My Dear Husband,
Sometimes I seriously contemplate the reasons we were ever brought together. When I see your dirty dishes in the sink, trip over your nest in the middle of the living room, grab handfuls of your dirty laundry, or scrub the toilet after an “incident”… things look pretty grim.
I’ve never cooked so much in my life. I never realized how OCD I am about housekeeping until you splayed your shit everywhere, prompting me to have a near nervous breakdown. The laundry and I understand each other on a deeply personal level, as do the vacuum cleaner, the bleach, and the cashiers at Publix.
But I’ll admit that I’ve been a huge bitch to you. Damn right I didn’t believe you when you said you were always busy working at home. “Suuuure” I thought, “‘working’ from home must be so terrible…” Then I surprised you by coming home from work early. I saw your exhausted face. I heard your phone ring 15 times in an hour. I heard the chimes from the texts coming in. I overheard your conference calls. Yup, I’m a bitch.
I get mad at you all the time because you are always busy. You get sick when you are stressed and then I always catch what you have while I’m taking care of you. So much NyQuil… But then I had surgery. I don’t remember much besides the pain, the narcotics, and me screaming at you to get Mom. But you still took care of me for days. And got Mom.
I had one health problem after another for the entire first year. I would break down crying in the middle of a room and fall asleep exhausted on random objects. You would put me in bed and hold me until I stopped sobbing. You held my hand when they ran blood tests with ungodly large needles. You changed your work schedule around when I had to get stitches removed.
I screamed at you that I hated everything about the city I moved to to be with you. I cried that I was lonely and unhappy and that sometimes I regretted moving. You found a museum for me to volunteer at and drive me every other weekend. You found an art studio for me to start my painting classes again. You never object when I ask to have one of my friends over.
I hated my job. You told me that I could quit before it made me sick. You said that we’d rearrange the budget and that we’d be okay. Thank God I got a great job.
I felt inadequate because I’m the only person in my family without a grad school degree. You gave me information on a masters degree and said we’d find the money if it’s something I wanted to do.
I got into a small car accident and I was terrified to tell you. But when I did you said that we had to repaint the car anyway.
So, in summary, I’m sorry for being a bitch. I complain about everything, but I know I already have everything that is truly important.
Happy Anniversary Will!