After my last post Fredo and I began to talk again. A few nights later I had plans to spend a night with myself, someone I like to hang out with regularly, but Fredo encouraged me to stop by. He was making dinner when I got there, and he offered me some. Then he told me where to sit, and I sat, and then I looked down upon a pair of women's shoes, placed ever so carefully right at my feet. They were not my shoes.
|The last straw|
I stopped eating, I drew the line, I left. I told Fredo I had him wrong, he was not a nice guy.
Because here's the thing. I don't have time for bullshit. The whole time Fredo and I are going through this DRAMA he said he wasn't angry with me, but his actions told me different, and the shoes were just the icing on the cake.
To me, passive aggressiveness is the cruelest form of communication. I'm not saying I don't do it, I think I did it a lot with my Sweet Escape, but man, it is such a soul killer.
I broke into tears. What I had I done? I had no idea. I had no idea what I had done that was so shitty to deserve such contempt. For the wusband to not even want me to do his friggin' laundry. I'm sure I had done something. I was not a perfect wife. But tell me. JUST TELL ME, so I can change it. TELL ME, so we can work it out. TELL ME, so I we can yell and scream and then get to the make up sex.
I can take it. That's what I know about me, but maybe you don't Mr. Passive Aggressive. I can take it. I'm a woman with big ovaries, I can take the truth. But more than that, I crave the truth. I mean, I don't want you to lay out every damn thing I do wrong, but if I piss you off, let her rip. I want to know. I want to make the choice about whether I can change my behavior or not. I want to know because you are my partner and that's how you make things work, by laying it on the table.