I was filled with a certain sense of sadness this evening.
I do not know that I was really missing him — it seems as though I have been missing him for so long — I'm used to feeling alone.
I've been trying so desperately to remember a time I was happy in my marriage, as surely I must've once been in order to have ever married in the first place.
After all, I had vowed to never marry again. I never again wanted to feel such responsibility for another person, never wanted to endure the pain of losing another husband. I was dogged in that belief and so what changed my mind?
It's no secret that I hate to be alone. I am afraid of it in fact, almost to the point of being terrified at the prospect. I chalk it up to having felt so alone during my childhood. The only thing I ever wanted was a family — a family of my own. I was tired of feeling as I were a mere observer to someone else's family, an unwelcome guest in someone else's home.
I suppose that is what we shared in the beginning — that strong desire to be a family. And at the time, I thought that was enough. I mean after all, I had been fortunate enough to have two great loves, surely that couldn't happen again in my lifetime. A good, stable man to grow old with would be enough. Or so I thought.
And yet as time went on, I had the audacity enough to decide I wanted more and in turn, to resent his inability to be something he had never promised to start with.
Then, like a stubborn child, angry to not be allowed to change the rules once the game's begun, I've decided I don't want to play anymore — effectively shattering what once held us together.