They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And I have said myself recently that we are our own worst critics. So perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that when P and I have had a row, I feel really, really ugly. I'm not a pretty girl - neither pretty nor a girl any more indeed. I think if I were slim I'd be average, unremarkable. Being fat tips me into the munter camp. But never is this more evident to me than after a row. Right now I feel as if I cannot hold my head up in a public place for fear of seeing contempt on people's faces
I say 'after a row', but the truth is that I'm not sure it is 'after'. It started as something so trivial (to me) that I am not going to attempt to explain it as I don't think I could give P's views a fair representation. I avoid confrontation - I am cowardly this way. When I feel aggrieved or irritated, my inclination is to swallow it, to put it behind me and move on. P is not like me. He thinks I should be as open as he is - tonight makes me feel more than ever that he is wrong. Nothing is worth feeling like this.
It took about half an hour to explain myself to him tonight; he said he understood, I said I realised what I'd done, I thought that the row was over - he said it was over. But when I went to cuddle up to him and apologise for being a disappointment to him (invariably in these instances I am), he didn't want me near. I asked him to come to me when he was ready. He said he would. He's not. So he came to bed and turned on his side away from me and said he didn't want to discuss it. I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to leave tomorrow morning before I'm up. And he's out tomorrow night so we're looking at Thursday evening earliest before I'm forgiven - or not.
I expect he's asleep now but I can't sleep. My heart is pounding as if I've run somewhere fast, I feel hot and cold, my throat is sore with the effort of keeping the misery in check and adrenaline is coursing through me. I need as close to 8 hours sleep as I can get to function tomorrow and I won't get it - so tomorrow I'll feel physically and emotionally dreadful. I don't want to think about Thursday.
It helps to get this out, here. No matter if it's absurdly self-indulgent. My book - Jane Austen's Emma - is not going to be able to distract me (and indeed may torture me further if I get towards the ending). I know my expectations of life have been warped by fiction - I'm not a silly woman and I try to damp down any unrealistic romantic expectations (I know I'm not heroine material!) but somewhere, somehow I am still holding on for that 'happy ever after'. This isn't it. And, like an Austen woman, I'm left, powerless and passive, waiting for and hoping for this to pass.