It’s All My Fault

We went on living like “normal” for the next little while. Not really discussing what had verbally come to fruition not too long before.  I looked forward to our counselling session; I finally might get some honest, open truth from him instead of bottling up, and sweeping under the rug.  The day came for our session and he decided not to go.  He decided he didn’t need or want to go.  It was over. 

What? Just like that, no working on it? No attempt to save our 16+ year relationship?  I was crushed.  Again. And infuriated. And crushed.

Not only was I crushed but I crumbled.  I crumbled hard.  Straight into a self-loathing, self-deprecating and self-blaming shell of who I am.  I took it all and put it on me. 

If I had been a better wife.  If I was a better mother. If I was a better cook.  If I was a better house cleaner.  If I worked harder at my job and home life.  If only I had made more money to contribute more to our household.  If I was just a better person. 

Maybe I could have kept my husband loving me. 

Maybe it would have been easier for him to keep loving me.

Maybe he would have stayed.  Maybe.

We’ve been living like “normal” for the last few weeks.  It’s surreal.  No more discussion about the marriage ending.  Going through life, with work and the kids, like we’re just living our regular life.  He’s been kind and helpful and considerate. And he’s been home, almost every single night.   And every fucking day that passes, that he acts like the loving man I married and love, I think what’s happening?  I was sure that this was us, turning it around, going to come out on the other side of this insane valley and reach the peak of happiness where we would learn how to stay at that peak.   Hope.  Do you know what hope is? It’s a total cliché. It’s a mother fucker.  It makes people do insane, ridiculous things in the name of hope.  Take amazing risks. Give chances.  Over and over. With the HOPE that it will work out.  And this is just all over life; good hope, bad hope, hopeful hope, useless hope.   It really does seem to be an intense driving force behind what so many people do in their lives.  And sometimes, the hope is amazing.  People put all their energy, all their dreams into hope.  And here I am, putting my whole life, literally, my entire life, into fucking hope. 

Today he shared time with me.  Just me.  In a manner I had hoped for (see that!) for so long.  Here we were, spending this time together, in a way that it should have been.  My mind was all over the place.  What does this mean? Is he feeling regret? Is he feeling love? Is he seeing the good in what we had?  Is this his way of extending the olive branch and begin to heal?  

And every time I saw this glimmer of hope, it was crushed.  He was still leaving.  And we were still separating. I wanted to scream and yell every day.  I wanted to say "Why the fuck are you NOW treating me with compassion and some respect?  Where was THIS before?". But I didn't. I kept those thoughts to myself for fear of starting a fight. For fear of further pushing him that he was making the right decision in leaving me. So I just went with it. I lived our lives in silent devastation and dreadful hope.  

My counselor continued to tell me all of this was normal.  Every thought I was having. Every emotion I was feeling. All normal.  Guess what….that wasn’t even slightly reassuring.   I seriously didn’t give a fuck if every single person in the free world that separated and divorced felt the exact same way.  Because in the moment *I* was the only one going through it.  I felt completely and utterly alone in a world of chaos surrounded by people who loved me and only wanted to see me happy.

Alone.

Completely Fucking Alone.