Poking the bear

I’ve never denied the fact that I can be a difficult person.

I’ve spent the majority of my adult life just me and my kids.

I served as a DI in the Army and a correctional officer at a men’s maximum security prison. I’ve become very good at being very hard.

I was once told “The qualities that made you an amazing soldier and make you a great project manager, are the same qualities that make you difficult to love.”

Because of that I try. I try not to be overly critical of people. Especially the ones I love.

Jenny is loving and forgiving. She can see the good in anyone and focuses only on that. That really gets to me some days. People can be mean to her, act selfishly or call her names and she just smiles and acts like it never happened.

Me? Nope. My first instinct is to come to her defense. Even if the people hurting her are her family.

Because I know that I can blow up, I also know I need to have a place I can go to and just let the fire die down.

When we bought this house, I said I wanted that place to be the media room.

The kids have their rooms and the game room. Jenny has our bedroom, the living room and the rest of the house. All I wanted was my one spot.

I put the little tv and hand me down sofa in there. In fact, I spent the better part of an afternoon fixing the frame on this sofa so it could actually be used.

I put my sports memorabilia up there and tried to make it mine.

Well, that lasted about a week. Soon, Jenny’s desk and office stuff was in there. Then miscellaneous boxes found residence. Next, I was being told I couldn’t watch tv because it disturbed the kids.

So, I gave up. I figured once we got settled in I could reclaim my room.

Then the kids were using it. So now I feel like my only option when I need to escape is to hide in the garage or get in my truck and leave.

I don’t want to feel like a guest in this house that is quickly becoming a hotel. Kids come over, Jenny does their laundry while they play video games and eat, then they’re gone.

I voice my concerns just to be told that I don’t get to have my own space. Just to be told that Jenny doesn’t want to make waves. Just to be told.

I’m tired of being told.

So, since I don’t have my room or a space to call my own, I’m sitting on the porch.

I can’t even get in my truck and leave because the oldest daughters newest boyfriend has blocked me in.

So I’m sitting. Smoking and trying to get a little of the stress to disappear.

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