The Jagged Edge

He doesn’t like it when I am excited.  It makes him uncomfortable.  There is an edge to the table and he will fall off, we will fall off.  I will create unhappiness by being too happy – too excited.  The Event cannot possibly live up to my expectations.  He simply MUST show me the dirt - the REAL face of The Event, before I become so full of happy helium that I float too high, then burst and fall.  It is the most uncomfortable place for him to be in, can’t I see that?  There is AN EDGE.  We WILL FALL.  And he will suffer under the weight of my disappointment.  HE will be made to suffer once things go wrong.  So I must be SHOWN. All he can do to save me (and himself!  From watching the fall!) is to disappoint me – he MUST make me see the jagged edge of the table.  I am creating a vast vacuum of expectations, and even though it is not his responsibility to make certain The Event is wonderful, he will feel horribly responsible if (WHEN!) disappointment is had.  My excitement is surely creating my own expectations of Glorious 100% Pure BEST DAY EVER and that simply will not stand.  There is NO WAY a day could be BEST.  So he must, MUST, show me how bad it could be.  And once I am properly scared/sad/depressed/no longer looking forward to The Event, then – THEN.  Well, then we can move forward.  I have been cowed.  I have been SHOWN.  See?  BAD THINGS CAN HAPPEN.  And the fact that bad things CAN happen, means we must assume that they WILL.  Tires will go flat.  Money will run out.  Rain will fall.  And ALL of these things mean the day will not be the BEST DAY EVER and therefore all of my expectations will not be met.  And now that I am upset, crying, beating my breast and saying YOU ARE RIGHT, the bad will happen, we cannot do The Event!  My Happy Helium Balloon must never even be filled! he tells me – stop, my darling!  Stop being so upset!  We will make it work!  We can eat stale bread and bad lunch meat – we can stretch a dollar!  We can bring an umbrella for the rain, we can handle it!  Now that I am only looking at the dirt, now he can show me HIS version of excitement.  His muted, pale, anemic version of happy.  I call him Eyeore.  This is an insult to Eyeore I think.

What he doesn’t understand – well, there are oceans he doesn’t understand.  He doesn’t understand me.  The essential me.  He doesn’t understand it, and he doesn’t like it.  For me, the rain, the flat tire – the jagged edge of the table – these things are all wrapped up in The Event.  They are a part of it.  Part of the adventure, the fun of it all.  Part of what I am excited about. 

For him?  They are the entire focus.  He prefers the perceived safety in his dread.

He got his way.  He won again.  But wheels are turning.  I am smart.  I am a Master Manipulator, learned at the lap of the narcissists who raised me.  And I am sick of this game.