Usually, when I’m really upset or something is bothering me, I blog about it. I have such a hard time telling people how I feel that writing it down and getting it out is the only thing I can do. I don’t have to sit here and look at you while you read this. I LIKE that you read this, but I also like that I don’t have to be there when you do. That I don’t have to read your face or feel your reactions. Not so much that I think you’ll judge me, more that I can’t bear to have you support me. I find it impossible for me to accept comfort, support or understanding. That’s how broken I am.

I don’t even know how to talk to Michael. He always jokes that I have a “secret life” that I don’t share with him. He mostly means the blog and my blogging friends, but he knows where to find this blog if he really wanted to read. And even him-his support or comfort is more than I can handle. It’s not fair. I wouldn’t allow him to do the same to me. Yesterday we were talking in the late afternoon, syncing schedules and he said “Well, you can just make me dinner, like a good woman would” and I replied “What about my behavior lately makes you think I know how to be a ‘good woman’?”. It’s like I’m not even there. He’s trying and I can’t be bothered.

The crux of the problem is, I can’t write about it. I can’t write here about it. I can’t use this as an outlet. I can’t put something here and know that everyone has read it and that’s enough. That’s always enough for me and I can’t have it. So instead, I walk around, barely here. Barely breathing. Barely a person. Barely holding it together. I’ve been taking showers at night, instead of in the morning, like I’ve done my whole life. I lock the cats out, turn my music up loud and cry under the water.

It’s the only time I feel sane.