Blokey has had
a cold man-flu this week.
Whenever he gets the sniffles I can’t say a bloody thing. Whatever I say, or do, or however I act, it apparently shows that I resent him being ill.
I’m of the opinion that he perhaps needs to look up the word ‘resent’ in the dictionary, whereby he’ll find that it says, to feel angry because you’ve been forced to accept someone or something that you do not like, or to feel or show displeasure or indignation at (a person, act, remark, etc.) from a sense of injury or insult.
I don’t resent him being ill.
I do resent him telling me that I resent it.
The truth is that I worry, constantly. This worry manifests itself twohundredfold when he gets the sniffles, or an ulcer or a headache. Or when I think he isn’t peeing enough. I don’t think I handle my worries well and maybe this makes me act resentful, in his eyes, when he’s feeling under the weather.
I got very angry. I told him that I don’t resent him and it’s ridiculous that he thinks I do. I went on to tell him that what I actually resent is that I’m not allowed to feel ill and that he doesn’t think I’m ill because it’s all in my fucking head. And yes, as I snarled those exact words in his general direction I did jab my finger at my head. Then I did the teenage strop and tried my best not to let my Mumsy know we’d had a minor tiff, for she was watching the tellybox downstairs.
Oddly, he’s been quite nice since then. And his sniffles are disappearing.
(Day 856, NO DIALYSIS!!!)