Breaking point

How do you know when you’ve reached your breaking point? When the effort just feels too one sided, like you’ve done and given as much as you possibly can, pushed your empathy and patience and understanding to their limits, your heart wrung dry? where the sense of betrayal, hurt and pain is sadly more than love can bolster, and you can no longer wait for the slow one-two trudge of change? Admitting it, at first, may be too much. But inside you know. That night, I knew. I don’t think I could face it openly as such, but I knew, and reacted, blindly, accordingly.

Broken inside, I broke shit.

It went down after I discovered Joe slept with Taffy Kehrwald – otherwise referred to as ‘that betty crocker cunt,’ since she more or less looks like a middle-aged morally-inept beer-gutted corner-store clerk. And yeah, it may be petty, but I can call names and be karmically accurate: he fucked around, but the twat knew he was doing it, sent messages to make sure I didn’t find out. Insert some old-world spitting on ground in contempt and disgust here. anyway. back to the point.

That BCC Taffy was my breaking point, the one time too many. I could listen to him, hear him pleading that he was trying, that he would find a way to regain my trust, and I could look at her photo and know that it clearly was a part of his compulsive sexual addiction – I mean really… that nasty bitch? – and my head could understand that slipping up and acting out happens, but… My heart couldn’t handle it. She was real, action taken. The inner doubts rallied, ‘really, that was what he chose over you?’

It was one time too many, the one too far over the line, beyond my ability to cope with the slips. Empathy, understanding and patience pushed too far. I wanted him to meet me halfway, reach out, show me he cared, was trying, give me something, anything. But nothing. Too little too late. The way he said he would try, that he’d find a way, was a step in the right direction, but I was tired of waiting for action to back up words.

That knowledge seeping in, that I had reached my limit, that things weren’t changing, that he just couldn’t or didn’t care, was like a blunt knife twisting around my heart. Despite it all, i loved the bastard, still wanted to hope we could find a way, be better, enjoy the good, and hated watching the last of that pathetic hope dying. Death throes of hope and love, sent me lashing out, like a wounded animal, in defense against the pain.

‘yeah, i hate myself for lovin you, can’t break free of the things that you do, i wanna walk but i run back to you, yeah i hate myself…’

We were hitting full on alpha couple, and though I knew I should just walk, I couldn’t quite do it. We kept falling back into comfortable – repress, suppress, denial, false hope, half-assed effort – til the next kaboom. I didn’t know how to cope with his illness, or mine, or what it was doing to me. Letting my pain, anger and frustration out in the ways I did probably wasn’t healthy, but what of any of it was? It felt like I could watch myself reacting, pushing him back, doing these things I didn’t really want to do, but was helpless to stop it. I couldn’t stop him from hurting me, I couldn’t stop loving him, I couldn’t stop from lashing out. Helpless.

It felt like it didn’t have anywhere else to go, didn’t know what else to do with my hurt. He’d pushed me to my breaking point. Desperately sad, mournfully futile, helpless reactions, wrong turns, my own acting out. A primal scream, you’ve pushed me so far, what did you expect?! A last desperate attempt to get through, or get away.

Push back til it fixed or broke or both.

and so I broke shit. Because I didn’t know anymore how to cope with what was happening, with what was wrong with him or me or us, or the fact that we just couldn’t seem to stop making the wrong choices, stop taking two steps back.

~ by velvetmonkeywrench on 4 March, 2011.