Yesterday was emotional. At the end of the day I didn’t know whether I was still in a relationship or not. What I did realise was that I was hurt by the apathy that my dad and brother both showed towards my fiftieth birthday: my husband is the only one who made any kind of effort, and that’s despite his sixtieth being lost amongst all my crazy last year. He is now the only person in the world to whom I really matter: I have taken that for granted and now I fear that I have lost him.

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This morning, I feel awkward around him. I think the feeling is reciproced.

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I am still feeling drained: is it age, or did it just take longer to recover from drinking without testosterone? Maybe I’ll check it out sometime and get drunk when I’m on T. It is kinda fun using one’s own body as an experiment. I thought I slept well; I only got up once on the night for a wee, but maybe the strange bed contributes too my tiredness. Maybe I’m just over-thinking everything these days.

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We lie in the grass in Green Park. Usually, I am usually comfortable with silence between us – “companionable silence” my nan used to call it. Today silence feels awkward, as though there is so much still to say … or maybe that we have said everything we can say to each other now.

The journey home was uncomfortable, and I commented on it when we got home. Things only got worse when we started talking about it. Somehow we got onto my early fucks and the three times I topped before meeting my husband. He is angry that he was forced into a top only roll, and the ways I would comment if it got uncomfortable – I was a fucking dick:

You’re going on too long!

What the fuck was wrong with me? So I was getting sore! Why couldn’t I just say “I’m getting a bit sore, do you mind if we take a break?”. Why did I always have to deflect? Why couldn’t I own how I was feeling? Take responsibility for my feelings? And be considerate of my husband’s? He’s making love to me and I have to say idiotic and cruel things like that! No wonder he’s hurt and angry