I’m fed up trying to defend my actions to my husband. I’m the perpetual bad guy.
I have relinquished control of my family. He’s on his own course now, and anything I say, feel, think or do is irrelevant to him now.
Most of the time I feel like this annoying bug that he wants to swat away.
Sometimes I wish he’d just lash out and hit me. A tangible release of his frustration and annoyance with me. He might feel better for it. And the pain, a ripping blast, would be a wound. Visible to watch heal. As opposed to the look of sometimes revulsion, sometimes hate, mostly fed up – that lingers and bores into my soul. The way his presence fills the air with static – his mind a million miles away. The way he corrects me, my arguments disintegrate into childish babble, beneath him. I’m beneath him. That’s how he talks to me, makes me feel.
I feel more alone then I ever have.
I dream constantly of getting away.
I want to wake up and feel like I have a chance to be happy. I don’t want to wake up and feel the intense misery and loss of hope.
My daughters make constant remarks about me not doing anything. How Daddy does the work. He doesn’t defend me like used to. Why would he? It’s true.
I want my children to be proud of me. I’m tired of being seen as weak, useless, pathetic – although in truth, that’s entirely what I am.
My fire has died.
My precious son is young enough so that he can still love me unconditionally. And I adore him. He gives me purpose. He gives me strength.
Today he had a rare moment of sadness before kindy, perhaps he picked up on my own misery. I picked him up and cuddled him. So close, his little heart against mine. Time stopped. A warm, soft doll in my arms. A need between us for affection, for love and understanding. Neither wanting to let go. My beautiful boy. I don’t know how long we stood like that, even when the rain started. He stayed silently holding me, safe, cherished.
But one day soon he will look at me like his father, like the others. What do you do? You’re miserable? You don’t do anything. The reality that I’m a nothing, a nobody. Their disappointment a mirror of my own.
I have no fight. How can I expect respect?
Even as I write this my tears are flowing, my nose is running. I’m a mess.
It’s not a case of wanting to go away anymore, it’s a case of needing to.