Meeting My Inner Bitch

We stood, staring each other down like modern day gun fighters, (though my hand was reaching for the doorknob, not my six shooter, and his was rattling his car keys, sounding not unlike the cold jingle of spurs, and certainly lending to the atmosphere).

I can’t even remember that particular evening’s topic of tantrum. So many such evenings had proceeded along the same lines, the same script. An innocent comment, a gentle differing of opinion, an alternate suggestion; it was never anything that warranted a war. But that night, something was different. Something had changed. I wouldn’t know that it was me who had changed until hours later, when it was all over but the crying (His tears, not mine).

For the first time in my life, I was done. Poke-me-with-a-fork finished.

All my life, I was the hanger-on. The one who always gave second, third and forth chances. The glass-half-full girl who believed that everything had a reason, everyone had a purpose and that sometimes doing nothing was doing something.

I let go and let God.

I believed that the hardest decisions in the world were the ones that you agonized over, kneading away at the problem until you wrung out a solution. I believed that confusion was the result of not liking any of the options. I had overthinking down to an art form, to the extent that my thinking got in the way of my listening to myself.

Don’t get me wrong, no one ever took advantage of me without my permission, but I gave permission away like flyers on windshields, advertising myself as a bottomless pit of empathy, understanding and do-overs.

Until that night.

He came down the stairs, saying the word “Bitch” with each footfall. Each word, so clearly spoken, was like an invitation to me. He said, “Bitch”. I thought, “leave”.

Bitch….leave….Bitch….leave….Bitch….LEAVE.

So I did.

No second thoughts.

No pros and cons.

No pity.

No regrets.

And now…… I let go, let GUT.