I’ve tried to have this conversation in different ways many times. You need notice, you’ve told me that – need to be prepared. So I give you notice, try and negotiate a time, yet it still doesn’t happen. Oh how we love to try and avoid what is staring us in the face.
Now the time is finally here I’m scared, nervous, excited? This moment has been beautifully wrapped and gifted to me, no more excuses. With the sound of just the right amount of silence to keep my focus, here goes…
“Can we have that conversation now,” I say, relaxed, open posture. My firm, even tone is at odds with the momentum I feel inside, don’t betray me voice, DO NOT CRY! You can do this, you do this all the time to help other people, now help your bloody self.
“Sure,” you say.
My tone is gentle. Until recently you’d been talking about when we should move house, so I’m worried you’ll be blindsided. “We need to be out of here soon,” I say, “and I’ve been looking but there is nothing in the area.”
No response, I continue. “The house in Kilsyth is available. I went there a few weeks ago, it’s nice.”
“I don’t want to live in Kilsyth,” you say, “I don’t want to go further in, you know that.”
Your words are like a wall, no effort to help solve a problem, as usual it’s on me, and when have we ever wanted the same thing anyway?
“I know,” I say, because I do know, and what I don’t say is that I didn’t mean you too. Getting to the point I say “Look, we’ve tried but our relationship is not good.” There, I said it!
“Our relationship is terrible,” you retort, bluntly. All right! You weren’t supposed to agree so enthusiastically.
I continue, ignoring the hurt. “I know you won’t agree but I feel like I’m the one who does everything. The household stuff, the shopping, organising and buying stuff for the boy. We don’t share any hopes and dreams. No interest in each other’s lives…”
I can feel myself becoming energised, but I don’t want to start a discussion about old grievances. The time for negotiation and compromise has passed.
“This is going to be really hard on the boy,” you say. Don’t do that! I know that, that’s what has kept me here this long. The guilt, the bone numbing, paralysing guilt.
I calmly concede, “Yes, I worry about that but he’ll be okay,” again my tone incongruent with the anguish I feel at the thought of doing something that will hurt my boy.
I hear you say, “Well, I’m going to want to have him with me a lot,” and this scares me, because this is the part I don’t want to have to deal with. Then I hear you quickly realise that won’t be possible, especially if you decide to live so far away from us, which you will, but I’ve already thought about that.
A pause.
“It all comes down to the fact that I have never wanted to commit to you because you won’t do the one thing I want you to do,” he says. I’m confused, hang on, I thought I was in control of this break up. What are you talking about??….“You won’t do any regular exercise.”
What?! I almost laugh. No I don’t, that comes later. I’m hearing some self-righteousness about how you’ve settled and compromised yourself before and you just won’t do it again, it’s that simple.
“So you won’t make plans with me, be in this relationship with me because I don’t do as much exercise as you’d like me to?” I reflect back what I’ve heard, back in work mode now, calm and grounded.
“Well now you’re making me sound shallow,” you say.
“No, I’m just trying to understand,” I say.
The turmoil in my gut is trying hard to surface along with my tears as I feel a flash of anger and realisation dawns. “I guess that’s why I’ve been feeling so disrespected by you and even the kids, and I can’t have that. My boy won’t learn that it’s okay to be disrespectful to someone because of how they look.”
“It’s not about appearance,” you say, but I find myself wondering if I had a smaller body and didn’t exercise much whether this would be an issue.
And then my tried and tested way of dealing with pain kicks in, and I disconnect, dissociate, cut a part of myself off. “You know what?” I say. “I don’t care, there’s no point discussing it because I don’t care anymore, it doesn’t make any difference now.”
“So I guess that’s it then,” you say.
“I guess so,” I say. “Goodnight.”
I’m relieved as I snuggle into bed next to my baby. I hear sniffing from the other room. He can’t be crying can he? No. I’ve never seen him cry.