Ramblings on a Tuesday morning


I feel like I am reaching my breaking point.

Every day that passes I am edging closer and closer towards a cliff face.

My resolve to not contact my husband is weakening, and my desire for closure is intensifying. Last night at 2am, after tossing and turning for hours, I picked up my phone and opened a new text message. I typed in one word: why. That’s all. Just…why.

I had this grand idea that I could send him the message, and if I woke up the next morning and had remorse I could then send a follow-up saying “whoopsie that text wasn’t meant for you” and somehow he would believe me.

I mean it was only one little three letter word. Surely that could have been the start of a message meant for someone else? A message for my brother like “why did you leave the back door unlocked when you left for the hospital?” or for my best friend “why didn’t you tell me that you were going to be in town this weekend?”

What stopped me from sending that message? I don’t know. Pride, I guess. Not that I’m an overly proud person. Plus the fact that he would have known the follow-up message was a lie. Even in my sleep deprived haze I knew that much.

Come on now, a message sent at 2am? How obvious could I be? And then he would truly know how weak and pathetic I am, because I was snivelling to him whilst he was off enjoying his life. Or rather, he was off sleeping whilst I was lying awake in these awful, dirty sheets of ours.

I think about it constantly. This need to contact him. This burning, insatiable craving that I’m trying so hard to keep at bay. It’s not even a daily struggle; it’s more like an hourly battle. Do you recall that ridiculous myth that men think about sex every seven seconds? Replace men with Sadie, and sex with texting my husband. Yep, that sounds about right. That pretty much sums up my level of obsession.

I think one of the problems is that in my mind, this contact ultimately leads to reconcilliation. Actually it’s not even that. It’s this idea that I will get him talking to me, and then the flood gates will open and he will tell me he is so sorry and he has made such a mistake.

And then I will sneer at him and tell him I’m too good for him now, and that he can never return to me. And he’ll sob and beg me to reconsider, and I’ll say no. No way, Mister. You blew it. Goodbye forever. I never want to see your face around these parts again.

That right there. That’s closure. And also a beautiful fantasy that will never come true. Because he will never ask to come home. Because he is not thinking about me, or worrying about me, or losing sleep over me, or lamenting that he has made a mistake. He doesn’t crave contact with me because he has moved on from me.

I fantasize about seeing our friends too. Well, his friends. They haven’t spoken to me in almost two months so clearly they aren’t my friends anymore. I imagine running into them at the supermarket and I have different scenarios for each of them.

The guy who told my husband he should just hurry up and leave me? I would walk up to him and scream in his face. Tell him how he has ruined my life, and he’s a selfish pig who doesn’t understand what it feels like to go through IVF or lose children. I would tell his girlfriend that she should never get fat, never get sick and never need support because clearly her partner is not capable of compassion.

The one who has been a close friend of mine for ten years, and knows exactly about all of my miscarriages and fertility struggles? The one who I expected to treat me with kindness and respect? I would just spit on him now. Spit on him or maybe slap him in the face.

The friend who my husband moved in with after he walked out on me? Well in my fantasy I see him in the cereal aisle. And I stare at him. And he wordlessly stares back at me, not knowing what to say. And then I slowly and deliberately turn my back on him and walk away. And it makes me feel powerful, and strong.

I’m starting to get irrationally angry now. I pulled all of the alcohol out of our cupboards last night and laid it out on the kitchen bench. My husband has left a lot of very expensive rum and whisky behind, but I know eventually he will come to collect it.

I very nearly tipped it all down the sink. I figured I could replace it with iced tea, which is so similar in colour. He wouldn’t even realise until he went to drink it. I could just picture him putting a glass of what he thought was whisky to his lips, and then spitting the liquid out in disgust. Thankfully my brother came home from work right before I could actually enact my plan, and calmed me down.

When I am driving my car, particularly at night time, I think a lot about death. I think about just planting my foot on the accelerator and driving head first into something really solid like a brick wall or shop front. I wonder how easy it would be to disable the airbag so that nothing comes between my head and the steering wheel at the moment of impact. I think about my blood splattered all over the cracked windshield, and the horn blaring monotonously, and smoke rising from the mangled engine.

Sometimes I think about setting the house on fire. First I would make sure my dog is safe. I have thought about where I would take him. The next door neighbours have a front patio that I could lock him on, but I would worry he would be too close to the fire there.

So then I think maybe I could drive my car a few hundred metres down the street, and leave him inside with the windows rolled down far enough that he would be okay. I could leave him some food and water on the back seat, and his favourite snuggle blanket. He would be fine there. And then I could walk home, and pour petrol over the curtains, and set them on fire. Then I would just lie down in my bed and wait to die while the house burned around me.

I don’t actually want to die. I have no desire to kill myself. I just want the shit to stop. Is it so bad that I just want the shit to stop? I just want to be able to go to bed at night and actually sleep. I want to wake up in the morning and not have my thoughts immediately turn to my husband. I want to feel free from these shackles I have placed upon my own hands and feet.

Every single day people ask me why I’m so happy. Friends, colleagues, relatives, even strangers. They say they can’t understand how I’m keeping it all together. How am I getting out of bed every morning? Why do I have such a positive attitude? Where did I find my smile and my laugh? What has caused me to be so calm about this entire situation? How is it possible that I look better now than I did six months ago?

I can see what they see. On the outside I look perfectly put together. I look like a woman who is living a purposeful and fulfilled life. I look strong, and determined and happy.

Even my therapist has raised this point with me. I went and saw her last week and she said I am coping remarkably well. She said I am coping too well and that she rarely sees people handle multiple traumatic events so calmly. She said it’s almost as if I have injected my own heart with anesthesia in order to protect myself.

I handled my last miscarriage just fine, and now I am handling my husband’s abandonment, and the fact that I am suddenly broke and having to leave my home. She said this is raising red flags for her. She is concerned that one day I am just going to explode with emotion, and if this happens I need to quickly make my way to the closest hospital. I thought that was a bit overly dramatic, but hey what do I know? I’m not a psychologist.

I think it’s pretty obvious that there’s more going on with me right now than the image I am outwardly portraying. During the day I am mostly fine, but at night time I become this whole other beast. Alone in my bedroom, my mind spiralling out of control, nobody to comfort me. And I don’t want anyone to comfort me. I don’t want anyone near me, or touching me, or talking to me. Not even my husband.

I keep having this flashback to my birthday at the end of May. It’s so hard to believe it was only a few short months ago. I have honestly never been so happy in my entire life. I was pregnant, and the doctor had told me this was the one. My take home baby. My husband was so happy, and sweet, and loving. We were looking at furniture for the nursery. Everything was perfect. 2014 was going to be my year. It was finally my time.

Funny how life actually turns out.

And by funny I mean tragic.

Really fucking tragic.


6 thoughts on “Ramblings on a Tuesday morning

  1. Oh honey my heart just breaks! I am so sorry you are having to go through this and I don’t know when, but I am believing that in time, things will get better. Sending you hugs!! Xo

  2. I think sometimes it’s all just too much and the brain finds ways to compartmentalize so we can function. Fine during the day and a mess at night makes perfect sense to me; I was always that way through miscarriages, etc. Teaching was my saving grace because it left no room for ruminating at work. I feel like all of this is part of a painful process and you just have to ride it out as it unfolds at a pace your psyche knows it can manage. Not fair, but totally natural.

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