We were up until three this morning, arguing. I hate that shit. He spent two days in a row acting like I wasn�t even there and expected me to welcome him with open arms when he deemed me worthy of attention. I explained to him that him asking me to simply sit with him while he�s playing video games is not fun for me, that I don�t like the angry, hostile version of him that comes out because whether he realizes it or not, he takes it out on me too. That�s also why I don�t like it when he drives. He gets snappy and generally nasty. I guess I�m still a little addled.

I hate that, when arguing, the topics of argument change from one thing to another and the original topic gets so lost. We end up arguing about things that have no relevance to the problem at hand. All that ever happens are for us to end up crying about things we needn�t cry about at that time and wringing ourselves out to the point of egregious exhaustion.

It does bother me, however, that there seems to be a lot that he doesn�t know about me. He says that when there is an opportunity to open up, I get short and wall off, but I don�t really see opportunities, cannot draw parallels. Back when I was forced to go into therapy, the therapist accused me of being too matter of fact about the things that I had endured. Sorry, lady, but getting overly emotional about things that I cannot change and that happened in the past accomplishes nothing. I�m sure it made her job a hell of a lot easier to listen to someone who was rational and not sniveling incomprehensibly. She told my parents (dad and stepmom) that I didn�t have to go anymore a couple of months later. I didn�t get anything out of her save for a deep resentment of her and a loathing for that stuffy, pink, cloyingly perfumed little office. She told me nothing I hadn�t already known and didn�t realize that she had not in fact helped, but that I had simply come to accept that what had happened was just another shitty occurrence in a string of shitty life occurrences.

Luke also says that I refuse help when I need it. I don�t see myself as needing help, having dealt with far worse on my own previously. He thinks that he can make everything better all the time by simply holding me and telling me he loves me. Little does he know that those two things are the antithesis of comfort for me. If I hide my tears from you, cover my face, and pull away, don�t come in for the big hug. I pull away to insulate myself. Telling me you love me makes me cry harder. Don�t get sentimental when all I really want is to stop crying and move on with my life. I can think of two people who have ever been consistently able to calm me down and they are my father and my friend Matt. The would make me laugh when I was inconsolable and just let me work through things in my way, rather than insisting on all the confessional soul-pouring that other people insist upon. Remove me from what is troubling me and I�m no longer troubled.

The few I have allowed to see have commented on how pretty I get when I cry. There is no beauty in blotchy red cheeks and eyes the color of the ocean. Someone once told me that my eyes looked as though there was great sadness in them; that the dark blue ring around what is normally a lighter blue was made up of tears that had yet to fall. You would think that after two years of crying more than I previously have in my entire life, that ring would have run down my cheeks and disappeared by now. It lingers still, no matter how green or blue my eyes happen to be from day to day.