Why is it that when I hit the bottom, my husband — who normally spends his days counting his miseries — suddenly pulls himself up and into the light, and becomes exactly the man I wish he always was? And why, when this lifts me up too, so that I find the strength to surface and draw breath, does then he relax again and allow himself to sink to the bottom and we resume, once more, our usual and wearisome configuration?
And why — when mired in this place of darkness — I finally snap and lose control, and let loose with all the fury that swirls inside me, raging against him and the world — to my shame, in full view of my daughters — do my daughters become the happiest, sweetest, smiling-est cherubs you could ever hope to meet? …Singing to themselves and playing together so beautifully… And why does it hold over even to the next day, when I think it all should have blown away and been forgotten in their young minds?
What damage am I doing to them? What damage have I already done? And why does it take me going to the wall like that before anyone will behave the way I needed them to behave all along?