“Do you ever feel like we just… Are? Like we’re not married but we’re just roommates?”
Silence hangs between us, loud, static. His eyes on his hands and then at me but he refuses to speak, like he often does. But I’m so tired I can’t even be frustrated, so I just stare back at him.
“Yes,” he finally resigns, his mouth moving, eyes dry. This is a surreal conversation for us to have, this tension built up from years of lost communication, frustrations never let go because they were never talked about. Was this how his parents made their marriage work? I wonder. If it is, maybe he always felt that silence will save us. But I said to him at the beginning and I have reminded him straight on through, “I am like my mother and I want to talk about our problems, not sit on them until they disappear; they’ll only disappear for a little bit.” Not that my mother’s way of doing things was particularly successful either, given her two divorces but – I have tried to be honest about who I am and what I’m like. I change, as everyone does, and I try to leave my baggage at the door but sometimes it speaks up from outside that threshold, dark dreams seeping into a sunny home. Past is a past is a past, and mine is mine, and there are some dark moments there that will continue to haunt me, or influence me, or break up my voice into tiny little pieces when I feel fear or rage or hate again. I am human, I am only human, I don’t know what else to say.