Why Am I Here?

This morning, I open my eyes to my new  usual surroundings. My parents’ bed. Their house, not mine. Middle of buttfuck-nowhere. Oregon. Not Georgia. I roll over and eye the empty space beside me. Looks like my husband slept on the couch. I’m irritated. But relieved. Breathe.

I get up. Walk to the bathroom. Notice the closed bedroom door along the way. Use the toilet. Stare at the scale. Weigh. Sigh. Avoid the mirror.

I lay back down, looking at my mother’s Narnia book still occupying the night stand. I miss her. Why am I here? I sprawl across the mattress and wrap the warm comforter around my neck. My face buries into a pillow with a familiar scent, not my husband’s, but my mother’s. I feel guilt. Shame. I wish I was young again, when curling into my parents’ comfort was still socially acceptable.

Why am I here? Physically? I am here because I’ve demonstrated that I cannot either support myself or take care of myself. I’m here because I need supervision. What did I really expect to change? I wanted a new start, doesn’t everyone? Only this time, I’ve just given up before even starting. Really, what’s the point? I’m never going to have a life. My husband refuses to look for work. Our car is about to die. We have no money. I’m stuck in this fucking house that is not mine in the middle of fucking nowhere with my lazy husband that I can’t stand and three hyperactive animals that drive me fucking crazy. I’m afraid that one of these days I’m just going to lose it. I feel the anger building inside me. It bubbles, churns, burns me day-in and day-out, mostly at myself. Fat, stupid, ugly, fat, stupid, ugly, fat, stupid, ugly. I see the fear in my husband’s eyes, everything he’ll never say. Every time I raise my hand or pick up a knife, he winces. Why can’t you do anything right? The topic of my having a breakdown and killing him has actually come up jokingly in conversation. Fat, lazy, disgusting, fat, lazy, disgusting, fat, lazy, disgusting. How dare those thoughts even cross my mind, I’m sick, this is sick. What the fuck, seriously? I should take that shotgun sitting in the bedroom and stick it in my mouth. Why not just kill myself now before anything horrible happens? If I’m really that afraid of myself, it’s for the greater good. Close your eyes. Pull the trigger. At least I can be sure I won’t be locked up this time.

Does it hurt to die?

Cracks In My House Of Glass

It’s been cold lately. A touch of frost layers my apartment, making any skin contact burn like the sun’s flame. Every word spoken hangs frozen in the air before fights shatter them to the floor. With every stab of my rogue tongue, his eyes widen, as if he had no idea of the monster he married. Horseshit. He knew. I reminded him every day.

My husband spends his energy dodging devastating fits of rage mixed with drowning floods of pitiful despair, all while attempting to retain his own sanity. He fights to keep calm, even as his voice lowers and forehead wrinkles in frustration. And while I feel terrible about treating him so poorly, I really do, I can’t help myself. The emotions pour out of me like an erupting volcano exploding without warning, and without mercy. One night, he is my soul mate and we are an inseparable team, partners in crime. The next evening, my body seethes with hate and I would give anything to bolt out the door of my apartment as fast as I can. Everyday, the battle inside me echos on as I ache with guilt.

My husband does everything for me. He dated me, despite my flaws. He followed me, despite the distance. He married me, despite my illnesses. He loves me, despite my failures. He holds me when I’m upset, wipes my tears when I’m sad, and calms me when I’m angry at the world. He makes me laugh; God, does he make me laugh… He’s been with me through obesity; binging, purging, and starving; my rise to success; and my decent into madness. He saves my life every single day. And every time I’m fighting , screaming, begging him to get out, save himself, he looks me dead in the eye and says he will never, ever leave me.

It wears on us, though. With every negative comment and hurtful word, our relationship strains further towards a breaking point that I can’t even identify. I’m deathly afraid that someday, I will succeed in pushing him away; that someday, he will leave; that someday… I will lose him.