This morning I sat in bed. I wrote to you. I explained to you how I felt, and told you that it wasn’t your fault. I wrote for over an hour as I cried and poured out my feelings. Then as it came to a close, I began to imagine your reaction. What would it be? When would it be? Where would I be when it happened? Even though I don’t know your reaction…. I know enough to know what mine would be in return. Another ruined day. Another day of my children seeing me miserable, unhappy, and lifeless.
Another day of numbness because I have become the dogs of Pavlov. I deleted the letter. Now I’m sitting here. Emotionless.
I’m choking myself down. He doesn’t even have to respond. He doesn’t even have to read it. He doesn’t have to be bothered with this. Or me.
I am doing it to myself.
He thinks I’m happy go lucky when he’s not here. He thinks I’m all mani, pedi, and lunch with friends, carefree and living life.
But in reality, it’s 11 am on Sunday, and I’m still in bed. Crying. Scared to move.