Batter Up

I've been putting off writing about this, because there's just no good way to couch it. I was wrong, and that's all there is to it.

Well. Okay. That's not all there is. Of course there's a story behind the wrong, and this is that story:

Sunday I got home around 6 p.m. from the Bay Area. I brought a few small items into the house, and even though Todd heard me and knew I was home, he didn't come out to see if I needed help or even to say, "welcome back." Kind of ticked me off, but then I rationalized that he might be in the middle of something, so I packed a pull cart full of goodies (presents from my parents and stuff I bought), and proceeded to go back into the house.

Thump.

Oh no. I knew what it was without even looking...but of course, I had to look. It was my prize of the weekend: a plaster muse I got at an antique fair. It was part of a pair, one a writer and the other a musician. The writer was the one I wanted the most, so of course it was the one that broke...into a hundred tiny, chalky pieces.

I almost cried right there in front of the house, but I managed to clean up the mess instead.

I finally got everything into the house after three trips. Then I hear a voice from the family room "Hi honey." Yeah. Hi.

But... I had missed Todd, so I pushed my frustration aside and went in to see him. However, being in the wrong frame of mind, I didn't see him as much as I saw the mess that surrounded him. Crap all over the counters (my pet peeve). A TV on the floor, and a new one in its place. The box and wrappings from the new TV were all over the place...blocking entry into the bathroom and the laundry room.

Needless to say, I was pissed.

"Please tell me you are going to move the TV on the floor to someplace else."

"Crap. Is this what you're going to be like? Just get in your car and drive back to your parents' place, because this isn't your home."

Angered by his comment, I grabbed a piece of nearby packing Styrofoam and chucked it at him. It hit him in the chin.

Things didn't get much better right after that.

We managed to somehow talk it out. I admitted to blaming him for the broken muse. He offered to fix it (moot, because it absolutely was unfixable). I apologized for throwing Styrofoam at him. We talked about the comment he made (not my home). We kissed, he forgave me, and we made up.

Yet, three days after the fact I am still ashamed of how volatile my anger got at that particular moment in time. I know it was only Styrofoam and it didn't hurt. Still, it was the absolute wrong thing to do.

I know what set me off, and it wasn't the broken muse. Sure, that was what got me into the state I was in, but a few minutes upstairs alone would've been enough time for me to cool down. No, it was his saying that the house wasn't my home.

It's times like that when I feel so absolutely afraid of my future...it's as if, after all this time, I'm still only a guest. And it's fear that caused me to chuck that Styrofoam at him, not anger.

I'm not sure what to do about the fear. I'm afraid that, like the muse, it's broken and it can't be fixed.