My initial reaction when someone accuses me of incapability to love is plain and utter rage. And then disbelief. I mean really? Me? After everything? I'd like to believe I'm doing okay with this whole whatever-you'd-like-to-call-this thing. That's true for most days. But after all that, I cave in and actually end up questioning my track record.
How much is too much? When is enough really enough?
I am not that spoiled to bail out the very moment I sense potential struggle on my part. If I decide to be in it, I am definitely in it despite any and all possible odds. I can be emotionally malleable if need be. I am willing to bend over backwards just to make something work. I am and can be so many things when it comes to relationships of any sort, but this I am not - a masochist.
For the record, I am in no way denying the obvious that I have had my share of pain-causing. I admit my words were not always the kindest, my understanding not always largely scoped, my patience not always available. I am not dodging any bullet here. But see, it's only fair to say that there were also a number of things that I did that is not bad or hurtful or resenting. Again, most days I believe I do okay. That I am a good, loving, grateful partner. I wish I could say "that makes two of us". But nah. I may be delusional. Whatevs.
This war has drawn too much blood already. This has gotten all too exhausting. One can only do so much right? It shouldn't be this hard. I mean yeah, petty fights here and there. That's manageable. Normal, even. But this? This cycle that brings us back to miserable square one is just not right. Any progress ever made gets washed down the drain. It's like unpaid, unrecognized labor. Working for nothing. Where is justice in that?
And it's just sad the word "labor" was what came into mind.
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