Frustration can be almost as debilitating as a mental illness or a broken bone. In fact, it’s often associated with fierce times in one’s life.
As I become closer to my boyfriend and we’ve stayed together longer, the growing pains have begun to be felt. Where little things just build up into a frustrating pile of shit that you don’t want to acknowledge but is so hard to ignore.
It puts a strain on the relationship even if it’s just the external forces surrounding the relationship that are causing the frustration. More so, the refusal to talk about the problems hurts. My feelings are important. And it’s not my boyfriend’s refusal to talk, it’s my own.
I don’t want to acknowledge my problems, my illnesses, my qualms. Because of some ancient guilt complex, built into the very fiber of my being. I feel guilty for feeling frustrated. I feel guilty for wanting attention and wanting to talk. I feel like I’m wasting breath and that eventually no one, including he, will care.
It’s a toxic thought process, but it’s mine.
So when I melted into a puddle of tears last night over Facetime, sobbing over every detail of the past two weeks, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Feel guilty, because it felt good to cry and it felt good to complain and it felt good to get everything out there for him to take it or leave it.
And he took it. And then he told me he loved me. For the billionth time.
And it’s moments like last night, that convince me, that maybe – just maybe – this guy is gonna be it.
He’s the only one that always knows what to say and when he doesn’t have anything to say, that’s says everything.