I haven’t been the best wife lately.
At work, I try to keep my chin up and smile on. At the hospital, I turn on my chirpy mode to be happy for my grand dad and my helper, who have to deal with so much more. But at home, mostly I am a crumpled mess. A crumpled, crying, vulnerable mess and the only one I allow to see this side of me is my husband, K.
And yet, when he tries to communicate, I reject him. I can show him how I feel but I don’t want to talk about it. I flare up and leave the room. When I wake up in the middle of the night (and this happens a lot now), cold with fear from a forgotten nightmare, he wakes up too and tries to console me but I turn to face the wall.
Maybe it’s hurtful but I don’t want to drag him into my sadness. I haven’t been able to internalize my issues about everything in my life yet, and I’m so protective over my feelings that I cannot bring myself to open up completely. Everything is still very raw.
The only thing that I am sure of, though, is that when I get past this, when I get through this – and I will – my husband will be waiting for me, with a steady smile and open arms, ready to hold me as is. And this thought comforts me in my darkest moments and worst depressions.
And, of course, there are the memories. Most recently, our little re-commitment along the Pont de l’Archevêché in Paris.
Call it a cliche or trite, but that wintry morning, as we were strolling along the Bank, it seemed like the most natural thing to stop and make our own mark on this bridge filled with thousands of promises of love everlasting. It captivated me – these expressions of naivete, hope, optimism and passion – all jostling for space on the bridge. It was very touching.
So we bought ourselves our own little shiny gold-coloured lock, scribbled down our own clumsy little wishes for our marriage, and K found a little spot, amongst the gaily flapping bright ribbons, that was all ours.
See you next post, hopefully happier.