I’m Confronting Old Wounds and Discovering a New Path to Healing

“That’s way too much cheese.”

I knew it was coming. I even shredded less cheese than I wanted to out of fear of hearing the commentary.

Every time I cook pasta (or tacos or burritos) for us, it’s the same,

“That’s a mountain of cheese.”

“That’s way too much cheese.”

“We’re not going to finish all that cheese.”

I usually ignore it, but this last time was different; I snapped back,

“I knew you were going to say that. Every single time you say it.”

Those are the words that came out; these are the words I was thinking:

“Jesus fucking Christ, every fucking time. Can you stop finding what you think is wrong and be grateful I bust my ass in the kitchen? Does the quantity of cheese really fucking matter in the scope of our lives? Why does this matter? Why does this need a voice?”

My inner voice flowed from a sea of rage. Sometimes, rage feels good; this was not one of those times. I was embarrassed by my inner voice and reaction.

She expressed gratitude that I cooked (she always does), but she also expressed that I made her sound like a constant complainer.