I know that’s an incredibly negative way to view things and is probably some sort of trauma response, but when your life is spent walking on eggshells you learn how to suppress the tiny morsel of hope locked in the deepest part of yourself and only let it out when you’re certain it’s safe to do so.
My current situation—riding in a car with Chase, a man incapable of processing his emotions, who will grow even more stressed, angry, and passive-aggressive at my attempts to provide a glass-half-full outlook—is not a safe time or place for my light.
Once we’ve arrived and parked—not close enough for Chase’s liking, I might add—we exit the vehicle and make our way to the door.
The air is cool and heavy, like it’s holding all the things left unsaid between us. I try reaching out for Chase’s hand, needing some comfort for myself and hopefully offering some to him, but he deflects my attempt and slides his hand into his pocket instead. I understand he needs space, but he also needs a friend right now.
Please, complain again about how you always feel so alone?
I know how it feels to wonder what is wrong, why the one thing we want more than anything in this world is not happening. I know the weight and fear of having tests run to figure out why things are broken. I am well acquainted with the anxiety and darkness that so easily consumes the soul while waiting for a diagnosis.
I’m here for him. I want to be his partner and his support in this, but he continues to withdraw.
He arrives at the door a few steps ahead of me and opens it, opting to walk through it himself instead of holding it open for me. It’s so easy to excuse these little jabs as unintentional or stress-related, rather than the indifference and selfishness I know make up his character.
I have enough nuggets of happiness to cling to that I don’t succumb to the pain I feel at every instance of neglect, indifference, resentment—whatever.
Lately, though, I wonder how much longer those glimpses of light will sustain me.
God never promised marriage would be easy. If anything, the Bible teaches us that the Christian life is full of suffering. Suffering leads to holiness. Christ is close to the brokenhearted.
At what point do Jesus and I become conjoined twins?
Seriously, though.
Stop it, Tori.So many other people are in worse situations. Unfixable situations. You’re not being abused. You’re not being controlled or manipulated. Your husband is stressed out, and right now he’s in a fragile state. Love keeps no record of wrongs. Love forgives. Love hopes. Love never fails. Chase is not responsible for your happiness.
But Chaseisresponsible for how he treats people. How he hurts people. How he hurts me mentally and emotionally. How he only knows I exist when he’s pissed about something I’ve done or haven’t done—or on Christmas, when he gives me an incredibly thoughtful gift that makes me feel seen for all of ten minutes.
Glimpses of happiness.
Nuggets of hope.
Specks of love.
I’m pulled from my inner monologue by the nurse calling us back.
“Mr. and Mrs. Martin, Dr. Ling will see you now.” We both stand and Chase gestures for me to go before him.
Remembered your manners now, huh? Now that people are watching.
I shake out of that thought and offer the nurse a smile and a nodas I pass her in the open door and enter the hallway to the doctor’s office.
The hallway is lined with generic art—landscapes that look like they were ripped straight from a discount catalog. The sterile smell of antiseptic lingers in the air, reminding me of all the other times I’ve been in this building, hoping, praying, leaving empty-handed. Chase walks a few steps behind me, his silence like a second shadow trailing me everywhere I go.
Dr. Ling is standing behind his desk when we enter his private office, his white coat freshly pressed, his kind eyes crinkling in an attempt to put us at ease. He extends a hand to each of us before offering us seats and bottled water.
I take the water gratefully, though my hands are trembling too much to twist the cap open. Chase declines, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he slumps into the chair next to me.
The good doctor takes his seat, intertwining his fingers on top of a closed file sitting on the desk in front of him. His calm demeanor does little to settle my nerves. The file feels like a loaded gun sitting between us, its contents ready to shoot down whatever thin thread of hope I’ve managed to hold onto.
“How are we feeling today, folks?” he asks.
His voice is warm and steady, like he’s trying to diffuse the tension with pleasantries. I appreciate the effort, but I can feel Chase bristling beside me. He’s always hated small talk.
“We’re alright, thank you for asking. A little nervous, but also hopeful,” I reply, offering the best smile I can manage.
The words feel foreign in my mouth, like they belong to someone far more optimistic than I am. Still, I feel the need to fill the silence, to smooth over the cracks in this moment, even if Chase’s growing impatience is palpable.
