I have my husband back. Not the one I was so pleased to see last weekend — the upbeat, happy, confident, enthusiastic husband. The other one is back. The one who is worn down by life, can’t muster up the energy to find any solutions, the one who just wants to be left alone, the one who is a ghost of himself, the one who can’t stop the baby crying or notice that the toddler has dumped yoghurt all down herself, the one who doesn’t know how to give emotional support and instead heaps his misery on top of mine, the one who yells “PHONE!” when it rings even though I’m in the other room up to my elbows in dishwater and he’s sitting right next to the phone but is holding the baby.
Two weeks ago, I could handle this husband, I could deal with it. But somehow, since he went to the US for that week, I just can’t deal with him now that he’s returned. I am struggling with it so much. And I’m taking it out on him, and the kids, and the cat, and myself.
And this husband isn’t proactive, so all the progress made in the US has come to a standstill. We’ve discovered that the job we thought he’d secured might not be what we were thinking it was, and some quick footwork is now required. I’ve been nagging him to take the next steps, but nothing’s happening. I can’t drive this car — it’s his, not mine. He has to drive it, and he’s just taken his foot off the gas and the is letting it slow to a halt, and there seems to be nothing I can do to change it.
I am not getting to bed before 2am any night of the week. I am tired and I feel like I am carrying everything. I want to walk away and never come back.