Page 27 of Breathe Again

Sex became a great stabilizer.

It was the only time I felt free of the fear that lived inside me. It was only then, when I had his full attention, when his body connected deep inside of mine, that I could feel his love for me.

Whatever was going on with him at work, with his thoughts about Olivia, our sex life had slowed down, and the anger and insecurity issues I thought I had sorted out, again became a problem for me.

Without sex, I was jittery and on edge, my emotions running the gamut from anguish to joy, often within the same hour. Increasingly often I took breaks to breathe, to transfer the pain to the outside, where it didn’t hurt nearly as much.

I was back in that space once again. Hence the doctor visit and the psychiatric referral. Which, in the end, was not that helpful. There was no medicine for my issues apparently. Which was fine, good even, I was not going to let it get out of hand. Even so, my needs warred with my responsibilities all that long day, until I was closed up, holding tightly to the reins of my bucking emotions.

Olivia volunteered at the animal shelter for the afternoon, which was good for her, bad for me. The house being empty gave me too much time and space to think. Girls’ Night was not on tonight, so I had little to prepare for, and nothing stimulating enough to distract me from my spiraling thoughts.

Olivia was quiet when she got home and retreated to the sunroom with Sirius to decompress. I should have used my free time to work, to clean up the house. I could have gone out to get my nails done ormy hair trimmed. I could have bought myself a new outfit. Instead, I sat home and stewed, wondering if I should tell him.

I knew I probably should.

The bottom line was that our marriage was no longer working for either of us. I knew what I needed; he didn’t want to give it to me. Maybe he needed something else, someone else. I felt sick. I’d never kept anything from him before, but I felt this was the beginning of the end and I wasn’t quite ready to face it. Sadness permeated my entire being. I could not shake it.

I was quiet when he got home from work. We went through the regular routine with Olivia and dinner, made small talk at the kitchen table, but I was unable to meet his eyes. When we went to bed, I piled my pillows at my back, opened my book and put on my headphones, blasting Evanescence, Halsey, and Halestorm, allowing the heavy beats to beat back the distress, and save me from facing him.

When he was ready to call it a night, he clicked off the tv, curled toward me and slipped his hand under my thigh. A single tear welled and spilled over my cheek, soundless as always, and I moved my foot to rest against his warmth. He leaned in, kissed my thigh, and went to sleep.

I watched him for a little while. The frown between his brows didn’t disappear even in sleep. I gently smoothed it out with my index finger, not wanting to wake him but wanting somehow to soothe his angst.

I got up with him the next morning and hugged him before he left for work, lifted my face for his quick, hard kiss, a drop of rain to quench a burning building.

I went to the bathroom to get ready for the day. Before getting into the shower, I knelt on the floor and pulled my hair until I attained the relief I desperately craved, my system in a state of equilibrium once again when the pain on the inside gave way to the pain on the outside. I took a shower, brushed my skin with my sea sponge until it stung, conditioned my stinging scalp, roughly rubbed myself dry, put on my clothes and my happy face, and woke Olivia to start our day.

It was hard to concentrate on our lessons, hard to concentrate on writing, my mood was terribly low, and my body was buzzing like an addict in need of a hit.

I did not want Olivia to grow up in a strained, repressive atmosphere. I wracked my brain to think of something to do that could lighten the mood, something that was not watching Harry Potter, but something that Olivia would still like. An idea came to me, something that would take all day, and get us out of the house. Olivia was all for it.

We headed to Michael’s Arts and Crafts Supply in Bayview Village and bought card stock, glitter, paint markers, and thinline ink pens. She used this as an opportunity to get other art supplies she obviously had her eye on, but I didn’t mind. On the way home we picked up pizza from Little Caesar’s, with extra garlic sticks forOlivia. We spent the afternoon making owl themed handmade cards and didn’t finish until dinner time. We planned our deliveries for the weekend. She had a wonderful day which made me happy. I’d rescued her day from my misery.

Reel Me Back In

Mara

I am a kite. My thoughts are the wind. He holds the string that tethers me to the earth. My thoughts fly, pulling out more line and the winds swing me further up and further out.

This is me.

This is how I am, and I enjoy the journey of discovery in allowing my thoughts to roam for a while, until I go too far where the wind and my thoughts rear up and begin to batter me about. I toss and twist in the wind, I cry out to him my pain and he gently reels me backin.

This is me.

I live inside my head most of the time. Sometimes it’s a good place to be. The words fly around in my thoughts, I examine them from every angle, make new connections, collect evidence, search for the perfect words to describe what I’ve discovered.

Sometimes the thoughts get away from me and the same old tired messages show up. You’re not good enough. He can’t possibly want you. You’re disgusting. You force yourself on him. He doesn’t love you. He’s stuck with you. They gather steam as my brain makes connections to lend credence to their claims, they spin faster, lacerating me from within. When the pain becomes too much, I take my pain to him, only he can bring me back to baseline. Only he can forge a path through the bullshit and give me space to breathe.

It’s too much. I’m too much. Too much and not enough at the same time. Too demanding, too sexual, too moody, too messy, too feisty. Not slim enough, not pretty enough, not patient enough, not giving enough, not gentle enough, not fucking good enough.

Zale came home from work in time to have dinner with Olivia. We ate together, showed Zale the cards we’d made, and Olivia gave him his in which we both wrote how much we loved him.

We played Spot It with Olivia after dinner, and she begged for one more round, three more times before she gave up the ghost and headed for bed. Zale went with her, and I tidied the kitchen, nervous to go to our room, unsure how to act, and physically ticking with a need I was striving hard to hide.

Finally, I could put it off no longer.

As soon as I got to our door, he spoke. “Close the door, baby.”

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