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trigger-happy : having a tendency or desire to shoot a firearm before adequately identifying the target.  

In this case, the firearm is my mouth. My target of choice, unfairly identified by me in just about every case, is my fiance, Jeff. It isn't his fault that my parents' self-absorption left me with a gaping hole inside, a hole, that my therapist assures me, is never ever going to be filled. A hole that aches and aches, that fills up with pain every time I'm reminded that I wasn't paid attention to, that my needs weren't noticed or met, that I wasn't important to anyone. I'm triggered to feel this pain every time I feel ever so slightly abandoned, ignored, or not cared for. When I feel like I don't matter.

Which, unfortunately, happens quite often - this feeling that I don't matter. My poor hapless fiance is triggering me with every other word, with every other lack of word, completely inadvertently. It doesn't help that he's ADD and thus, in effect, unable to pay attention to me . He does love me, does care about me, does really try to do what he can to make things better for me and for us. He is not my parents. That is hard to remember though when I'm sobbing and convulsing in bed, each phrase ripped from my throat like an exorcism, I Want To Die! , and he jumps up suddenly to check on a spigot gone wild outside. In the time he spent chatting with our neighbor, I could have easily swallowed all of his anti-depressant and anxiety pills. I can't tell them apart, so I would have had to take both, and maybe they wouldn't even have done the trick. I have no idea. They would have had to do though - all I have are a few Advil and some expired Immodium.  

I'm not really going to kill myself; it's just that sometimes the pain gets so bad that I desperately want to end the hurt. I know that I want to live more than I want to die - there are too many things I haven't done yet, like write a book or have a baby. Or get married. I was married once before - that was 10 years ago and bad - but I want to be married to Jeff. I love him. I love the way his arms come together gracefully, swanlike, when he bumps the ball in volleyball. I love the way he chases down the balls, low to the ground and so fast that his legs seem to have turned into wheels. I love his posture, erect like a gymnast, coiled and ready to spring. I love that he loves me and has put more effort into our relationship than anyone before him has in all of my 41 years.

We were engaged in June, a pre-condition (mine) to his request that I move in with him. I was thrilled! Since I moved in on July 31, we have not been getting along at all. I've wanted attention and affection for so long, yet now that I have them, I desperately want to be alone. I feel the loss of my home (the apartment I left) and identity so palpably that it's hard to breathe. I'm no longer in control (the state I created to help me survive up until now), and I have no idea how to share a life with someone. I never expected to feel this way as I prepare to get married! I was completely blindsided by my emotions, knocked flat over. It's supposed to be the happiest time in our lives (his words, not mine), and we're both miserable.

It's Do or Die now, a shotgun wedding of sorts. I'm giving this relationship 3 months of my absolute best behavior, the most magnificent that I can muster, to show Jeff that I am ready to let my wounded little eight-year-old inside go, that I am ready for a fulfilling adult relationship. I hope he will do the same. I don't know whether his own fear will stop him from moving forward, but I can only worry about myself. No complain, no blame, no criticize. Change all fear and doubt to love and trust. I'm going to chronicle my progress here, as often as I can. A toast - to a positive outcome in November!

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