The day before counselling, my husband and I went out for a drive and dinner in the New Forest. He had said that he was feeling lonely and very down, and I wanted to rescue him. I might as well put it bluntly: this was about stopping him feeling that way because I hate him feeling bad.

I do hope, at the very least, that we can become friends. I don’t rule out the possibility that we might, one day in the far off and unknowable future, even get back together.

I picked him up and we drove to a place we’d been to before. He’s a fussy eater, so it was important to choose somewhere that I knew had things on the menu that he’d eat.

I could see that he was glum, but I tried to steer the conversation from getting too close to difficult emotions. But there is so much that neither of us can talk about with the other yet.

I gabbled about work and the house and my heart attack recovery, but I simply couldn’t ignore the sad face opposite me.

I asked him how he was feeling.

He immediately started telling me.

Well, I had asked.

It got heavy: he had made a mental list of the pros and cons of living. He couldn’t find many pros.

Fuck. What am I supposed to do with that?!

I had no idea. I felt my stomach sink. I felt sick. My head started spinning.

All I could think to do was acknowledge that he’d said it.

I guess that I feel responsible for these feelings. I always have felt responsible. Counselling is teaching me that I need never have taken responsibility for his feelings.

But he has had them for so long – even while we were together – so many of his relationships have just ended and he has had no opportunities to ask why?

I want to be different, but at the same time I cannot cope with the conversations myself – my own capacity isn’t what it was, my own physical health is much reduced, and my mental health is badly burnt through years of coping with his illness and my own neurological difficulties.

He moved on to other things – more problems in our relationship. My lack of engagement in conversations. I was always fighting shutdown in emotionally charged conversations – and sometimes it was a blessed release when it came.

For those who don’t know, shutdown isn’t sulking; it’s neurological overload.

In practical conversations I had learnt not to object and instead cheer on whatever my husband wanted to do because to do otherwise got me stamped as “not listening” or just being objectionable, both of which he says shut him down.

He said that I had no interest in the house – I felt as though I had no say in the house: my style was quite different from his! One of his comments was that he didn’t expect so much Lego and Star Wars to be put out. And then there was books: I was capped at one bookshelf’s worth. It felt as though I was living in somebody else’s house.

He commented that he felt that he had to filter what he said to me. I didn’t detect any filtering! Maybe he was rather filtering the emotion than the content.

I said that I also filtered what I said, but I added that I’d tell him about things when you’re ready to ask about them and prepared to handle the answers. That was pretty much what I’d agreed with Richard (my counsellor) at our last appointment.

The rest of the evening was in a lighter vein, but by then I was burnt out and ready to sleep.

I have never been able to sit with him the dark for long. And I can no longer be his only light.