Well, it’s not like I was fooling anyone anyway. If you have any clue at all, you’d guess that I wasn’t really talking about gardening. I didn’t really think I’d fool anyone, it just seemed easier to step back a little and recolor the truth so it didn’t hurt so much to look at.
You can recolor it all you want, it doesn’t change it’s foundation.
It’s 12:27 am … and I’m here writing because up until 30 minutes ago my husband was still awake and I couldn’t bear to go to bed when he was still there. I waited and waited for him to go to sleep… but he kept coming down here and wandering around in a lost kind of way, in his BVDs and his messy bed head, like a little boy who needs his mommy. I couldn’t help but notice the sweetness even as my stomach tightened and my breath shortened and my hands fisted up in my lap.
I keep trying to remember all the adoration and respect, all the sensual passion and deep seated love I have always felt for him… and I do remember it, but I remember it as then, and not at all as now. It sounds so trite doesn’t it? That I’ve maybe “fallen out of love” with him. How ridiculous, because any married person with any integrity will tell you that the passions of love come, and go, but it’s the care and love and respect that hold it together during crying infants, meetings with the principal, and arguements over the Visa bill. And so, I think, that it’s not so much I’ve fallen out of love, as that I’ve lost the vital parts of respect, care, concern. That is so painful to say.
It’s entirely possible, with all due respect, that all this shit is my problem to begin with. I’m the one who is mostly unhappy, I’m the one who is mostly wanting out, I’m the one who actually left. I’m the one sitting up waiting until the other is asleep. Maybe it is all me.
And even if it is, there is a time for realizing that as shameful and degrading as it may feel, my truth is my truth and if I can’t be honest, then I can’t be at all.
All of which is fine and dandy to set my thoughts upon until I imagine the anger and betrayal my boy12 will feel. I see his cheeks flushed, the skin around his eyes tight and pale. I see that he won’t look me in the eye, nor will he release the well of tears pooling in his lashes. He won’t bend, soften, give mercy, or forgiveness. He is my son, my man, my buddy. I don’t know if I could stand that distance, and the knowledge that I built it by myself. I imagine my girl10 and her bewilderment. I wonder at the conflicted turmoil in her heart because she really doesn’t quite comprehend why mommy left. I think about how she needs me to physically tuck her in, to smooth her hair back from her brow, to kiss the fleshy peachy cheek of hers with it’s galaxy of freckles. How she needs to touch me, whisper to me, hold on tighter and longer every night. And my girl18… she barely got this far with me along, what will happen if I’m gone? She’d never forgive me either, although she’d pretend.
I can ruin one life, my own, but I can’t ruin three lives of helpless bystanders.
Or can I?
I pray. I pray. God, take this feeling from me. I refuse this satan driven selfish emotion…
… and it only grows stronger. I know that God does NOT want this thing for my family, but I also truly trust in Him to mold me and shape me, and to do the same for my children, in the way that He sees fit.
I wish we saw eye to eye.