And so it goes

The house seems to be filled with places I cannot sleep. I am up at 2 AM counting the places, 17, I think, counting the three sofas I am not sleeping on. The house seems full of noise and memories in the early morning, my husband’s snores, my son making late night trips to the kitchen, the quiet empty place my daughter left behind, the echo of laughter from all my children’s friends that once filled every room. Mostly I am restless, driven by the old passions of my half remembered self. I was asleep for a while on the sofa, but woke with a dream I can’t remember. It left me with a feeling of afterglow and a burning desire for another go at some unknown lover. Instead I came here to write out my passion. I have done a chapter in my book, I think. I never know right away if it’s finished. I’ll sit on it a few days and find out, but meanwhile move on to another. People who don’t know me always mention how patient I am, and oddly enough, my husband is the only one who knows I’m not. He’s always recognized that I am driven, probably one of the reasons he married me, to roust him out of apathy.

Now that I have made the decision to leave him, or at least to maintain separate homes, I am bursting to move forward with my plans. I know the time is not right but I wonder if it’s kindness or cowardice that makes me draw this out. I find I am less irritated with him than before. I have quit complaining about the trail of plates, papers, clothes, and trash that he seems to leave in endless supply wherever he sits, stands, or even passes by. I just pick it up and tell myself it won’t be much longer. I do long for an orderly life again, the way I remember it so long ago. He doesn’t recognize this change in me as a danger sign, and I almost want to warn him. If I thought it would do any good I would try. I am weary to my very soul, exhausted with pretending we have a marriage. The guilt of wanting to go after so long is always with me, but then I think about how little he does to nourish this marriage and how much of the time I spend trying to make him look good.

In my job I am privy to many things I must keep secret, but I think I can tell a small part of a conversation I had today with a patient without violating that trust. He had so many health problems, including diabetes and cardiac issues, but the thing that struck me about him as his deep sorrow. He had been in Nam, still had a bullet in his body left from that horror. I couldn’t tell him or counsel him in anyway, but I left a note for the nurse to find out if the man was suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder. He was telling me about his medications early in the call, then, when we were ready to hang up he said, “I sometimes take Viagra.” With his health issues he should never take the drug, but when he said it, I saw the young PFC in camouflage, stepping out of a helicopter into a muddy swamp, hands clutching a rifle he prayed he didn’t have to use to kill anyone. It was probably not professional, but I spoke from my heart to him. I told him that I was very close to his age and that my first housemate had been a 19-year-old widow, married less than 3 months. “I’m glad you came back”, I said. He choked out a “thank you” in a voice that was fighting back tears. I sat thinking about the man I married during that same era and just being amazed at the difference in people.

I’m headed back to the sofa for another try at dreams. May your own head rest easy on whatever pillow you have found.