Thursday, 10 December 2015

Sometimes dreams are true

Maybe . . .

A few years ago, something  she always worried about (it happened to her mother) started to happen to her. She was frightened and lonely and much too proud to want to share her real deep down fears with anyone. Added to which, the effects were affecting her responses and behaviour, and her ability to think about what was or might be happening and what to do for the best. He became increasingly confused, angry, and upset, at her sudden mood changes, outbursts of unreasonable or incomprehensible anger, and she could see that. He was having problems himself, of self esteem, with his business, with her and their relationship, and although he tried to be philosophical and accepting, lurched towards drink and denial. She began to see the situation was hopeless. She did not want to descend into dribbling incoherence, or worse, with him, and when she remembered that she loved him, did not want to drag him down with her. She concocted a plot - to drive him away, but not to tell him why, because she knew he would not leave her for that reason, that that was what he had signed up for, in sickness and in health. And she felt it would be kinder, to force him out.

So he left, and she began to regret it almost immediately, convinced he would kill himself, and then sent him money so that at least he might survive for a while, long enough perhaps to find his feet. He did not understand, and kept pursuing her, badgering her, trying somehow to persuade her that things (which he did not understand) were not as they were. And she, wretched and confused, wanting him, in some way, but knowing that could not, must not, be, pushed and pulled. And all the while the rot crept on.

Eventually, affect ceased. She did and said things almost by rote, because she felt they were required; a postcard, a letter, birthday and Christmas cards and poems, but felt each day, each week, each month, less able to summon the feelings the letters and cards were meant to convey.  She talked of the old, good times they had shared, all the while knowing there was no future, they could do no more. He grew irritated and sad, that she said so many empty things, while meaning and wanting something more (he felt). And each time they met, the distance grew wider, the gulf deeper, until only anger or rage was powerful enough to jump the gap, which only made it wider still.

Finally, one day, he understood, and wept. Because he loved her, and meant to care for her, and did not know how to reach out his hand, and hold hers, and be good to her.

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