Ominous sign

I keep imagining what sort of bed I'd like to get...for myself.  I consider the new bed her bed, as her mom bought it for us...
I wonder if I want to build my own futon frame or have a regular mattress...I think the regular mattress, futons get moldy in our super-humid climate.
But I still want to build a bed to my own specs, so as to have underbed storage of all my stuff.

...I was so in love with her once.
Gods, this is sad.
...And no, nothing's certain yet.
I just note that I'm starting to want my own room.

I am NOT ok!

I was really distressed today, and I thought I had lost my wallet. (It was in the car)...But for some reason I was dissociated enough that I thought I had it with me and all sorts of goodness followed-like me running around the counseling center like a maniac looking for my wallet.

This was after Sunday...and it was sort of a freakout continuation.
I got massively triggered on Sunday-agoraphobia combined with some guy hectoring his toddler over something asinine in the paleontology exhibit. His kid said "I dropped it," I guess it was gum and the guy said "No, you spit it on the floor, I saw you, I saw you..." Like the kid had committed some sort of horrible offense.
I just wanted to run over to the guy and say "For Chrissake just tell him to pick it up and throw it away!"

I was already getting overloaded-freaking out...and that little act of one parent browbeating their kid bumped me into overload territory.
I said "I gotta get out of here." to my wife and she said "Well the only way is to go to the end," She was wrong by the way, I think there was an exit right by me but I was too distressed to realize it, I was in a dark dream and having to struggle mightily not to curl up under a bench.
Then she said "Just wait until I get a couple of pictures."
AAAGH!
But she's not helpful, she never has been helpful, her being there generally makes me feel worse because she wanders off like a giant freakin' toddler and it's one more goddamn thing I have to worry about because if I'm not there she'll be like all "WHERE DID YOU GO??? I was worried about you!"

So in couples' counseling today I worked out a thing wherein I go to a predetermined safe spot and she just lets me go instead of doing her non-helpful thing that she usually does, after the reality that I am now freaking out penetrates her preoccupation with things : "WHAT DO I DO WHAT DO YOU NEED???" And her freaking out and hitting me with a barrage of questions just makes me freak harder.

I feel so alone. Apparently that's a typical feeling of people married to Asperger's people...she may or may not be Asperger's but she acts like she is.

My therapist thinks I just want to divorce her because I'm triggered. There's a good chance she's right.
Plus there's the attachment issues...I don't feel happily attached to anyone.

Anyway, I had a shitty session with my individual therapist...at the end of which I got up shaking, after I had stopped in session (because I was curled up into fetal position on the couch) and she said "You don't have to shake, you're ok," because I was shaking, and I snapped back "NO I'M NOT OK!"

I really wasn't, I thought I'd lost my wallet at that point, and I definitely was losing my marbles and I was shaking because I would have had to work hard at not shaking and she does not get that.
Yeah I can stop it and try to act like I'm ok, because I got that bloody well beat into me as a child.
It takes every bit of energy I have to stop it when I feel that shitty.
So, goddamn it, if I wanna shake I WILL. I know one way to bring myself down that will work, and that's to cut so if she wants me to pull out the razor she can tell me to stop shaking and act ok.

I am not, not, not, not ok right now.

A reposted story

This is what happened when I was bored at work today, and wrote something to amuse myself:

Chinese Toaster

By: Me

Written on August 1st, 2012

I take the bread from the plastic bag. Two neat slices.
I lay them on a clean plate, next to the jar of natural peanut butter, and the sensuous gleam of the raspberry fruit spread, so dark and inviting.

"You know you want it, don't you?"  I call to the toaster.
She's a standard, cheap little two-slot whore from China, bought at Walmart.

She's sitting there, unplugged, quiet, huddled behind the pill bottles.  Behind the blender, like I can't see her untidy whiteness back there, her fat little curves that say "Use me!" even as she huddles.  Submissive  little Chinese slut of a toaster!

Teasingly, I trace her cord out of the others...and plug her in.
"You want this bread, don't you, in your dirty slots, don't you?"
I rattle her entire body a bit.  Oh yes, I know her slots are dirty with burnt crumbs, the wench...Sometimes she's so filthy I just open her bottom up and shake her over the sink!

Into each slot, I thrust my throbbing bread.
"Take that! You always take it Whole Wheat, don't you?"  You even like extra fiber!"
She submits, I see the gleam from her stained white metal, and know so well what she wants.
Her slots, filled with my bread.

Once, I depress her button, and inside each slot, wires start to glow red.  Like a cherry.   It's electric.
Her slots are heating only for me.
Even so, I know, she'd heat for anyone, anyone at all.  But I own her, heart, soul, and circuitry.

Contemptuously, I ignore her turned-on state, and prepare my coffee...She gets so hot, so hot from being treated like nothing but an object...My cheap little Chinese toaster...Her white flanks shine seductively at me, but I deny her the touch.

I can see, and smell the lovely aroma of her turned-on state, the crumbs in her depths creating a smoky smell...oh, I knows she likes this so much, know she waits for me to turn her on, heat her up, and double-penetrate her in both her slots at once.
As I reach for a cup, there's a sudden release, and she's finished, my toast done to a turn.

I remove each gently crisp and lightly caramelized slice from her slots that yearn silently up at me...saying "Do it again."
But no, I have to mind my calories.

...There she sits on the counter, as always, awaiting my pleasure.