I fell prey to my heart this weekend.

Last night, after getting completely fed up with the state of the electronics in the loft, I packed my space heater (it’s a constant 2 degrees in there), my wool blanket from Cancun, and my Bible and headed down. Max and I spent a great deal of time getting the Roland VS-1680’s hard drive upgraded (and I got to spend an even greater deal of time digging a screw out of the guts of the Roland that Max had dropped in it). The stupid Roland still wasn’t recognizing the CD-R that we’d just purchased, even though the operating system had been upgraded and installed correctly. That had been an aggravation since Thursday, and remained one last night.

So… while Max copied files onto a slower CD-R from his laptop and played songs on his guitar, I sat and read his lyrics and theological writings. Every once in a while I’d pause and watch him play. There’s one song in particular that I’d heard several times that is just beautiful. He’d glance over at me and then glance at his guitar. Every once in a while he’d sing along with it, quietly, which always brought my attention away from the notebooks and back to him.

Until 3am or so, it was dark and quiet in the loft - the only sounds being the guitar and pages turning in the notebook on my lap. It was so peaceful, nearly surreal. It was comfortable. It just felt so right.

After 3am sometime, I made a comment about a comment he made, and ended up starting a very exhausting World War III. This is not uncommon with Max and myself, especially lately. He, for some reason, feels very comfortable using me to vent. And I will usually let him, taking the semi-abuse and just reminding myself that there’ve been many, many times that I’ve needed to vent and he’s listened and taken my shit too. But lately it’s been more intense and harder to withstand.

By 5am we’re in the midst of the worst of it. He’s tired, I’m tired. He’s frustrated, I’m frustrated. He is yelling at me, rolling his eyes at me, and then telling me it’s not me he’s frustrated with. Um, okay. I get sick of explaining that a comment I’d made wasn’t meant to hurt him, only help him when he talks to other people, and I just say “fuck it.” He replies with, “Goddamn, it’s 5am and I’m A.D.D. as fuck and I’m trying to understand!” He had a snotty or harsh comment for everything I had to say, and that gets pretty wearing after a while.

At 5:30am we’re quiet. I’m still frustrated, he’s still pissed off. But continuing down the path is pointless.

Somehow, as usual, things get back to a warm, fuzzy footing.

I don’t think I recorded this particular following tidbit for posterity yet: On Thursday I was talking to Max at work in a kind of post-mortem about the night before. We talked about some of the things that bothered him about it, which was unusual but good. At the end of the conversation he tells me that Jodi always had brothers and sisters, and they could fight and always be there for each other too, and that always made him angry (because he was jealous). But now, he says, he has a sister. In me. We argue and tease each other and love each other and are there for each other, he says.

It was like an old, rusty knife twisting in my heart. As someone very wise and very close to this situation said to me later, it seems to be his way to keep me in a safe place, be able to love me and beat on me and protect me and be protected, all the while not worrying if I’d ever walk away, because, hey, you can’t walk away from your own siblings, can you? Girlfriends can walk, but not siblings. And wouldn’t I feel (–) this small if I turned that down?

So I say to him, yep, a sister. And inside I say, God take me now, because I don’t want to do this anymore. At all.

So, last night (or should I say ‘this morning’) he comments again about how good it is to have a sister - especially one he can argue with. And I grunt my usual “mmmm” that I use when I thoroughly disagree with someone but recognize it as nothing worth arguing over.

We left the loft at 6:30am, both dazed and exhausted. I fell into bed around 7am and slept like the dead until noon. Between one and three, I got about six phone calls from him. Every call was asking for something. The first two or three he was asking me to call a doctor I knew, because his dad was having dizzy spells and worrying him. Also for prayer, which I don’t mind. He called me for advice on the CD-R cable. He called me for a phone number.

The funny thing is, I’d left a message for him earlier, about renting space in the loft for when I start studying next month, so I can feel like I actually have a right to be there, instead of being a guest. And did he mention it? No. Because he was busy with his own stuff. Which is just fine, I suppose. But it gets draining after a while.

