Tonight I told my husband that I didn’t like my life, that sometimes I wanted to kill myself because I couldn’t stand my life.
He asked what I didn’t like.
I tried to explain that everything was empty, that I hated coming home at night, that I wanted to live by myself.
He said that he loved me.
Of course, he added that he has to do everything and that I don’t do anything. (Let’s see – who washed those clean clothes you are wearing? Who brought home that food you are eating? Who raised your children. Pardon me. I digress.)
Anyhow, he wanted to know what he could do differently. I told him, nothing. I did say, though, that I wished I could sleep by myself. No answer to that one.
I told him that I felt like this was a twenty-six year experiment that has failed.
I told him that he doesn’t trust me and that I don’t trust him and that this won’t work. He said it wasn’t too late and he wanted to know why I didn’t trust him. (REALLY????) I tried to explain that to him – you know, the cancelling of the credit card, the mean things he said to me about sex, the fact that he keeps two sets of book for his business, he stabs his dad in the back, he doesn’t tell me stuff. He said we could work on trusting each other. (Yeah. Right.)
I just wish this was all over. I hate living here. I hate it that it is so empty and sometimes abusive. I hate it that I am tempted by someone else wanting to take me out. I hate all the conflict in me.
And I hate the fear. I hate it that I am afraid. I am afraid to move out. I was even afraid tonight to tell him the things I did tell him. I hate this fear. I just wish it was all over.
But I know that nothing is going to happen unless I do it. Nobody is going to do anything for me. I have to have the courage to find a place to live and to go there.
I just wish this was over.