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03-13-02 - 9:00 p.m. Why do I always feel personally offended when someone talks about someone with a mental illness and refers to him or her as "fucked up" or "crazy?" It's not like it's me they're talking about. I just feel like I have to defend the person being badmouthed. Sometimes I do. Usually I don't. I wasn't going to mention it, but Rob asked me to marry him again. I asked him if he really wanted to get married at age 20. He said, "No, but I hadn't intended on being a father this soon, either." That made me mad. Maybe it shouldn't have, but the way he said it, the face he pulled, made it seem like he was blaming me for it. I mean, yes, it's my fault, but it's just as much his. There was this poster hanging in my high school nurse's office that said, "Sexual responsibility is 100% his and 100% hers." And it's true. And I accept that. And I know he does, too, but I wanted to storm out when he said it. So I told him. And we argued. "You come from a broken home." "Do I? I hadn't noticed." "So why would you want to bring a child into one?" "Because all you and I do is get together and break up. Kellie calls us Legos." "So you don't even want to live together or what?" "I think we should live together, but not get married. It's expensive." "Not if it's a small ceremony." "I was talking about divorce." He didn't like that and accused me of being a pessimist. I congratulated him on his knack for observation and told him I wanted to drop the subject. "Okay," he said, "but you know you want to. You want to because you know it'll give you a sense of security, but you're too scared to admit you need that still." "Drop it." Finally he did and we had an almost-silent dinner. It was awkward, but the food was good.
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