Grieving in the Present Tense

Too Much for Too Long

Memories come up.

Not just in my mind, but on my phone old photos, smiling faces, frozen warmth.

He’s smiling at me. He’s playing with the kids.

He’s happy. He’s present.

He relinquished our life where we were barely scraping by while we both worked as hard as we could.

We moved for the money. The oil field paid well, so he worked and I stayed home. Duing those years, he worked long shifts, sometimes sixteen hours a day. I witnessed his exhaustion and stress as he took over something we should have shared. My part was to be small by avoiding spending money on myself, avoiding asking him to spend time with us.

So he wouldn’t feel pressure. So he wouldn’t break under the weight. He needed rest; he needed relaxation. The conflict between making more money and having a family tore at him. The oilfield’s demands on its workers, who support families, are relentless. Seeing your family is selfish in a culture that exploits people for profit and that’s their normal. Family has a happy life, workers work until they can’t.

So along the way, we lost each other.

I convinced myself he didn’t care.

But he did.

Later, I found out he cared the whole time.

We tried to reconcile. Tried to fix what cracked between us.

But something was different.

He was different.

I followed every step of forgiveness. I bent and stayed and worked.

But nothing worked.

There was too much pain. Too much anger. Too much time passed. There was too much for too long.

He couldn’t seem to get over the affair.

During our discussions, whenever he mentioned wanting to forgive and move forward, the pain always lingered just beneath the surface.

Wounds we both kept picking at.

Then… some of what he said stopped making sense.

Not all the time. Just enough to feel off.

He wasn’t sleeping. He was angry, bitter, tired.

I thought it was pain. I thought it was us. This is how life looked when a couple crawled through the wreckage to rebuild.

So I brushed it off.

I told myself, “He’s grieving.” “He’s still hurt.” “It’ll pass.”

But looking back… I should have seen.

The pieces were there.

The pieces were always there.

Still Alive, But Not Here

He’d have me write his words. Back then, they felt like poetry.

Now I reread them and they’re nonsense.

I wonder what was I thinking while I scribbled his surreal ideas.

How did I ignore the signs? The question haunts me tonight.

Like when he said, “He wants to not talk to, but stare at me while we listen to music.”

Or the random bursts of anger when I spoke to the dog, and he thought I was speaking to him.

We stayed up all night, and I didn’t question any of his thoughts or behavior. I was too sleep-deprived, too desperate for forgiveness.

I didn’t see the madness.

Not then. Not for two more years.

I didn’t connect the behavior to illness.

None of us did. We thought he was punishing me for the affair and my other failings as a wife.

So I made myself the villain and gaslit myself.

He could do no wrong. And I was the evil adulteress, so if it wasn’t working, it must’ve been me.

I must’ve been apologizing wrong, showing too little remorse, not listening properly. If I needed a break, the reason was my anger issues. If I cried, it was because I was weak. Not because of the illogical accusations of remorselessness, heartless, narcissistic. Even empathy, trying to understand him, became accusations of sarcasm or being a bitch.

I read books on communication, empathy, repair, while trying to fix the “problems” he said I had.

It’s impossible to be perfect for someone whose mind no longer functions as it once did.

That’s where it gets sticky.

Because he seemed “fine” until my affair or when we worked at reconciliation.

So is this my fault? Was it the stress?

Or is he just so angry that he began rejecting reality itself?

He lashes out at people closest to him, as if he’s confused by them. He can’t seem to grasp that people who love him have also hurt him. His loving wife, his loving parents, sister, brother, grandparents.

Maybe the problem is I fucked up, and he is right to withhold forgiveness from me.

But I remember the things he’s said that no one could explain. Ideas that make no sense no matter how betrayed you are.

It’s not just anger, but something deeper.

Darker.

Disconnected.

So I am alone while I wait.

Waiting for him to realize something’s wrong. To remember who I am. To know that when I said he was critical, it was a misunderstanding.

To see how sorry I am. How much I miss him.

Most of the time, I feel numb.

The love, the guilt, the sadness, it blurs.

But once a day, I break. Usually after work. I walk out of the building, sit in my car, and sob before I return to our kids.

Because he’s not there.

And the house feels hollow without him.

At night, the questions spiral:

Will he leave?

Will the meds work?

Will he see how I love him?

Will he ever love me again?

Is this merely a prelude to the end?

Even if he doesn’t come home to me, God, I need him to be okay. To be independent. To be himself again.

No one can answer these questions. So I’m left with silence.

Grieving someone who’s still alive.

But not here.

Its meaning eludes me.