Laugh till we cry
It's a strange thing, realising you've destroyed the person you love the most. When Bianca and I considered splitting 18 months ago, we decided to work through it. At least, that's how my brain seems to remember it. She seems much more acutely aware of everything that went on. Just last Tuesday she asked me, "Paul?"
"Yes, honey?" I'd replied, barely looking up from my work. I'm not as busy as Bianca, being in a 9-to-5 while she's a self-employed artist, but sometimes my work comes home with me.
"Do you remember," she began very calmly, which made the question all the more unsettling, "When I asked you not to see Natalie any more?"
The thought of Natalie makes me feel a little sick now. Nothing ever happened, but I was foolish. I looked for comfort in the wrong places.
Bianca continued, "And then I had to go into the studio, but I came home early? And there you were, hanging over the fence talking to Natalie. And then when I looked out the window at you, you made direct eye contact with me and then kept talking to her... Were you trying to hurt me?"
Staying in that house as long as we did almost killed Bianca. She wouldn't stop crying for three months. Sometimes she'd be doing something and just collapse onto the floor, pulling at her stomach with her hands. Her pain was visceral. Once I got mad at her when she had to pull over on the motorway. All of a sudden she was crying too much to drive, but the worst thing was she just sat down in the gravel and wept on the side of the road. Cars kept driving past and I eventually scolded her into the passenger's seat...
"I don't remember that," I'd answered honestly, "But I never wanted to hurt you," I'd replied, looking earnestly at her then. I truly believe I didn't. Now. In the present. It hurts me to think of hurting her.
"Well that's not true," she replied with a gentle shake of her head as she continued folding washing, "If you don't remember, how can you know you didn't want to hurt me?"
I'd asked her if she was alright and she'd just nodded. But the thing is, I think she was telling the truth.
This evening at dinner I teased her about her constant picking on me. I thought we were having fun when she glared at me over her roast potatoes.
"C'mon B," I'd scoffed, "You can't get grumpy when you know just as well how to wind me up!"
Bianca's face fell at this. I almost swore I saw her shoulders slump from her almost perfect-posture.
"I know," she sighed, "You just drive me crazy sometimes."
"Why?" I asked, trying to keep a soft smile on my face.
"I don't know," she answered, her eyes meeting mine, "I feel like I'm a bad person when I'm with you."
My stomach dropped. I walked around the table to kiss her forehead.
I suppose I'm leaving some gaps. Maybe my brain has intentionally left some of those. But last week she asked me, "Are you glad you didn't leave me last year?"
"Of course!" I replied, "It would have been the worst mistake of my life!"
But now I don't really think she was asking me.
I think she may have been asking whether I was worth fighting to keep.
"Yes, honey?" I'd replied, barely looking up from my work. I'm not as busy as Bianca, being in a 9-to-5 while she's a self-employed artist, but sometimes my work comes home with me.
"Do you remember," she began very calmly, which made the question all the more unsettling, "When I asked you not to see Natalie any more?"
The thought of Natalie makes me feel a little sick now. Nothing ever happened, but I was foolish. I looked for comfort in the wrong places.
Bianca continued, "And then I had to go into the studio, but I came home early? And there you were, hanging over the fence talking to Natalie. And then when I looked out the window at you, you made direct eye contact with me and then kept talking to her... Were you trying to hurt me?"
Staying in that house as long as we did almost killed Bianca. She wouldn't stop crying for three months. Sometimes she'd be doing something and just collapse onto the floor, pulling at her stomach with her hands. Her pain was visceral. Once I got mad at her when she had to pull over on the motorway. All of a sudden she was crying too much to drive, but the worst thing was she just sat down in the gravel and wept on the side of the road. Cars kept driving past and I eventually scolded her into the passenger's seat...
"I don't remember that," I'd answered honestly, "But I never wanted to hurt you," I'd replied, looking earnestly at her then. I truly believe I didn't. Now. In the present. It hurts me to think of hurting her.
"Well that's not true," she replied with a gentle shake of her head as she continued folding washing, "If you don't remember, how can you know you didn't want to hurt me?"
I'd asked her if she was alright and she'd just nodded. But the thing is, I think she was telling the truth.
This evening at dinner I teased her about her constant picking on me. I thought we were having fun when she glared at me over her roast potatoes.
"C'mon B," I'd scoffed, "You can't get grumpy when you know just as well how to wind me up!"
Bianca's face fell at this. I almost swore I saw her shoulders slump from her almost perfect-posture.
"I know," she sighed, "You just drive me crazy sometimes."
"Why?" I asked, trying to keep a soft smile on my face.
"I don't know," she answered, her eyes meeting mine, "I feel like I'm a bad person when I'm with you."
My stomach dropped. I walked around the table to kiss her forehead.
I suppose I'm leaving some gaps. Maybe my brain has intentionally left some of those. But last week she asked me, "Are you glad you didn't leave me last year?"
"Of course!" I replied, "It would have been the worst mistake of my life!"
But now I don't really think she was asking me.
I think she may have been asking whether I was worth fighting to keep.
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