Trigger Point

It was 8pm. We were on the sofa, watching television as usual. The dog crouched on the floor, quivering with excitement, waiting for you to throw his ball.

Fleabag had just said I love you — and goodbye to the hot priest. A lovely end to a brilliant series. I said “all done” to the dog and walked out into the hall to put his ball away.

When I came back, you were off the sofa and furious.

The dog had ruined everything, you said. No — I had ruined everything. You’d wanted to do handstands. I’d ignored what you wanted, got the dog’s ball out instead, and now the moment had passed. You’d lost your motivation and it was all my fault, because I always put the dog first.

You were getting louder and louder. I asked you to stop shouting. You said I only listened when you shouted. You’d asked me nicely to put the dog in his crate so you could do handstands, and I’d ignored you. Why should you make all that effort — keep trying with your DBT skills — if they didn’t even get you what you wanted? If I was going to carry on being so fucking useless?

I stood there trying to catch up. It all felt like it had come out of nowhere, but it hadn’t.

The Set Up

It had started twenty minutes earlier, while you were still eating.

Or maybe even earlier than that when I decided to eat without you. I was post-migraine hungry and couldn’t wait for your appetite to kick in. So I ate on the sofa alone.

A Routine Disrupted

Eating separately shifted the whole rhythm of the evening. It meant I’d already done the after dinner dog routine — ball throwing, kibble hiding, peanut-butter LickiMat — the routine we’d devised to try and put a limit on his relentless demands to play with us in the evening. The routine we usually did together.

Then I was back on the sofa again, keeping you company while you ate your dinner. Sausages and mash, broccoli and green beans, everything swimming in gravy. One of your favourites.

The Ask I Missed

We were watching Fleabag when you said you wanted to do handstands, after you finished eating. These post-dinner handstands were a new thing. You said they gave you that strong feeling in your joints — like when you used to swing from the chin-up bar when you were little.

You said, basically: he’s had his ball — put him in his crate so I can do handstands in peace.

But I wasn’t so sure. The dog was staring, fully expecting the ball to appear again. And I wanted a quiet life — because when the dog got frantic, you shouted, I snapped back, and everything went to pot.

I didn’t say any of that out loud. I just went to the kitchen and came back with the Nutella jar and a big spoon — your favourite pudding — and the dog’s ball.

The Spiral

You stared hard at me and silently flicked two middle fingers while you licked your Nutella spoon. I let it slide. I was focused on trying to please both of you: a quick play with the dog, then the handstands.

Except the dog didn’t want to play with me. He kept delivering the ball to you.

So I leaned over and picked it out of your lap, trying to save you the trouble of throwing it. You flinched as I got close. That stung, but I ignored it, not wanting to provoke you.

Eventually I put the ball away. And then I came back to find you furious, and I got that familiar stomach-dropping feeling as your rage ramped up.

Part of me was cross because it felt like it was over nothing — like I was being attacked out of nowhere.

I told you I wasn’t a mind reader, and that if I’d known the handstand thing was time-critical, I would have handled the dog differently. You looped through your anger again: I should have known what you needed.

As you raged I flipped between trying to defend myself and mutinous silence. Eventually I pushed back — telling you it was impossible to be open and reflective about my own actions while you were shouting at me.

Lessons From Childhood

You said this was no different from what had been expected of you at school — the teachers had shouted you into overwhelm, and then expected you to reflect on your behaviour and apologise.

Hearing those words, my heart broke. I knew you’d been challenging at school, but no one should be treated like that, especially a child.

You said it wasn’t just teachers. It was me too — I always made you apologise and rarely apologised myself.

It was an uncomfortable truth. For all the stories I could tell myself about your “bad” behaviour, things usually escalated because I lost my temper.

And then you looped back to the same old point: I never listened.

The Repair

You’d said it many times before — the not listening — and it always hit a nerve, because I did listen. I just didn’t always agree. But in a moment of inspiration, I tried something different. I asked if I could repeat back what I thought you’d told me, to check whether I’d understood. You could correct me if I’d got anything wrong.

I said something like:

So you were eating your dinner and you decided you wanted to do handstands when you finished. You could see that might be difficult with the dog jumping around, so you suggested putting him in his crate. I ignored that and got his ball instead. He kept bringing it back to you, and then I invaded your body space by leaning over to pick it up, which wound you up even more. And by the time I put the ball away, you’d lost the urge to do the handstands. That was frustrating because you’d genuinely wanted to practise. And it felt like I’d ignored you and put the dog’s needs before yours — and that wasn’t fair.

As I said it, I could see — and feel — you calm down. And as you calmed, I felt myself shifting too. I could see it more from your point of view. I felt empathy for your frustration. I saw that little girl — taken into foster care — who’d never felt she’d been put first.

I waited a moment then said that part of me still thought waiting could have worked — but I could see why it hadn’t for you. I was half-expecting you to explode again. You didn’t.

See Me

How quickly you calmed down surprised me. It gave me pause. I’d assumed it was obvious that I understood why you were angry, but it wasn’t. I’d already been moving on to the next thing — trying to solve the problem — when what you wanted first was to feel seen.

You told me how frustrating it was when I looked away, or made what I thought were sympathetic noises while you were trying to explain how you felt. How it made you feel ignored — like I didn’t care or understand.

I asked if I could do the repeating-back thing again in future — so I could check I’d understood, and you could feel me listening properly. You agreed it might work. It felt important.

You suggested I write it up as a journal post.