I’m Not The A**hole, It’s You

I know I’m being an asshole. I hate the word bitch since it singles out a certain sect of individuals. However, everyone is an asshole at some point, whether they know it or not. It’s a mood some days, a choice on others. I see it all the time. I’m surrounded by assholes, including myself. And that’s what sucks, when I know I’ve stepped over the line and joined the club.

Let me give you an example. I’m drawn to cocky men. As a result, my overall shy son isn’t at all timid when he’s home with us. I’ve helped create this monster. Ahem—legacy.

Part of me isn’t ashamed. I’d much rather my son have confidence as a man than question is overall existence. Please don’t take that wrong, you beautiful, tender-hearted souls. It is possible for a male to understand he’s a man without being a misogynistic jackass.

So far, so good, raising my son. But at the same time, I am also feeling the teenagerly tendencies to shun his mother because he’s preoccupied with a zillion things that will never cross my mind.

I get it. He’s a kid. I’ll try my best to nurture him into a good man.

I toss the dice—they roll…and roll…and…

We’ll see what we get. It’s a damn crapshoot.

Let’s move on.

This is supposed to be about me discovering that I’m an asshole. Part of it is due to the fact that I’ve seen and heard so many other assholes over the years. I’m bored with it. I don’t want to debate. I don’t even want to entertain the arguments, and then listen to excuses that I’m the one arguing.

My palms shoot in the air. I don’t give a shit anymore. I’m fucking over it. Find someone new to quibble with. Find someone who doesn’t give a shit if they never have a substance-filled conversation ever again in their life.

I’m in the kitchen with my husband now. I don’t make eye contact. I know it hurts when I give the cold-shoulder. I hate myself for it, but I can’t seem to bring myself to look directly into those brown eyes. Always innocent, a doting husband who loves me despite the obvious fact that I’m a complete jerk at the present moment.

That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

I’m not wrong.

I’m not exactly right, but my feelings aren’t wrong…

Fuck. Maybe they are. There’s a chance I’m running on nothing but emotion. This week hasn’t played out the way I’d imagined. As for many weeks before this one, I’m tired. I’m moody. And I don’t understand why life keeps circling back to shit I’ve tried to walk away from so many times.

Yeah, I’m the one being an asshole at the moment. I know it isn’t him, but it’s best if he just stays out of my way.

He plays that part well. After three decades of enduring my moods, he knows how to love me and give me grace better than I do.

I sigh at his equally confusing moods and go to our bedroom to eat my dinner alone. In the quiet, I can’t help but think, being an asshole has its benefits too.

I know the dishes will be done when I resurface. I heard our son running the sink already.

I’m confident, I’ll be told, “I love you,” as long as I keep my mouth shut and don’t start ranting. With every breath, I’m resisting the urge to start a fight. Again, I’m not proud of that.

And I’m completly confidant there’s no way they’ll ask me to do anything for them before I go to bed.

I’ve honestly managed to get everything my asshole-self is seeking.

A hot shower, another glass of wine, and I’ll be ready to surrender to my dreams. Weird as they may be, I take solace in their adventures. I never know where I’ll go. Some mornings it’s beyond painful to leave the sublime moments given to me in those curiously surreal worlds.

But when I wake up, I won’t be an asshole anymore. I’ll be me again.

Unfortunately, it’s been a stupid, awful, sweaty, smelly day. Tomorrow has to be better. The dawn will show me the truth. If I’m able to keep my mouth shut until then, despite my frigid temper, the new day will reward me with hope for another try.

The key to all of this, is being an asshole without showing it. The slope is slick, and I’m grasping at clumps of muck. But if I can, tomorrow won’t be filled with painful bruises, ones I deserve because I wanted to let lose my demons on the ones I love the most. But if I can guard my words and just go to sleep, I’ll recover with a sense of hope, knowing that my tribe loves me.

Sometimes saying what’s on our mind is healthy and right. But there are times when we need to stop and breathe, meditate and rest, let space flow between our emotions and the truth before we insist on being heard. That’s the difference between being an asshole and needing space to recover.

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