Apparently, at my house today, we're pretending that things are all ok. Nothing, in fact, is ok, but we're imagining that it is, and we're not talking about anything that isn't absolutely, perfectly, ok.
We're ignoring my husband's increasingly obsessive-compulsive behavior. He's hoarding things, stealing junk and dragging it home and leaving it all over the house. His emotions are cycling, up and down, affectionate and angry, needy and distant, paranoid and full of reckless bravado...
I am promising myself that this weekend, I'll tell him what I've been observing. I am afraid for myself, but I'm also afraid for him. He's not well, and I think he needs to see somebody. I hope I can find a sane moment to recommend that he visit our county mental health clinic. The sane moments are fewer and further between lately, but I am not sure what else to do with this information...these observations.
Honestly, there is a part of me that is afraid to ask him to leave. I am afraid of what he might do.