Relationships, part one: Mine. in The Big, Blue House, year one.

I complain about Don a lot, but he’s not an objectively “bad” partner. He’s really rude to me an average of once a month, immediately followed by him cooking me meals and speaking to me softly for several days. It’s been this way for, well, decades. Depending on how angry I am, sometimes he does household projects for me, or writes me flowery letters. So clearly he cares.

On the other hand, my expectations might be unrealistic. Borderline is on my list of diagnoses, and I do match a lot of the criteria. I put people in neat little boxes. The vast majority go into the “not worth my time” column. (Whether I actually am borderline or just traumatized, and naturally a black-and-white thinker, like most aspies, is another entry.)

Regardless, we are on a constant roller coaster. Everything’s fine, then he snaps at me because of some misunderstanding, usually because he thinks I’m insulting him when I’m not, (yay, autism), then I completely avoid him and debate whether I should leave or kill myself for a day or two or three, then he starts doing me favors until everything’s okay again.

To say that I hate it would be a radical understatement.

In years past, before my parents died, I left several times. He always acted so pitiably that I went back.

Realistically, I think the ideal situation would be for us to live apart and see each other regularly.

He was rude to me the day before yesterday. He ordered dishwashing detergent from Wal-Mart, to be delivered. (As in incurring a tip.) I asked him why he was having it delivered, and he got angry, “What are we gonna use until it gets here?!” I said, “I’m not mad, I thought you’d made a mistake. In that case I’m going to add more to the order to justify the tip.” And I started going down our list of regular stuff, asking him if he wanted anything. He was still mad. “I don’t want anything!”. I said “Well you usually do!”.

So then yesterday he made dinner, and apologized.

And so it goes.