Today makes a full week since the trip over Mojo dog that left my nose and upper lip a disaster area. The nose seems mostly healed. Mostly. It is still tender and breathing still burns the inside of the nostrils a bit. The cut on the bridge of my nose is still unsightly. The gash on the inside of the upper lip isnae healing so well, but it does feel better. I can smile without pain this morning. Somehow, the extra sleep needed for the healing feels like a blessing. The words arenae coming together to describe the processing attached to the closure of the potentials up here. The sleep demands of physical healing seem to be meshing well with the processing needs of the psychic confusion.
Part of the worsening of the lip cut was all the talking Hubs and I did while he was up here. We covered allot of ground. The piece of ground which feels most significant this tender-lipped morning is the spousely babble surrounding his shift in the use of the term, "Ball Hog." I wonder now how many of our bloody Tit-for-tat skirmishes sprang off his trigger-reaction to my use of the term. For sure, quite a few since the phenom hit my radar a year or five ago. It was a slow emerging awareness. Our Tit-for-Tat skirmishes typically dragged on for days, weeks or months with a plethora of repeated themes. Trying to find triggers within any given post-game wreckage needed a forensic team. Shell-shocked victims donae make good forensic analysts, even if they were qualified before they were injured.
I have zero atheletic training and only slightly more sports exposure. Within my general crowd phobia, sporting crowds frighten me the most. Their rivalrous unity in establishing A Winner and A Loser feels more volatile than my hyper-vigilance can tolerate. I imagine a political protest crowd would frighten me more, but limited personal experience means I can only imagine. I have attended a few sporting events in the spirit of keeping an open mind, but. . . What sports talk I have participated in has been in the spirit of an adolescant trying to escape adult gossip. Please don't make me listen to this crap! Are the blue uniforms really that different from the green uniforms? Am I really supposed to give a flying fuck about the numbers you are using to distinguish them?
I learned, and have always used the term, "Ball Hog" in psychotherapy context. Definitions I have received from sporting folk make it sound like the same meaning and an appropos analogy for the psychotherapy context. I didnae keep score, but I believe I more often used the term in reference to my own behavior. E.g. I was guilty of much ball hogging in the "Transferrence" which had me over-stepping boundaries with his parents and brothers in our first decade of marriage.
I believe I have learned more about Hubs's childhood as he has defused his "Ball Hog" trigger than I have in the rest of our 37 years of conversation. His athletic training was a HUGE part of his childhood, but it wasnae even close to all of it. Here, as always, I find my psychotherapy work at odds with attempting to summarize somebody else's psycho sorting. However much it affects me, it is stillnae mine to sort or summarize. Any attempts to do so are tantamount to gossip with all the inherant dangers of gossip.
As for the newly revealed threads of his ball hogging which carry forth into the strictly personal tapestry of my own life. . . Processing. . . I feel another rush of gratitude for the physical injury inserting its demands for another day of sleep. I am ever more convinced that sleep processes living realities with far more efficiency than words ever will.