Sitting here in the dark looking at my new Christmas tree with its sparkling bright lights, I just realised it is the six month anniversary of BD.
On this day six months ago, I had the day off from work and went to get my hair cut and coloured. I was one week into anxiety medication and feeling great. We had had sex three times that week after only managing once a month since the birth of S1. I finally felt like things were on the up and up. H had been unusually reserved and polite after an argument about the iron earlier in the week, but I didn’t think too much of it. It was over an iron, after all, and it had been resolved.
H called during the day to say he was going shopping after work and would be home for dinner. I encouraged him to treat himself, we joked about something, exchanged love yous. At dinner time, he messaged to say he was going out with a friend and that he was sorry he couldn’t be there to help with the baby. I asked him if he was alright and he replied that he had a lot on his mind. Worried, I called to check that he was actually ok. He said yes then went silent, then said bye and hung up.
After that, I started to panic. I got the baby into bed and started thinking about the near full box of anxiety meds in the bathroom cupboard. My fear got ahold of me and sent me to a very dark place. I wanted to take the whole box and make the fear, panic, and pain stop. I had enough foresight to call my mother and I held my sleeping baby while I waited for her to arrive. We sat in the baby’s room in the dark and I shared my worst fears. I had a premonition of what was to come.
At close to midnight, H messaged that he was coming home. I assured my mother I would be alright and she left. When H got home, he didn’t want to talk, he was tired and wanted space. In tears, I said I was worried and wouldn’t be able to sleep unless I knew he was ok. He said no, he didn’t want to, over and over he repeated no, no, no. Eventually he started to cry. I hugged him and said it was ok to be sad, it’s ok to cry, tell me what’s wrong. He choked out that he didn’t want to disappoint the people who had helped us. I drew back and said slowly, do you mean if we split up? He nodded.
We sat down on the lounge. He stopped crying and started to turn cold. He said he wasn’t happy. His life wasn’t what it was supposed to be. He had settled for a mediocre job, and settled for... he looked at me. I asked me? He nodded. I have forgotten the next half hour or so of conversation, but it was basically alternating between asking him questions and reasoning with him.
Eventually it came down to he just didn’t love me anymore. He was resolute.
I ended up on my knees, holding his hand, begging, crying, pleading. All those yucky, degrading things you do when the rug has been pulled from under you. Tears slid from his eyes again but he just kept shaking his head. Eventually he shook me off and went to sleep in the spare room. I went to my bed and did not sleep at all. Around 4am I went into his bed and cuddled up to his back, but still couldn’t sleep.
At 5am he rolled over, saw me, and grumbled angrily that I was disturbing his sleep because he was starting a leadership course at work that day. He was angry at me for “doing this” the night before his course and that I had put my own selfish needs before his very important work. I burst into tears and apologised saying I had been so worried about him. I asked him to stay home so we could talk and he scoffed at the idea. At this point the baby was awake and crying, I was crying, and H was running out the door.
Annnnd scene. That was BD. The ripples of devastation had only just begun to spread.
