One of the hardest things about writing a blog and exposing yourself in such a very public way is that when things really suck? You don't want to write about them. I suppose the arguments for and against that are both really valid. On the one hand, this is my blog. I don't have to say anything I don't want to say. I can paint a really happy, rosy picture and every one of all of y'all would be none the wiser.
On the other hand? Blogs like that suck. Donkey balls.
Because blogs like that aren't real life. Things aren't perfect. People change. It's not all sunshine and flowers and...you know. Unicorns. Or whatever.
Thus, in the spirit of not being a really craptacular blog, a confession.
The marriage? Not going so well.
I'm not sure exactly how it's all happened, frankly. One minute everything seems to be going along swimmingly and the next? I wake up next to a man I feel like I don't even know. In the midst of this? I'm writing a book about how I found my Prince Charming.
It doesn't feel real, or right. It's...alarming. It's frightening.
It's absolutely horrible. What's more horrible is that I don't know how to fix it. And the worst, most horrible of all? There have been moments, recent moments, that I wasn't sure if things are fixable.
I cannot put into words how that feels. To love someone, really love them, and not know how to help them. To not know how to help yourself. To not know how to make things better. To fear, really fear, that things will never get better.
I am unafraid of the typical things, I suppose. It never occurred to me to worry about my ability to support myself or having to be a single mother. Those things I am painfully familiar with. I can be by myself. I can support myself. I have no doubts about such things. They seem trivial when compared to how I feel about my ability to live without him.
I don't need him. I've never needed him.
I want him, though. I always have.
Not long ago we were talking. We've talked endlessly for weeks, sometimes pausing only to wipe our eyes from all the tears. He says he'll do anything. Asks me to believe. Asks me to have a little more faith. All I want is sleep. And to make the hurt go away.
This morning I stumbled through the kitchen, bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived and not quite ready to face the day. Sleep is elusive on a good day. Lately, it's my fondest wish and my absolute worst enemy. I tripped over my dog, as usual, and caught myself on the edge of my dining room table, my hand sliding over the little yellow piece of paper on which my husband had written me a love letter.
It's not that easy, really. I know that. A few lines of a piece of paper can't heal all the hurts of your soul. It can't right every wrong of the last ten years. It can't change everything.
But it helps.
I've read it over and over again today. Every line. And I am thinking.
And I love him.
Which still means something.