There comes a time in every relationship when you have The Fight. You know what I’m talking about, at least I hope you do because if you don’t, it just means that I am exceptionally dysfunctional.
The Fight is kind of like an orgasm–you definitely know when you’ve had one and once you have, it really fucking drains you. The Fight isn’t about forgetting to buy milk or renting Top Gun for the fourth time. No–it’s much more innocuous than that. The Fight is something you believe you can never come back from and in many cases, you can’t. During the middle of one, I usually find myself constructing a playlist of really good breakup songs, which in case you’re in the market, includes The Mountain Goats “No Children”, Martha Wainwright’s “Bloody Mother-Fucking Asshole”, and if you want to take a break from hating everything and everyone around you, “Deceptacon” by Le Tigre.
The Fight is usually something that blindsides you. You will never see it coming and you will never be able to explain why it happened. Enduring The Fight is what I imagine it would be like to accidentally kill someone. There you are, butter knife in hand, wondering how an innocent impersonation of Robin Hood could’ve lead to a death so undignified that it belongs in a Final Destination sequel.
The mood of The Fight is that of confusion and rage, which are one hell of a tag team. You’re simultaneously trying to figure out how you got there, and you’re angry that you did. Emotions grow exponentially and you find yourself staring back at the words “miserable fucking cunt” , as you attempt to pick up the pieces of your self respect off the floor.
I’ve been in two long term relationships, one of which is still shockingly alive after recently enduring The Fight (see the aforementioned “miserable fucking cunt”). My first relationship didn’t end as a result of The Fight either, but I remember it vividly and trust me, it’s a good story–just not right now.
I am the first to admit that I am incorrigible. This whole mess started because I didn’t get any dick that day, and as someone who has an insatiable sex drive, that left me quite displeased. Of course I couldn’t be an adult and actually communicate, or just plop my pussy on his face and say, “eat up”, but instead I had to go relegate myself to the couch and pout. The poor guy was nearly relentless in trying to console me, but I was determined to put even the most die hard Linkin Park fan to shame with my sorrow, so it was an act in futility.
Sleep deprivation set in and that’s when the screaming began. Decibels I never knew existed began exiting his mouth. After many tears and a harsh exchange of words, we finally got to sleep, but I was left with a lingering feeling that the next morning would be sheathed in discomfort and silence. Especially since the Vermont Teddy Bear Company doesn’t make anything that would really be appropriate for the occasion.
Somehow, the knots loosened and apologies were exchanged. One day, I will salt the earth and start over with a woman. Until then, I’ll continue to build my playlist.