I Wish This Was Fiction

Initially this post was going to include a light-hearted summary of the sample sale I went to on Wednesday and the happy hour I went to on Thursday. It’s likely that this will be the most you’ll read about that. Instead, let’s talk about something that irks me (it is my blog, after all). I’m so fed up with the people that surround me. I feel like they all make demands that require me to disregard my own problems in order to: 1) listen to their problems, and 2) get berated for actually forming an opinion on the monologue I’ve just witnessed.

On September 18, I wrote an entry about a recurring situation. As it turns out, recurring situations…recur. This time, however, I stopped giving advice. Because as much as I care about this person, she would rather unload her bullshit on me and hope that I have nothing to say but, “Oh, how sad.” Too bad, though. I have no sympathy for a victim who will lay down and die because they’re too afraid to do anything else. But I do agree that it’s sad. She’s trained herself to believe that things will get better. In reality, her life has gotten progressively worse since three years ago. And I’m pretty sure it’s only getting worse because she’s a fucking saint. Not only does she see something good in everyone, but she allows unimportant things to completely overpower the obvious hate and anger that is being shown towards her.

I’m afraid my friend will end up like her — putting up with his abuse until it’s too late. I seriously fear that she’ll be put into a coma before she realizes that she’s in actual danger. “It’s always different when you’re in a situation, then when you’re outside of it.” That’s what she said to me today. That was her excuse for dismissing my opinions. But I agree; the situation is always different when you’re actually involved. But I’ve been there. Except I didn’t marry the guy — I dumped him. We started dating in March 2006. I broke up with him four months later when he slammed me against his truck with his hands around my throat yelling in my face. He was drunk and wanted to leave a party. I told him to stay a bit longer until he sobered up. I’m still mad at myself for not telling anyone why we broke up. “It just didn’t work out,” is so much easier to say.

My point is that arguments are normal in relationships. Violence is not. And when you’ve been abused several times by someone who feels there’s no need to seek professional help, then they’re a lost cause. She’ll never know, though. Because he’ll do something mildly nice for her and she’ll be distracted from the problem. And that’s fine with me because it’s ultimately her choice. I just wish she would “vent” to someone who doesn’t care about what happens to her. That’s the only reaction she’ll ever be satisfied with. Because as much as I wish I didn’t care, I do. I care too fucking much to watch her go down in flames.

« Previous |