Respondent repeatedly withdrew emotionally from Petitioner and the marital relationship, failing to engage in meaningful communication, affection, or emotional availability.
Respondent agreed to attend couples therapy to address marital distress but failed to appear for a scheduled appointment without notice or explanation.
Respondent's disengagement extended to the minor children, including a lack of presence and emotional unavailability, causing distress and confusion for the children.
It paints an incredibly accurate picture of me failing as a husband and father for an entire year.
I can say that I was mentally ill, suffering from PTSD, but is that supposed to make people understand and just dismiss the harm I caused my wife and children?
No, because it's not an excuse, just an explanation. There is no excuse for my behavior, for my choices.
Explanations don't heal; only changed behavior does.
I could have gone to that therapy appointment. I could have asked for help sooner. I could have chosen differently.
It's not my wife's job to fix me, but fuck, she tried so hard.
And all she got in return was my neglect.
"That does not make you irredeemable, Atlas," Dr. Mason says, his voice steady. "Especially because you're here now. You recognized it. You're taking responsibility. You're working to change. That matters. That's something to be proud of."
"It doesn't make me feel any better, though," I admit.
"It's not going to," Dr. Mason shrugs. "And you shouldn't wash away that year in your mind. You need to remember it. Not to punish yourself, but to make sure you don't repeat it. Because Wendywillremember it."
He leans forward in his chair, eyes meeting mine.
"The same way your nervous system remembered the trauma even when your mind tried to convince you that you were fine," he says, "hers remembers too."
Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat.
"How do I fix this?"
"You already are, Atlas," Dr. Mason says soothingly. "It's not an easy fix—"
"No," I take a deep breath. "I want to talk to her. To them. I want to apologize. I need to apologize."
"You're going to see them when you leave here, right?"
I swallow hard.
"If Wendy wants to see me. I just... the last time I saw her, I was a mess. Goddamnit. She's probably so fucking confused. I neglected her for a whole fucking year, and then I was begging her to not leave me. Fuck, I don't even know what I'm going to say when I see her again..."
Dr. Mason thinks for a moment, before his eyes light up.
"How do you feel about writing a letter?"
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wendy
December
Dear Wendy,
My therapist here told me to write you a letter. He said that sometimes writing things is easier than saying them out loud.
I'm still going to say them out loud. That is, if you want to see me.
