I feel like the slightest provocation from my husband sends me reeling. It's all I can do to not yell, or worse, say something truly cutting and hurtful.
Yes, he can be a little unappreciative, and I have a right to demand respect. That's all good and well. But I feel that I don't have to let his half-joking comment about the soup being a little bland cause me to sink into some dark, somber, vengeful mood.
I spend all day in this calm, gray, half-blissful mood. I'm completely by myself, which feels natural and sublime, and I study and clean. I couldn't ask for a better life. Today I felt tears of joy brimming in my eyes as I noted that the canary-yellow daffodils were in full bloom in the back garden. When I walk through my house, I'm starting to catch these vistas that fill me with a sense of ease and contentment- the paperwhites blooming in the window, lush, leafy plants greeting me at the turn of each corner, the soft light of pendant lamps catching on the warm tones of the walls, the way the sunroom looks through the double french doors.
I can even hold on to some of this dreamy state as I greet my peor-es-nada as he walks in the door. I set out my homemade soup, and the steam curls out in millions of tiny droplets. I smile and kiss him on the cheek. I listen patiently as he talks about his day at work. I mistakenly say, "That's great!", as he complains about being moved from his office to a training room, as the corporation struggles to find space for their expanding work force. "Oh, I see", I laugh as he explains to me that it's not really a good thing at all.
Then, as he tries to couch his critique in humor when I ask him, "How's the soup?", the nebulous, meditative-gray backdrop of my mind turns relentlessly black and tumultuous, and I launch into a psychoanalysis of the lack of gratitude his parents must have displayed toward each other as he was growing up. Try as he might to backpedal and explain himself, it's all over, and he's just making it worse. The mental ninjas are on the loose, and I desperately try to call them back. Thankfully, I'm able to restrain them, and they cease their attack before any mortal wounds are inflicted. But I have to leave the house, I have to take them elsewhere before I lose control of them again. I've spent the entire day by myself, which feels soothing, yet I can't seem to restrain my demon ninjas for the few hours necessary to give someone else the time and space to relax from what I could only assume would be a more stressful day than my "free day", which I have day after day.
How much distance would I have to put between myself and others for me to feel that I finally had "enough space"? Are there any caves in the desert still available for holy-man recluses?
The real question is: Will it happen again? Will I have to be comitted, all because my husband didn't like my soup?
