Biting my tongue to spite my voice

I felt a PMS-level of irritability from the moment I got home yesterday.

I had envisioned an evening of relaxing in the bath whilst my partner cooked dinner, before cuddling up in front of the TV, limbs entwined and laughing.

And he had cooked dinner. Except, he had the audacity to be human and forget that I had to stay off chicken for the next six weeks, as a recent homoeopath appointment had identified residual salmonella in my system from food poisoning I got in Mexico last year [I know, tell me your privileged without telling me your privileged].

When I reminded him of this, he made a joke about how difficult it would be to cook for me over the next few weeks. I bit my tongue. It was a joke after all. It’s well known in our little household that I do the majority of the legwork when it comes to cooking, food shopping, and planning our meals. I didn't say that though. And I wish I had. Because that small comment – a humourless joke that he probably forgot he even made – started to take root in me.

It burrowed under my skin and I started to mentally chalk up how much time and energy it takes to make sure we always have food in the house, a plan for dinner every night. I began to have conversations with him inside my head, preparing my side of the potential argument for any of the 23 scenarios I’d just cooked up. My jaw began to ache.

I spilled bath salts all over the bathroom floor – which then drew my attention to the tiles that had been ripped up from the floor, revealing rotting chip board beneath [now sparkling with bath salts]. Then, of course, my irritability snapped like an elastic band at my skin at the fact that our bathroom is falling apart, and we can't afford to fix it [correction: we are not prioritising our money to fix it, or that’s how I’m rephrasing it, anyway].

What I'd envisioned to be a relaxing, perfect evening actually snowballed from one harmless comment into a spiral of frustration that I became so tangled in, I had to go to bed and inevitably wake up with that band still snapping at my skin.

Because of my choice in that moment to hold my tongue and not snap back a sassy comment. My choice to avoid conflict and be polite at all costs [exactly what society has repeatedly shoved down the throats of women]. Because of this I ruined my own evening. I tainted my own thoughts and how I think about my partner.

And I realise now I'm not mad at him. I'm not mad because he made a joke that landed flat. I’m fuming at the fucking patriarchy for deeming the voices of women so irrelevant and irrational that we choke on our words for fear of being viewed exactly as that. We swallow our truths to make everyone else feel a little more comfortable.

I’m learning more and more each day that I am safe enough to voice whatever I’m feeling – but, god damn, does it take practise.