(Apparently, I've used the title "I'm a bitch" before. Why am I not surprised?)
I don't know why I'm such a bitch. It's just my nature, I guess. I don't know why I pout like a spoiled child when faced with something I don't want to do - after I suggested it. I don't know why it's easy for me to stomp around and act like an asshole toward the man who loves me more than everything; I don't know why I make him plead for my good graces when he's done nothing to deserve anything but.
I don't know why I have days where his every kind gesture is greeted with sarcasm and eye-rolling and scorn from me. I don't know why the things I love so much every other day sometimes feel like a cheese grater across my last nerve. I don't know why the little songs and voices that amuse me so thoroughly can sometimes irritate me so completely.
It was really bad on birth control. And it came back last Fall. And every now and then, every week (day) or two, it creeps back in, taking control of my emotions and thoughts and turning me into the bitch in the house.
I wish I could blame it on PMS or my period or the moon, but there's no discernible pattern - I'm just crazy every now and then.
He offers me the peace pipe, extends his arms in acceptance and love, and eventually, the tension inside me unwinds and I'm left feeling embarrassed and ashamed and confused at my attitude and swift anger and hateful thoughts. I vow to do better, I swear I'll try harder - and I do, until the next time I get swept up in the wave of crazy that washes over me and carries me along until the lifesaver of his kindness or anger or sense is able to hook me a pull me back to the shores of sanity.
And then I come back here and write some really fucking awful metaphors about what a bitch I am.
Just your average Sunday at Casa de Loco.