“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”
That’s what I yelled at my husband this morning. Harsh words, I know. But sometimes in marriage, you look at that person you share a life with, that spouse that you love unconditionally, and just want to throttle the life from them. But you don’t, because well, then you’d be a murderer and no one wants that.
After the words left my mouth, I was still in a rage, so I said them a few more times. He stared back at me in disbelief, and wisely stepped away from the situation. He’s calm like that. It drives me nuts.
So I said those hateful words a few times, and he left the room, and I went back to trying to tame my mane in order to get to work without looking like a fucking monster. All the while my brain can’t stop thinking things. For example the debate I had with myself over whether or not I should apologize for my choice words.
FYI: I apologize for just about everything. I was born feeling guilty and apologetic, so when there is an actual reason to feel sorry, the guilt is exponentially higher in me than your average functioning human being.
Nonetheless, the debate ended with me deciding NOT to apologize. Which then made me wonder if my unruly hair wasn’t the only monstrous thing about me.
For anyone reading this (not including me), you’re probably looking for some context. Fine. I’ll tell you what happened.
Basically a series of unfortunate events resulted in me having an allergic reaction from being stung by a wasp on my little toe. It was very sore, but I did my best to ignore the discomfort for as long as humanly possible; I don’t like to make a huge fuss out of these sorts of things. However last night, it became too much. My foot had swollen up, and was hot and incredibly itchy. I asked my loving husband of 9 years to please go to the drug store and get me some Benadryl. He didn’t think that was a good idea and instead found a cream for me, which he tenderly rubbed on my hobbit foot. He assured me it would help with the allergic reaction I was having to the wasp venom. I thanked him, and hoped that it would be better for work the next day.
During the night, I woke up itchy and scratching my throbbing foot relentlessly. Before I scratched my foot off entirely, I grabbed the cream and reapplied it in the dark. It seemed to assuage some of the discomfort, and I fell asleep again. I was still hopeful it would be fine by the morning.
Sure enough, the morning arrived, and much to my chagrin, my foot had only gotten worse. The swelling had spread and the itchiness became even more unbearable. I decided to put some more cream on. At first I couldn’t find it, which was weird since I had used it during the night. I asked my husband, and he said he had put it in the medicine cabinet. I didn’t have much time to consider how strange that was because the skin on my foot was hot and tingling and begging to be scratched, so I grabbed it and in the light of day, I finally realized what this fucking cream was, and why my dear husband was hiding it from me. He was hiding it because it was a fucking children’s ointment for mosquito bites. Sure it helped with some of the itch, but it certainly did nothing for the allergic reaction I was suffering. To my horror, I realized that my husband had placeboed me! In my hour of need, he lied to my face and gave me a goddamn placebo.
I put my trust in him, and he sends me to the allergic reaction wolves with a goddamn children’s ointment. That’s like treating a migraine with a hat. It’s like using a band aid for a broken bone. It’s like handing someone a Bic pen instead of an Epi pen. It’s ridiculous. It’s ludicrous. It’s infuriating. It’s outrageous! And this man is my emergency contact in life! He’d probably unplug my life support if he needed an outlet to charge his goddamn iphone! WHO THE HELL DID I MARRY?!
Anyway, after learning that he withheld important and vital information from me for the sole purpose of not having to get off the couch, I lost it. I lost it big time, and then I yelled. And then I declared my hatred for the man that I have so often professed my love for.
Now, if this doesn’t sound like a big deal to you, then you probably have never had an allergic reaction to wasp venom, and then been betrayed by your spouse. Because if you had, then you would absolutely think that this is a big fucking deal. HUGE.
It felt like the person that meant the most to me decided I wasn’t important enough. I wasn’t worth the effort. I wasn’t worth the time it would take to get in the car to retrieve some medicine, (which translates to about 10 to 15 minutes). And it hurt.
And so I yelled, “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”
I don’t actually hate my stupid husband. But in that moment, those words flowed effortlessly from my lips. And I’m not apologizing for it. Perhaps it’s the Benadryl talking (which, by the way, I got on my own after shoving my misshapen foot into a stiff but sensible high heel shoe), but he deserved it.
Hell hath no fury as a woman suffering an allergic reaction to a wasp sting, and then given a placebo instead of real medicine! (Not exactly as poetic as Shakespeare, but you get the point.)
In conclusion, I hate wasps. I hate allergic reactions. But I don’t hate that I used the word “hate” when communicating my frustrations to the stupid man I love. And I’m certainly not going to apologize. But I may take a nap under my desk, because everything seems to be getting fuzzy right now…ahh, sweet over the counter medications, I love you…
ALL HAIL PILLS!