Atlas didn't seem to notice. He walks right by the painting that's supposed to represent us every day without a word.
Well, you know what?
Fuck him.
Fuck him for neglecting me.
More importantly, fuck him for neglecting our children.
And most of all, fuck me for allowing this to go on as long as I have. I'm complicit in my children's neglect. I'm the parent, I'm supposed to protect them from harm.
Anger spikes inside of me.
Anger at him.
Anger atmyself.
I don't deserve this, and my sons sure as hell don't deserve this.
All that I've been doing for the last year has been enabling this behavior in him by making excuses to his sons, his parents, and to myself.
I've tried and tried and tried to talk to my husband, to beg him to tell me what's wrong, to just show up for his sons if she can't show up for me anymore.
But he doesn't make the time to listen.
It's always work. He's always busy. He's always tired.
He gives menothingto go on anymore.
And by not showing up today, he's shown me that he won't change, that he won't even meet me halfway, to actually fightfor this marriage.
He clearly doesn't think we have a problem, especially from the way I had to beg him to even consider couples therapy because I had thought that it would be a good idea for us.
Taylor had told me that a couple of her hair clients had seen couples therapists, even though they had healthy marriages.
It's just like maintaining a car, as I described to Atlas when he protested that we were fine. I had wanted to scream that I wasn’t fine with this, but had bitten my tongue enough to taste blood.
I had hoped that the therapist could help me bridge the gap that my husband keeps digging between us. I had wanted help so that we could get back to where we were, or even better.
I wanted to fight for us.
Because I still love him.
God, I still love him so much it hurts.
That's why this is so hard. That's why it took me so long to actually see this.
Because I've loved Atlas Durant for twenty years.
Even when I didn’t know the word for it when we were kids. I've loved him longer than I haven't, and I'll probably always love that man.
I don't think love is the issue, and I don't think love can fix this.
And I cannot—I will not—continue like this.
I know what I need to do.
The resolve settles in me like a weight, not unpleasant, more steady like an anchor. I feel like I've been seeing the world through foggy glasses that I've finally cleaned, and everything is so painfully clear.
