We had maybe the worst six months we’ve ever had.
Not “bad.” Not “rough.”
The kind that feels like it’s over.
Dead.
Sexless.
Unable to work together because we genuinely couldn’t.
Just existing in parallel
as parents,
as logistics,
as friends on paper.
Then Christmas happened.
A small family getaway.
Away from the daily pressures.
Away from the stressors that shackle us.
And it was… beautiful.
We were intimate.
We held hands.
We cuddled.
We existed together again.
I love her.
She loves me.
And that’s part of what makes this so confusing.
It’s been 15 years of this.
We are terrible at working through problems.
She shows signs of borderline personality disorder.
The gaslighting has been constant.
The rage.
The insults.
Things that.. if I’m being honest, disqualify a marriage.
I wanted to leave.
Every day.
But I didn’t.
Now we have kids.
Now I’m chronically ill.
And I don’t know what an independent life would even look like for me.
I’ve done therapy on and off for 15 years.
I’m on fluoxetine.
I am far from perfect, but I’ve tried to grow.
She’s done very little work on herself.
This isn’t a moral high ground.
It’s just the reality as I experience it.
And I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. I feel bonded to hope the way a drowning person seeks air.
I don’t want to go back to therapy to “fix us.”
I don’t know that we can be fixed.
I don’t want to sign up for another long journey trying to repair something this broken.
I genuinely don’t know if my autonomic nervous system can survive it.
But I also feel trapped.
Like leaving isn’t really an option either.
How do you knowingly blow up your children’s lives?
These holidays were beautiful.
And I’m grateful for that.
But I’m afraid they also confused the hell out of me.