My man and I had a doozy of a fight the other night. It was a perfect storm of internal and external forces- just the right mix of emotions and circumstances to send me packing off to my personal armory to dust off some of my biggest, oldest, and most loaded guns. The poor man never stood a chance.
I was a master of rhetoric: hitting him squarely between the eyes at every opportunity with my ammunition. And it was no ordinary ammunition. I hauled out my specialty items: honed over years of practice to go right for his weak spots. I shot to kill.
It was an old fight- one we have had many times. A fight that starts out over something small and quickly escalates opening up a path to all of our big underlying issues.
If I didn’t love my husband I might be proud of my skills. I am mean and ruthless. Nothing is sacred- his family, his country, the very nature of his being. And then to top it all off, when I am done- the fight is over. I walk away leaving him alone on a bloody battlefield. It would be a thing of beauty if he was truly my enemy.
But he isn’t. And maybe I am not the killer I think I am because I woke up the next morning sick to my stomach with guilt. But, if I have an armory of well crafted weapons, my man has also developed some superior defense mechanisms. He has learned to ‘take’ my attacks and survive them with hopefully limited damage.
The storm has passed and life is good again. I am done warmongering for a while. And I will try to remember the soul crushing guilt next time I get the urge to attack. But for now I can expunge myself here.