I’d been out all afternoon and there was no sign of my husband when I got in. It wasn’t until nearly teatime that I realised that he was in his room. I cooked tea of steak, chips, peas, and creamy garlic mushrooms for tea.

After tea I walked the dog and did a little Spanish practice. I wonder what the neighbourhood thinks about me wandering the streets muttering “me duelan las piernas” or “A mi gato Mr Bigotes le gusta conducir un coche rojo.”?

When I got back, my husband complained that he had stopped talking to me because I always shut him down. That’s not my memory of how things go, but never mind.

I realised that he wanted to talk, so I turned the TV off. I can’t follow words if there’s noise in the background.

He is grieving. He wonders whether we have lived a lie all our lives.

I didn’t interrupt him while he spoke. I don’t really know how long he talked for. I think I got back from walking the dog at about half-seven, and it was quarter-past-nine when he finally stopped. I don’t really know why I worry about the time he talks for, perhaps I mention it because others always seem surprised when I say that he can talk for anything upwards of an hour. I know that I will be struggling to remain mentally present beyond an hour.

He mentioned an email I’d sent him which contained a piece that I’d written for work for the Pride season; it’s my coming out story, well, the bit about me coming out as gay. I thought he might be interested. (I’ll be publishing it on the blog in June).

He said that coming out to my brother hadn’t brought us closer; I know that it did create some kind of connection that hadn’t existed until I came out.

He was upset that I still carry my first heartbreak. I felt a twinge of annoyance (which I hope that I hid) when he said that: he is still in contact with his first love.

He was also upset that I called him the “love of my life” in the piece. Even if our marriage is over, that was true then and remains true now. I am upset that he scoffed at it.

He did say that it was an emotionally engaging post.

It feels to me that he made my emotional writing about my own experiences somehow to be about him. I finally understood what I meant by something I said many, many years ago: “why do you have to have feelings about everything?” That was it: I would share something and he would say how that made him feel, and in an instant my feelings would be erased. I accepted that as normal and right for many years. I also stopped even trying to share my thoughts and feelings for that reason.

Am I rewriting the past? I don’t think so. No more than he is anyway.

He said that he was doing something that just wasn’t him – he was keeping secrets. That is true: secrets are toxic to him. He told me that he’d been referred to a refuge in Essex. A refuge! It’s not him that has had to flee the house for fear of being beaten up! Sleeping in hotels, cupboards, or cars before they didn’t feel physically safe. All the names he’s called me over the years!

Whatever. It is what it is.

Just because I have felt a certain way doesn’t invalidate that he feels things. He didn’t feel emotionally safe (his words), and with everything that I’ve talked about these last couple of years I do understand.

The refuge had turned him down because his needs are too complex. That was upsetting for him, and I get that – he frequently gets referred to a service only for it to be withdrawn when they realise that his psychology needs are quite complicated.

In terms of our marriage, there’s no way that I can say that I’m the hero of the story. We have both been victims of each other.

Afterwards, he asked me to buy him out of the house. I told him that he’d already asked me to do that, I’d already started the process, and that there had been a delay. He didn’t remember me telling him, so we agreed that I would email him updates. I’m afraid that I was a bit sarcastic with him: “you might be glad of the paper trail if you decide to prosecute me”. Not funny.

Halfway through the talk, he got up and immediately fell over. I was worried. He told me that he’d taken a lot of beta blockers and pregablin to help manage his anxiety. He said that he didn’t want me to do anything and that he’s “not playing the suicide game”.

After he seemed to have said what he needed to say, he asked me to turn the television back on. Then he asked whether there was anything that I wanted to say. “Not at this time,” was my answer. I need to reflect on what he’d said.

Then he started talking again, so off went the telly.

He asked that we behave amicably towards each other.

“Always,” I answered, which he thought was a strange thing to say. Maybe it is. This is painful enough without adding acrimony into the mix. I still love him and I will do whatever I can to make this less painful. I would never do anything that would make him homeless or put him in danger.

He did tell me that he didn’t hate me and that he still loved me.

I still love him.

That we still love each other – and probably always will – is what makes this so unbearable.