I am not an easy person to live with.
Shocking, I know.
I like my house to be soothing and a place of retreat, but when I've been retreating for too many evenings in a row and haven't had time to put things away, or when I am in the process of packing and moving, the chaos and clutter makes me crabby and short-tempered.
I like quiet. When the television volume is loud, I get crabby and short-tempered.
I like it dark. When I lived at home, my mom was constantly following me around the house, turning on lights behind me so I could see, and marveling at home I navigated all but pitch-black rooms without a problem. When all the lights are on, it's too bright, and it makes me crabby and short-tempered.
I hate it when cupboard doors are left open. They need to always be closed, or I become crabby and short-tempered. And then I have to storm into the kitchen and slam them shut.
I am not good at explaining my reactions. I feel the things I feel and I will deal with those feelings by, generally speaking, sulking and pouting, and occasionally laying down on my bed and staring at the wall. I don't want to tell you why I'm mad/sad/melancholy/jealous/shy/frustrated (those are all emotions I will feel within any given 3-hour period). I may or may not want you to fix the problems. But I do not want you to ask me talk about it. Talking about it makes me crabby and short-tempered.
So it is a miracle to me that I have maintained a relationship for more than a year with someone I practically live with.
He eats whatever I put in front of him, even when he isn't hungry, and even when it's something root from the ground. He never judges me for eating both our shares of dessert. He buys me Diet Coke when he goes to the store. He loves my hair in all its various moods, and he likes it best when I am in a skirt suit for an interview or when I'm watching tv in pajama shorts and a grey tee shirt. He drives back to my house a hundred times for everything I forget when I leave, and he never calls me dumb. Every time I grab at my purse and announce another thing I left behind, he rolls his eyes at me and turns the car around. Sometimes he calls me "the living end."
Despite my repeated attempts to make him turn prematurely grey, or even to lose his temper once, he stays around. When I am incited with rage, he keeps to the corners, and he leaves when I demand it. He also sits next to me and holds my hand when I am scared. He always answers the phone when I call to tell him I'm sorry. He never hangs up on me, even when I enter full-blown Crazy Town. No matter what, he will always come back when I have shooed him away, and he knows that what I need is not to be alone, but to be with him, watching dumb movies and drinking wine. He lets me make up things to be angry about, and then he talks me down from the ledge I made.
He says his number one priority, all the time, is to make sure I am happy.
I'm not always happy, but that is because I am a terrible, evil person. I should be happy all the time, not because of all the things he does, but because he wants me to be happy so fervently and sincerely.
He's sitting right behind me, working on his AWR, making it the best he possibly can because it's something he cares about, and something he wants to be proud of. I hear him typing, and then I hear his chair move back as he reads over what he's written. He hasn't paid me any attention in hours, and I love him so much for it.
We both work extremely hard, and there's no end in sight. After school, we have to get jobs, and then we have to keep those jobs. We might get to go to sleep. Law school isn't easy, and I'm so fortunate to have someone like him both for the law school hours and the non-law school ones.
He makes me want to be a better person, so that he will be as fortunate as I am. Because I don't deserve it, and if anyone does, it's the guy behind me.
I hope he knows I love him more than anything.
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