Yesterday morning I managed to get up after a really rotten night’s sleep; anxiety induced not flushes tormented me all night. The day was mostly going to be fuelled by caffeine.
As I was about to leave, my husband asked for a real hug. I was only too pleased to give him one: whenever you give a hug, you get one in return. He told me that he loves me, which choked me. I told him that I loved him to, and that I would never love anybody else the way I love him – then I added “but from what you’ve said, my love isn’t work very much”. He didn’t comment, and I left the house in floods of tears again.
One good thing about cycling to work over driving is that the wind effect dries one’s eyes and the additional effort and concentration distracts from overwhelming emotions.
That evening, after my piano practice, I asked my husband to confirm that he still wanted me to move out and that as a result I would pay the deposit and arrange a moving in date; would he like Friday or Monday? He then asked why it was all down to him and that he thought it was a joint decision. I’m glad he said that it was a joint decision, I didn’t know that it was until he said, I thought that he’d asked me to move out.
He then brought up the weekend. He felt that I’d ignored him all weekend. Well, I suppose so, I work on Saturday (overtime isn’t mandatory, I just felt that I would rather not be at home and I thought that he would rather I not be at home too).
Sunday I really didn’t behave very well. I asked him how he was feeling, he told me that he felt desperate and more suicidal than at any time over the last five years. I didn’t follow it up – I really do not understand why I didn’t. Fatigue maybe. After a period of silence I went and lay down in the deck. Actually, all Sunday I was feeling very low. I curled up on the sofa for much of the day with a blanket over my head and I was glad when it was time to go to bed. An increasing number of days I just want to not exist.
He was well within his rights to be hurt and angry at my blanking him on Sunday.
The conversation moved on to how the question of whether we open up or not was just down to me wanting to fulfil my Dark Fantasies and nothing to do with him. Well, the question started with that pressing need, but I would be an absolute hypocrite to want freedom to pursue my sexual interests and not expect my husband to want the same. Also, it seemed to become clear that he doesn’t want to be with a eunuch.
The thing with these Dark Fantasies is that I darent ignore them; however my husband suggested that I could just stuff them down – which is a surprising attitude from him, given that he is Mr Express-Yourself. I know that suppressing then doesn’t work: they leak out through my subconscious and into my waking actions. My husband can attest to the hurt that can cause – although he won’t remember that tonight.
I got angry at times at the way he would put things. I don’t know whether he intended to sneer or appear contemptuous of me, but I certainly felt those things. His tone often appeared to be mocking me, and I would felt entrapped, like a witness in the stand where the lawyer elicits an answer that might be technically true, but is without context and only part of the story. There was a look of what appeared to me to be triumph when he got me to say something the way he wanted it said. Sometimes it was a choice of words – framing – I would put something one way and he would twist it around so that it was semantically the same but the tone was very different. For example, I have been at pains to say that he is an entirely complete man and that I cannot expect him to fulfil all my needs, he twisted that to me rejecting him because he couldn’t fulfil my needs. Stating that my needs outweighed his, and asking why I thought that they should.
Sometimes I would ask him to say what he was feeling as he spoke, because in all honesty I do not know whether I was reading a facial manifestation of his feelings, or whether I was projecting my feelings onto him, or even whether I was projecting the feelings I thought he was feeling onto him. It’s all so confusing. Asking him to explain just infuriated him.
I felt emotionally drained by this exchange, and when it appeared to be over, I took my antidepressants, a beta-blocker, and a lighter sleep aid (poor sleep makes me even more prone to emotional instability).
And then he said that I’d not asked him about his feeling desperate, which is where the conversation started. I just admit that I didn’t know what to do about it on Sunday; I still didn’t know now.
He again said that he felt more suicidal than he had at any time over the last five years. That he wondered if he should be the one moving out because he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to look after the the dog if he got ill. “Maybe we should get rid of her” he said. I listened. I am afraid I felt quite upset and angry about this. What is his intention in sharing this information now? We have already established that he can’t move out because he couldn’t rent anywhere without his own income. This feels like emotional blackmail. He says he doesn’t play games. This feels serious. It also feels manipulative. I guess I should be glad that he’s shared what he’s feeling. I wish that I could share with him my own dark feelings about this and the thoughts that intrude on my mind.
I had to go to bed – the medication was starting to work.
I am not at peace.
Despite taking a sleeper and a beta blocker, I’m awake at 03:30.
I managed to get off after about an hour.
The work day was relaxed … I dread going home …
Eunuchorn 
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