Sacrificial Me

It feels as though I sacrifice everything, and when I must sacrifice, I am often the first thing I sacrifice. 

I have time for work… about 32 to 40 hours for work.

I have time for school…approximately 30-32 hours for school.

I have time to sleep… around 42 hours for sleep (I need a lot to be functional).

I have time for my boyfriend… whatever is left over.

I don’t have time for me. 

When it comes down to spending time with my boyfriend or going to the gym like I’d like to… I spend time with him.  It seems like this constitutes a lot, but it’s really not.  My life is a constant balancing act.  An hour or two here or there with him, time alone is spent doing homework.  I see my friends when I have a little spare that is unaccounted for, because those relationships must be maintained as well.  I spend maybe 3 hours a week doing things that are truly and wholly 100% for myself, though at times, seeing my friends doubles as this time as well.

Those things that we do to be entertained.  I organize them, I plan them.  I have less time than he does, but if they are left to him, they don’t come to fruition, which leads to further disappointment for me.  I take the organizational burden of our lives.  Figuring out where to stay, when our schedules match up, when they don’t, and what we’re going to eat for dinner, when we will go out, what events are in the future. 

I also take (like most women) the emotional burden.  I bring up when problems must be discussed and when issues that present problems to our daily lives arise, it is me who must make them apparent.  When decisions must be made about the directions and paths we choose, it is always myself who enlightens him.  It is he who treats these issues as if they are of little importance, and as though they bother him to think about.  How dare I ask for his input?  He needs to play video games now.  We’ll figure it out when it gets there.

I am discontented.

I am constantly disappointed.  Valentine’s, my favorite holiday.  nothing.  Understandingly, I accept that he dislikes it and while I am unhappy, I try to keep it to myself.  We make plans to celebrate something else instead.  He has many weeks notice.  He is unable to secure the time off that I deem necessary.  I am disappointed once again.

Why spend $120 on a room that I will wake up alone in?  May as well stay home.

If I stay home, what’s the point of making it all a big deal?  The surrealism of the evening comes to a halt when you jump into a cold car and drive home.

If the surrealism must end so miserably and abruptly, what is the point of going at all? Taking off my gown and climbing into a cold bed seems frustrating.

It was my night to be special.  It was my special night.  I did all the organizing, all the labor, all the decisions.  One thing was left to him, which he was unable to produce.  It may seem childish, but I am overwhelmingly disappointed.  I am more disappointed because I know that my disappointment will be met with nothing.  An apology, no attempt to make it up to me.  I still don’t have any roses, and I am sad that I had to request them to begin with. 

Hearts break a little.

Always,
Afton