll need to complete before I get my Master’s. I will have to deal with this garbage every semester while trying to pass final exams. How am I not going to have a stroke from this?

Now, some soft-hearted person might point out that the poor guy just misses his wife and feels neglected, but I generally only do school work while on the clock at my job, during my (alone) weekend (everyone is gone all day), and late at night after my son is in bed, that hour gap between dropping DS off at his therapy center (y’know, during the hour I USED to work out). I’m still home directly after work, because I’m not allowed to even stop at the store on my way home–unless it’s for husband-approved reasons, like needing tampons.

I try to take back a tiny bit of myself and get punished.

I’ve started looking at trailer parks. Is that a cheaper housing option? I’ve seen some decent/non-creepy ones.

I have a paper to finish. Like now.