22/08/2017

22/08/2017

I have never felt as helpless and lonely as I do today. As I have done the past two weeks. The past few months. Like trying to piece together something that is actively falling apart. Frantic. Useless. Useless. He is not the same. He seems hellbent on avoiding our house. Our home. He stays out, works so often. Where does he even sleep? In his office? Why? I thought that things were getting better between us.

I am trying. I am. Over these past few weeks, asking him to spare time so that we can go out and enjoy some time together. Why does it feel like I have to schedule seeing my husband? Am I some kind of…visitor? A guest? Or a client that he is forced to accommodate? The dates themselves–though few in number–were fine. They were alright. But it was mostly through my effort that they turned out like that at all. Me asking questions, me speaking, me doing. If I shut my mouth and sat beside him in unmoving silence, he might not have even noticed. He has this strange look on his face, as if he’s swallowed wholly by his own thoughts. And when I pull him out of them, I catch a glimpse of something foul. Something terrible that turns my stomach. Guilt. Guilt?! What guilt! Why? He cannot look me in the eye. His eyelashes flutter and he averts his gaze. WHY! I am trying so hard to… to fix things and I have no idea where the damage stems from in the first place. Constantly reaching over the table again and again, and only receiving a reluctant hand.

I can’t do this anymore. Does he know how terrible his distance makes me feel? No. he probably does not. He can be petty sometimes, but he is not cruel. He does not know how vicious this is, to make me wonder if there is something wrong with me. Something strange and unpleasant that has formed either on or within me that so thoroughly repulses him. What is it? Have I become unsightly? Yes, I have gotten older, we both have. But he is not one to care about such things to begin with. I am not his caretaker anymore. I do not incessantly inquire as to his whereabouts, his meals, his rest , his time. Is there something else within me that has changed that I remain unaware of? The constant thoughts, picking apart my entire being thread by thread trying to find the problem, the error within my actions or appearance or presence, they are wearing on me. Without warning, I burst into tears in the shower. Tears. Tears! Me?! How can I cry? I didn’t cry when that empty sack of flesh I am cursed to call my grandmother disowned me, I did not cry when we found ourselves in a crisis with Anatole. I do not remember the last time I cried, because I do not cry. Reduced to a pathetic weeping mess in the bathroom, hoping that the sound of falling water will drown out sobs. Disgusting. I loathe this.

Only he can do this. Only he can make a fool of me like this, and I cannot stand it.

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