Circus

And so, my darlings, the show must go on. 

Every day I get up, I get ready, I go about my business. Smile and jolly everyone along. Put my game-face on and pretend everything is ok.

For what else is there to be done? I go to the concerts at school, and nod a smile at the other parents. I go to meetings and say yes, I'm all ready for Christmas, looking forward to it, lovely, having a quiet one this year. No kidding.

This year isn't like other years. I always ordered all my Christmas food a few weeks in advance, got all the presents ready way ahead of time. Feels like bad luck, tempting fate now. I'm waiting until Christmas Eve.

Can you save someone that might not want to be saved? 

All I can do is try, and hope that in time she will feel better. Perhaps she will grow out of it. Perhaps she will discover something to make her feel like she wants to spring out of bed every morning - calculus, or masturbation, or Greenpeace. 

Or perhaps this is the start of her troubles, the part where we dance along the knife-edge before we tumble into the dark abyss, or move evermore in the grey fog of uncertainty.  Perhaps the rest of my days will be like this now - one breath away from a panic attack, one lip-tremble away from a howl. 

But I'm putting on a damn good show.  Perhaps if we all behave as if things are getting better, that's as likely to work as anything else? Life is one long confidence-trick, after all. 

A Room of One's Own

There is no place as lonely as a marriage.

I sleep in the spare room of my own house: a spare person. The sadness of this month aches like a pain, tugs at me like stitches pulling in a wound. Some of this hurt might feel better with some kind words or a hug, but there is no such thing to be had. 

I move through my life like a sleepwalker, although at night I do not sleep. I am troubled with nightmares, with panic. I creep around in the dark to check my girls are safe, and check again, and check again. 

In the daytime I check, and check, and check my phone. My little one is in the Highest Risk Category. It feels like the part in Lawrence of Arabia where he thinks he can make a difference, but it only postpones an inevitable fate. It is written. 

What is written for her? Can I change the story? Can she change it? Does it have a happy ending? Or a tragic one? 

I feel desperate in every way. I have no idea how to live with this fear.