Hopeless my last few visits, hopeless your time at home. I anger you only, through short periods of calm. You lash out and I have to leave as my tolerance levels have reached zero, and I wonder what I did to deserve this? Why can't you see what you are doing and how much this hurts me? Why can't you grab hold of yourself, see reason, see ME, see regret and love me...as I do you.
I wonder why this has happened to us, where we are going? What our future holds...
I can barely see on the journey home, crying out to God for you to return to the man, the husband, the friend you used to be.
I can't shake off the loss and the loneliness I feel.
It sits like someone laughing cruelly on my back throwing doubts and what the future holds, to be forever without you to care for me? To live my life devoted to a man who cannot really love me?
What is this life?
How much longer can I 'do' this?
I wish you were here, I wish you were there for me when I arrived home today, falling through the door, to my knees, nowhere for the weeping, the sorrow, the destitution the loneliness to go.
It leaks through fruitless tears, through futile sobs and hands clenching.
My tuesday morning appointment to see my Psychologist was straight after the school drop off. Morning yawns, mist rolls, relishing the surroundings, I take it all in on the short drive to see her. I go over the dreams that I so vividly dream the night after and the night before visits, I have asked for an early appointment, afraid that if it is later on in the day I will chicken out! I never realised how brave it was confronting and saying out loud the things you live with, the thoughts you pretend not to have and suppress. The 'unthinkables' become not so scary, not so forbidden in acknowledging them, feeling them for a while and walking away, leaving them there till next time. It is a helpful, productive and safe way of looking back over the past two years, and indeed over my entire life.
She asked me if I had ever written to myself? That as I write to you Alex, and the kids sometimes, that I write letters a lot in my head that never get written or sent, it seemed like it was something natural for me to do.
I think back, I haven't, apart from the letter I wrote myself when I was 10-years-old, to open on my 20th birthday...I start to cry uncontrollable tears as I go over what I wrote, how I longed to run back and grab that little 10-year-old me and cuddle her, and tell her it was OK, I would grow up big and strong and I would deal with life, and not to be afraid...I do not recall all the letter, in one of our moves it was lost, but I remember writing 'have you got 4 kids and are you a primary school teacher?' My ambition by the time I was 20 was clearly this! Then at the bottom of the letter I had attached dried lavender as a present, which I use every day on my pillow to lull me to sleep these days, and I had written,
'Big 20-year-old Tamsyn, whatever you do in life, just keep persevering.. Love 10-year-old me.'
Remembering this has made me so sad. The significance and somewhat prophetic nature of my letter.
I feel like I want to run back to then, guide myself through all this holding my own hand in the absence of you not being able to do it Alex.
But I don't feel like I can, because I think I feel too vulnerable, although in many ways I have over the past two years... I guess maybe it feels unfair then? Like I shouldn't have to?? I need someone to just care for me, look after me through all this...and I face of future of never having you being able to fulfil that role...
I have a lot to work through!
She has set me the task of trying to write to myself...Can I?
I passed a fairly wakeful night, an abscess in my tooth has flared up, strong antibiotics I hope will clear that up, it has meant a temperature, headache and feeling so unwell. I was looked after by my wonderful neighbour and friend who made me hearty lentil soup and collected the kids from school, so I lay on the sofa and slept away some of the pain.
I have all kids sleeping in their own rooms, till Esmie wakes at 11 and gets in with me-her night pattern. She scrunches up next to me, stokes my face and kisses me with a big sleepy grin on her face 'I love you mummy, hope the bed bugs bite...' She has this saying slightly wrong, but her adorable gift she gives me before I go to sleep is priceless.
Things are settling at the place you are in during the week, and when you rang this evening you were in high spirits, you spoke so clearly down the phone, I almost couldn't believe it was you on the other end! I remark how incredible your speech is, and you reply 'yes, I know, it's wicked isn't it?!' You seem to be continuing amazing progress there, your standing and movement is so impressive, and there is such hope for physical development for you, especially as you will be going to the Intensive Rehab Centre and they will work you harder than ever before!
We had an extremely exciting call today too, which may not amount to anything, but I can hope and dream... It was from the Alan Titchmarsh Garden show, where they do the DIY garden thing! A friend has nominated us and if we hear by Christmas it may be us...if not it won't be...So I wait with baited breath. I have long had ideas of getting raised vegetable beds for you to tend to, grow vegetables and prepare them, cook them and serve them up to the kids, thus giving you a sense of providing for us, of fulfilment in feeling things grow, of connecting with creation, of the kids seeing you achieve something...
Keep going as you are honey, I am one proud wife, and you are not finished progressing yet...
Half moon golden, low in the night sky bobs and peeps out from behind clouds. Autumn sweeps through nature, rendering earth dormant.
Third Autumn I have witnessed since your accident. When cosy nights, curtains drawn, candles flickering are now just nights I long for you. When bundling all our kids out of the door for after school clubs, sports, trips out, food shops, school runs...is such a different task these days, just me and them.
My feelings are not unlike the season we are in.
I am a mummy, a dedicated mummy who does the house, the kids, the animals, the arranging all I must for you, and my visits to you.
Them Friday comes and you are home. I still feel vulnerable, never sure quite how I will find you, whether you will sleep or cry out. I feel ashamed of not being excited about you returning, I feel nervous, inadequate.
I detach myself when I am not with you-like a wholly separate life, because I cannot carry the burden of needing you as heavily as I feel it when the curtains are drawn and the kids are in bed. So I have to be 'OK' for the kids and to get on with life in general.
And this feels strange and the detachment feels frightening.
Although how can I cope any other way? And I HAVE to cope.
Frightened of the dark, since my whole life, only you made it better. I still am, more so now, and the dark which descends so early reminds me for long hours of this fear.