It’s 03:47.

I have been awake for hours.

My head keeps going over the evening.

I have tried a hypnosis track.

I got up, made myself some warm milk with nutmeg, and watched an episode of “Golden Girls” on the telly. I tried to sleep on the sofa, which the dog loved, but I was cold – and my head still wouldn’t shut up.

I finally gave that up and returned to bed.

My head kept chuntering. Worse, it has decided to play a few bars of some Italian song, the only words I know seem to be “Hey, na, na”.

After lying in bed for a while, I finally give in: I have to have a go at getting my thoughts out.

I went round to see my husband tonight. He’s got an infection in one of his testicles, which he describes as being the worst pain he’s ever felt.

He’d asked me to get some shopping for him and his cigarettes. I also got us some fish and chips to share.

He told me that the pain was awful – and that he’d never felt so alone.

Those words really hit me … but I don’t think I showed anything real. I am simply too emotionally guarded around him. It sits so deep in me now, that I wonder if its at the hardware level now and cannot be programmed away.

He even showed me his swollen testicle – it really was big. He said it had shrunk a little already since he’s started the antibiotics a couple of days ago.

While I was there, I told him about the last cardiac rehab – and that I felt like an impostor. He said that wasn’t surprising because I didn’t see myself as being a typical heart attack victim because I wasn’t old and I’m not overweight.

Did I detect irritation or judgement in his voice? Or was that how I felt about it and I put those feelings into his neutral words? I don’t know.

Then I told him a little about the London trip with Funiculosus. That seemed to upset him. He didn’t like me telling him, although he knew that I’d been. When I showed him some photos, he said that it didn’t look like street food but looked like a restaurant. Well it was a restaurant, but why did I feel as though he thought I’d lied to him about something? Why did it matter?

Do I hear accusation in his words and do I put that accusation there myself, or is it really there?

I felt uncomfortable. I was already tired and wanted to be home.

It was about eight-thirty and I knew that I’d want at least an hour to unwind. And the dog needs her cuddles!

As I was getting ready to leave, he hovered and looked upset. I hugged him tight and kissed his head. I offered to stay a little longer, but my heart wasn’t in it. I wanted to be in my space, safe and comfortable.

I think he was close to tears as I left.

I feel guilty.

I don’t know exactly why that is – is it because I have much more successfully moved on emotionally? That my life is richer without him in it? That I am … happy?

All I wanted when I told him of my kinks and my castration ideation and how I felt about my body was to be held and told that everything was going to be all right. He couldn’t do it and was angry because I’d hidden that part of myself from him for so long. While he was angry, I found other sources of support.

By the time he was ready to show me some of the acceptance I needed, I had already moved on and found it elsewhere.

So it was that I never felt safe being vulnerable around him – his unpredictability, his mental illness, and horrible ways it played out with me as the only person within blast-range, had only ever increased my self-reliance – and the emotional shielding that protected me from some of the worst excesses of his illness.

And now those shields are always up. I just cannot drop them around him.

I wish that I could.

Because, even though we are separated and divorcing I still love him and I still crave that intimacy from him – I still want to feel safe with him – even though I never ever have!

So when I see him hurting, I still want to rescue him and take his pain away.

But I am part of the cause of his pain.

Just as he is part of the cause of mine.