23/08/2017

23/08/2017

I went to an opera today. I do not remember what it was about. All I remember was that the woman’s voice, shrill and powerful, rang in my head and reverberated into my being, and I felt like it had tuned me into the wavelength of decisiveness that it lived in.

I will make this short because there is little left of me to be displeased about.

I asked him what the problem was. Why has he avoided me so desperately these past few weeks? He had the audacity to say that he did not, not on purpose. Both he and I knew that was a lie. And I think he could tell how offended I was to hear it. It felt like I was buzzing, from my scalp to the very tips of my fingers. With what I vibrated with, I do not know. I do not want to call it anger, but it was. Anger at him for doing this. For making me soft and raw inside, so that driving in that dagger of disregard he was so carelessly wielding hurt like nothing I’d ever felt before. And old habits die hard. The desire to inflict upon him this searing feeling of rejection, of hurt, was so strong. But how can I hurt him? Surely, how can I hurt the man this stupid heart beats for? It would be the same as hurting myself. So I had to settle for a sly remark.

“Is that what you’re doing at work all day and all night? Researching on how to tell stupid lies?” I almost regretted those words as soon as they left my mouth. But what other option did I have? To explode, or to swallow my complaints? I could do neither. So I told him in obsessive detail the itinerary of his indifference. Morning, he flees from this home like he is chased by assailants. Night, I am lucky if I see his face. The fact that I learned that I can only see him for a date if I ask a day, preferably two in advance, even if it’s a Friday or Saturday evening. How it feels like, trying to engage with a man who looks barely there. What happened on that trip? What happened there that has taken him away from me? Why does he seem so thoroughly repulsed by me now?

I suppose I spoke with an anger and urgency that took him by surprise. Even I was surprised, appalled even, at the way my words so quickly poured from me. Like a person desperately trying to make one understand, desperation somehow laced with anger. And I suppose he understood.

He hates our home.

What this house is to me is not the same thing it is to him. To him, it is a terrifying reminder of the many years he spent, kept within its walls like a bird in a cage. He says the smell of sickness hangs in the air of our home, even though he knows it to only be in his mind. He has memorized every single detail of his room, every crevice, every shadow, every object, pattern and space because that was all he could look at for years, devoid of the strength to even get out of bed. He remembers how simply coming to the sitting room for a change of scenery tired him. How quiet it always was. All the more so that his breathing could remind him once more of how his lungs betrayed him. This bright, warm home was his prison. The cocoon that kept him safe yet crushed his spirit every day. His shoulders dropped as he told me these things, and so did my anger. Of course, I was stupid to be angry. Stupid to jump to conclusions. I wish he had told me all this earlier. I wish he spoke to me about his feelings before things got to this point. We embraced, and I could feel just how sad, how ladled with guilt he was to admit this to me. What was there to feel guilt for? I will do everything within my power for him and he knows that, this house be damned.

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