Tuesday, March 4, 2008


One of my husband's least favorite parts of my growth is my detachment. He doesn't like it in any of its manifestations, but probably his least favorite part is when I get far away from him. He says he feels like I don't love him.

For instance, if he's being insane, I tend to sleep in a different room. If he's throwing a tantrum, I tend to leave the house for a while. My natural inclination is towards him, like a moth to flame. My urge, if left unattended, is to go to him, to try to help him, to try to fix him. Mostly, though, when I go to him, I end up taking on his shit. He doesn't get any better, and I get worse. I get cans thrown at me.

I can't figure out how to explain to him that I love him too much to be around him when he's really desperate. I love him so much that his sickness gets all under my skin, and I become sick, too. I wish there could be a way that I could suck all the sick and sad and scared out of him. I could handle it better than he can. I've got tools.

But there isn't a way to take it, and I have to be here for myself. I can't go that route anymore. I need room to breathe, even when he's sucking all the air out of the room.