After coming home to the eviction letter on his bedroom door, VR was quick to try to apologize, presumably to try to halt what had already occurred. I raised my voice farther than I should have.
I think I was mean.
I don't like being mean. There is a difference between being a bitch and being mean. Being a bitch is just drawing a line in the sand and refusing to budge. Being mean aims to injure. I think I was aiming to injure. I was so full of hurt and latent anxiety and exhaustion that I wanted to share the sensation.
In any case, my gut hurts like hell and every single one of my nerves is shot. I would give anything for a Xanax right now.
My entire support system was at the movies when I finished my tirade and stormed out of the house to walk the dog and vent the adrenaline. I had nobody to Monday-morning quarterback with, so now I have no real memory of what I said. It washed away in a flood of stress hormones. I hope some of it was taken to heart. I know I used the phrase "shockingly un-self-aware" and "I cannot have TWO disorders in the house, I am white-knuckling through every day loaded up on an astonishingly high dose of stimulants to try to keep the chaos at bay, and I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE."
I will probably vomit before bed.
In any case, I am repainting the front door on November 1, and changing out the lock. I have paint chips taped to the door to see which one grows on me.
I'm so tired of feeling like this.