My heart beats through the fabric of my shirt, I cannot keep still. I need air and I relish the feeling of the icy stillness outside as it engulfs me. Restlessly, I want to pick and probe and untangle every thread of this subject. How I hate hearing her name, how it tastes bitter in my mouth. Words tangle inside me, feverish and desperate to get out. I know what I sound like... I can hear it too and it's nothing like the person I thought I was. But I can't stop it. I want to scream and shout and say look what he's doing, how can you not see this, but I can't. I try to keep calm and tell people that I'm not feeling well but I can't hide my anger, I can feel it like a hand down the back of my throat. When he went on to say they might meet the team, I wish I could have just taken my plate and smashed it against the table right there and then. Over and over and over like I was possessed.
I am, in some ways posessed. Plagued by dark thoughts that mock me and taunt me and somehow turn my internal monologue into my own worst enemy.
I'm watching the three of them from the car, cheering for him. In my head I think "they'll be fine" and whisper it aloud for effect. Tears well in my eyes but I don't want to cry - I am done crying. I wonder if I've worn it out this past year, God knows how I have any tears left at all. When we sit together in the car, I am sad how little conversation we have left. Sad, but not surprised. Selfishly, I am looking for all the cracks between us; prodding my finger in, worsening them. Fascinated by how soft and fleshy these parts are, I'm digging childishly into overripe fruit. In the end, I wonder if I'm trying to prove to myself mostly, because I know we are just surviving on intermittent good days and that can't last. I'm seeing meaning in everything and they are all bad omens.
I feel as though I can't catch my breath. Heavy sighs and hiccups. I'm seeing things in front of me but not really feeling them - I'm just spectating this part of my life. The coldness gives me something to focus on and I flinch each time he puts his arms around me, and feel have a heavy sadness in my stomach when he moves away. Just like Peter Pan, I walk the plank above the dark depths without knowing which wave will knock my balance. He returns to the car for a kiss and I think about how much I want him to hurt. It's cold and malicious and I feel guilty for thinking it but it's true. I watch the back of his head and think about the ways I have bent over backwards, how I look at him and see all the times he's let me down. All the times I've forgone my happiness.
Light and darkness fight inside me and I try so hard to find the light but sometimes it is so dim that it disappears every time I look directly at it. When we go to watch the fireworks, I catch the faint glow of our nearest galaxy when I'm not looking directly at it.. I think about how ironic it is to go and see showers of colour in the sky when this has been here all along. I am fascinated by the way it disappears when you look at it, so dim its almost like it doesn't exist at all
I think about the days that I held him a little tighter, scared of losing him. But that it shouldn't have really been me holding on. I am already regretting those days when they return, because I know for a fact they will. I want to just blurt out we aren't happy, except for when we're apart. We share none of the same interests and he has no desire to partake in any of mine. I regret the feeling of loneliness that I know will come. But I pace the floors of our house while I can hear him in the silence, on his phone, and wonder if this loneliness is worst than any I could ever feel by myself. I look at him from behind as he stands there and I feel nothing. The thought of that scares me more than anything else.
It's 7.54am and he left some time ago. I'm not sure why, but amongst all of this it hurts me the most that he took the box of biscuits back out the car. I remember keeping those in there because part of me knew he wouldn't like it. That it ruins this clean, collected, organised image he's created over the years. I have almost no idea who he is outside the four walls of this house.
I have this idea to leave a note (not that worked the last time, but it's really the only way I can get across what I think).
"I know I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help myself.. I re-read the note I gave you earlier on this year. It hurt so much to read not because I re-lived darkness that I hoped would be over by now.. but because nothing I pleaded for has changed. I begged you to seek remidies, and those stopped as suddenly as they had began. I told you of my loneliness, how I was pushed out of your world, how I was scared our effortless conversations had seemingly come to and end. It hurt to read because I still feel all those things now. I am wracked with insecurity and struggle to deal with my own emotions. I have, since writing that letter, re-drawn the line in the sand on occasions that you pushed it.. and I stuck by. I have seen the worst rage of them all flash in front of your eyes. I have cried more tears, vowed we will separate, looked at flats online, packed up my old photographs, said 'enough', driven into work with shaking hands and anger in my belly. We are not cured, nor are we free."
"The truth is, nothing you enjoy doing involves me. It hurts to admit, but is more painful to live through. I would be more than happy to do anything you wanted, whether it be football, go karting, fishing... you name it, I would always say yes and go with enthusiasm. But your affliction of telling me your plans the day before they happen, or only finding out if you're working that weekend seem to always get in the way."
"A couple of weeks ago you openly agreed that you couldn't remember the last time you asked me to do something with you - after packing my bags with every intent of leaving - you apologised and we went out to Westfields for dinner. Since that night, nothing has changed. We are back to our old ways living separate lives outside this house."
"I've lost count of how many lonely weekend I have spent by myself. I think to myself okay fine, make some plans with friends so you're not stuck in this situation again... but what's the point in living like that? Why are we together if we're making all our plans apart? I'm not just someone who cooks your meals and provides comfort during the week. It frustrates me how you're happy to be gone into central London for the football 10+ hours on a Saturday, but couldn't think of anything worse than coming with me for lunch, a stroll and to do the things I want to do."
"Yes, you're affectionate and you treat me well at home. Yes, I get foot rubs and kisses. But I'm so tired of feeling like I'm left out of your life outside this house."
It sticks in my chest that this was a birthday present, what with meeting the team this morning. A thought crosses my mind to tell Lorraine, that if this was a birthday present no wonder he only took the tags off his scarf yesterday. I'm unsure whether he knew about this all along, and I don't put it past him for lying. I question everything, to myself, and don't believe much of what he says. The thought of what those two sentences mean unsettle and terrify me as I admit them.