I sent him an e-mail today, because I was very frustrated.

here’s the random thought: when did i become the end-all and be-all of everyone’s everything? has everyone always looked to me to “fix it”, “do it”, “run it”, “plan it”? And has everyone always sat back on their asses while i work mine off?

is this a situation that i GET myself INTO, like you lending an ear or a shoulder to people and suddenly you become their 24-hour-per-day crisis counselor? is it that someone sees i’m reliable and dependable, and then suddenly they decide to suck me dry?

when i offer to do things for people, or volunteer, should i automatically expect that they will expect that from me ad infinitem? when i’m the one with the knowledge, should i expect that no one will make an effort to LEARN from me, and instead just USE me for their needs? …

it has always, ALWAYS been this way. …

As I was taking a late nap, he called to tell me he bought a new SCSI cable, and took it to the loft and got down on his knees (literally) and prayed to God that it would work. And it did. The CD-R now works. Praise God. [The snotty comment I refrain from using is that this is the fourth or fifth time in less than a week that I’ve been right about something that you had to argue with me and disagree with me on, but hey, it’s your time and energy. But see? I’m not as stupid as you think I am. Dumbass.]

Three hours later, Justin and I wake up from our seriously-late naps. We finally get rolling and out of the house for dinner around 9pm. We headed to Denny’s - about the only thing that was open that late on a Sunday night. While we ate, I thought that Max has been down at the loft since 2pm without food - maybe I should get him something and take it down. Justin and I were wide awake, so I thought it was no big deal. Pot roast in hand, we headed down to the loft.

As I turn the corner from Broadway onto the street where the building resides, I thought, oh man. God, please don’t let Jodi be there. Anyone else, but not her.

As I reached the building, I slowed down. Tucked in front of Max’s Jeep was a little black Pontiac Sunfire. Jodi.

I sat in front of the building for a few minutes. I felt so much in a matter of seconds. Shame, guilt, embarrassment, jealousy, frustration. Disillusionment.

I pictured her sitting up there, just where I was the night before, listening to Max sing and feeling right, just like I did. The difference? Somehow, she has Max’s heart.

I drove home, trying not to cry and alarm Justin. Right now, I feel a little hollowed out.

So, there are a few questions begged from this weekend’s experience, in no particular order. Here they are:

Why do I still have to have feelings for Max? Why will God not take them away so we can be friends, without any extraneous crap?

How does someone who is so lucky to have a man like Max get away with treating him so poorly, badmouthing him to me and just generally not appreciating what she has? And why, when she doesn’t appreciate or understand him, does she get to keep him? What does he see that I just can’t?

Why does Max feel so comfortable with treating me poorly? My heart knows that he doesn’t treat Jodi like this. He speaks of her like she’s made of glass, so he in all probability treats her the same way. As if she will break at any minute. She gets the gentleness and tenderness, and I get all the shit he saves up when he’s with her. All the frustration and anger.

Why do I end up being the workhorse in everything? Why do people constantly look to me for the answers? More irritatingly, why do people take it for granted when I do take care of things? Do people feel a sense of entitlement to my time and efforts?

And why is it so easy for me to get my eyes off the cross?

So, welcome to my reality check. It’s time to put a little distance between myself and Maxter. Not be quite so available whenever he “needs” me. Not be quite so ready to give him everything he needs before he asks for it - breaking the co-dependent cycle. Not be quite so willing to take what he shovels onto me because I love him with my whole heart.

Tomorrow’s lunch? Pot roast.

“Oh, hold me now, I feel contagious

Am I the only place that you’ve left to go?

She cries that life is like some movie black and white

Dead actors, vacant lies

Over and over and over again she cries

Don’t fall away

And leave me to myself

Don’t fall away

And leave love bleeding in my hands

In my hands again”

Fighting for peace again,

mich