Falling fom the High of the Summer

The summer magic is over. The kind, supportive, and thoughtful man that my husband had become this summer is no longer there. School is back in session, schedules are brutal, I need a supportive partner more than ever, and he is back to his old self-absorbed manner. Things have been really tense between us during the past few weeks.

...And we went to marriage counseling, where we managed to admit that WE ARE NOT OK! We are simply maintaining, and trying not to say anything so as to not be the one to pop the bubble. It was during this period of honesty that I realized that we are in it for the kids...he said it...and I heard it. We are focusing on the kids. There is no "us" in this marriage.

Realizing this was not really what upset me. What brought me down on Tuesday was falling from the high of the summer. When I saw the changes in him and in us, I had dared to hope. I had dared to imagine that things would be better. I had dared to trust and open up...a little. Our session on Tuesday proved to me that nothing really changed. Summer was just an illusion, and when the going gets tough, we put our ugliest foot forward.

I went to work that evening, as I have done too many times in the past...missing my children, but relieved to be out of his presence. The night turned to shit during the last hour. There was an incident that escalated to an unnecessary level . The police were involved, and I did not leave the pharmacy until an hour after closing.

I am the keeper of a mammoth inventory of some very highly controlled substances. When the shit hits the fan, I have to be a tough cookie, put on my big girl panties and face the situation head on. In other words, I have to do my job. I am free to fall apart after my shift is over.

After I got in my van and drove away, I called my husband. I was due to have been home thirty minutes prior, and I thought he would be worried. I also felt an overwhelming need to fall into someone's arms and cry while telling the story of what happened at work that night. My husband was not aware that I was not home yet...nor did he care...I think I woke him...and he certainly did not want to hear what happened to cause me to be so late. "OK, see you later" was the best I got.

So I came home, washed up, changed into my pajamas, came into my room, crawled into my bed and allowed myself to cry hard tears while I wrote "Girls Like Me". I did not have anybody's arms to fall into, but I still fell.