I wept so hard, my then-incipient migraine came crashing through my skull like a stone through glass. It still lingers in the background, threatening to return and press its full weight onto the back of my forehead and temples.
I asked my husband if he still loved me. You see, I had to know; I had to hear it from his mouth. He and I have become like passing ships in the night between my work, my depression, my anxiety, and my eating. All my stuff, some of which was never included in our vows. I’ve been eating my feelings since I was a child; did I know it? Yes. Did it impact me? Of course. Did I think it was bad enough to take over my life like it has, enough to need help? Never. I thought I’d moved passed it since the rape, but something was eating me well before then.
I had to hear it, you see. I had to know if at any time he’s thought of moving on to someone else. I come from a family of men who “loved” their wives, only to show it by sleeping with other women. I explained it’s not fair to shove their mistakes and my insecurities onto him. I explained that I don’t actually believe he would ever do that, but my disease, my self-esteem – all of it yells louder than my common sense. I need time to rebuild my self-esteem and re-affirm what I already know.
My husband comes from a family of men who don’t believe in divorce, don’t believe in adultery. They fulfill their vows until their dying day; I see it in my father-in-law, a widower who continues mourning the loss of his wife after almost 10 years.
I don’t want my husband to mourn me while I’m still here. Some days I feel like he does. Who I was when we met, how happy I was when we were married. Ever since we started dating, when I was in the throws of my mental illness, I knew he deserved better. I often treated him like shit, pushing him away so he would find better, but he never took the bait.
I don’t want to lose him or myself.
I don’t remember my purpose for writing in here anymore; my migraine is back. Off to bed I go.