Dear reader,

I know it’s been a long time. Too long. And yet here I am, turning to you to about something that has nothing to do with sex. But everything to do with love.

A few months back, my dad died. Somewhat unexpectedly. And it’s rocked my world. It’s been nearly three months and I have made little progress in my grief. If I’m honest, it’s probably worse now than it was in the beginning. And, sure, there’s things that complicate it. The loss of my childhood home. The isolation that death brings to an only child. The devastation of losing a father to a daddy’s girl.

But worse than all the feelings of loss my father’s death created, is the impact it’s had on my marriage. And, if I come back to honesty again, I’m scared to fucking death. M and I, we’ve always been strong. Even in our bad points, he’s always been the shoulder I lean on when I cry, the  arms that hold me when I’m weak, and the hand the picks me up when I’m down.

But this time, that’s not how it’s going. Or at least not how it feels.

See, I’m a hot mess. I cry. Every fucking day. Some days a lot. Sob would probably be the better term.

I rage. Hit things until my knuckles bleed. Kick at the wall and scream at the top of my lungs. I’m moody and mean and can go from laughing to tearing up with absolutely no trigger.

I’m devastated and defeated. And truly failing at every aspect of my life. As a writer. As a daughter. As a mother. And as a wife. And I don’t know what the fuck to do.

Here it is, four am in the god damn morning, and I’m sitting in my room, bailing. I woke up still in garters, stockings, and a nightie, skin scratchy from lace, after crying myself to sleep at midnight. M’s on the couch and I can’t even tell you why.

Well, that’s a lie. I know why. Because he’s at a loss. And I get that. He can’t fix this. Or me. Today, I realized that when I used to cry, it would make him sad. Now, my tears cause anger. And I’m already so angry, I fear my home can’t hold it all in.

We’d been drinking. Then fighting. And drinking. And then fighting some more. Then some stupid fucking argument over a butt plug. More tears. And, when I asked him to finally lay with me, saying, “Baby, come to bed, in bed we always work,” he didn’t even touch me. Even though I’d been sitting in front of him in next to nothing for hours.

I eventually rolled over, onto his shoulder, and slept. But apparently after I fell asleep, he rolled me off and left. For the first time ever, bed didn’t make it okay for us. We didn’t come together in sex, where words are never needed and our bodies speak what we can’t say.

Which really fucking sucks, because the only places I seem to find release from this fury inside me is on his cock and at the bottom of a bottle. Neither of which gave me the soothing I so needed last night.

When I woke up 30 minutes ago and realized he was gone, I literally ripped the stockings off my legs. Left them on the bathroom floor in pieces as evidence of my rage. The only reason I’m typing now is because I’m afraid if I don’t keep my hands busy, I won’t be able to keep my fists from pounding on the walls and I really don’t want to wake the children up in the middle of a night before a crazy long weekend of soccer and softball. Baptisms, mother’s day, and extended family I don’t want to be around. A face full of makeup and fake smiles to hide these secrets from the rest of the world.

So, dear reader, I’m here to confess that I don’t know what to do. I’m allowing my self-wallowing to kill my relationship. And I think my husband’s starting to hate me. At least really dislike me. Or perhaps he’s simply gone from wanting to be with me, to tolerating my presence and emotional craziness.

I don’t know where to turn. I’m in bad shape. I don’t want antidepressants and I won’t go to therapy. Quite frankly, I’m not depressed. I’m just stuck. So overwhelmed by this mother fucking massive amount of grief that I can’t breathe. I can’t focus. I just sit and stare.

Working from home, I spend too much time alone. But I don’t spend more time with friends, because I’m failing at work. Missing deadlines. Unfocused. Spend time sitting with my fingers on the keyboard staring off out the window, trying to make words about chiropractic care and dental implants come together, but they don’t. And it becomes hard to justify time off when I don’t utilize the time I have and work doesn’t get done.

I’m filled with self-defeating behaviors and I’m really starting to hate myself.

Fuck.

I’m lost and lonely in a house filled with people who love me and, still, I don’t know what to do.

ADDENDUM: This is not about bashing my husband. He’s my world. My best friend. Negative words against him will not be tolerated.