Somehow we survive and tenderness, frustrated, does not wither.
Dennis Brutus
fly away (Billie Hara, flickr)
Two weeks and two days ago, my husband moved out. We're trying a "trial" separation, which is supposed to last for three months. Despite the fact that we're in couples counseling, I'm not terribly hopeful. Partly because this is the third time we've separated - all for similar reasons. Essentially, my husband can't "handle" my emotions or my PTSD. Even though I realize that this is a problem that many people with PTSD face, that isn't much consolation. At least not now.
Meanwhile, our son and cat and I are living in our townhouse. My husband is living in a one bedroom apartment about two miles away. So far, we're seeing each other about once a week. But I feel like I need a break from that. It's too painful and, in order to get stronger, I need space. Seeing someone who "can't handle me," hurts. When I see my husband, I feel wrong and vulnerable and angry. All that being said, I realize that this is an opportunity of sorts to make progress in my own life. Not an opportunity I wanted, but there it is. So, for now, I can't promise that I'll be doing much writing here.
