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.
