Yesterday, I went to talk to Julie, the therapist, again.
I told her about feeling more dead than alive, about feeling like I was just going through the motions of living, but not really feeling alive. She said I was bored. That I don’t have anything to do. That I’ve raised my daughters and that my job doesn’t give me enough to do.
(And, of course, my marriage is anything but interesting!)
We talked some about depression. About depression being a manifestation of rage. About all the years of living with an empty marriage taking its toll on me.
We talked about my leaving. That nothing is going to change unless I make a change.
We talked about not having any expectations of him so I can’t be hurt by him. Because, sometimes, I still think, maybe this time will be different.
I told her that sometimes I wonder if I just use money as an excuse not to leave. She said that she wonders the same thing, too.
I told her that I feel like I have wasted my life.
And she told me not to waste any more of it.