Sometimes, when people ask me how I am doing, I think about telling the truth: “I am fine, except that my husband is tired of trying to make our marriage work, and wants a divorce.”
It’s been about three months since he told me that. Up until then, I was under the mistaken impression that things were actually finally starting to get better. Stupid me.
I was dealing with it pretty well, all things considered, but apparently this week my antidepressants decided to lose the good fight, and for the last few days I have been quietly falling apart. Pretending that things are OK is taking up all my energy. I am barely functioning at work. We have friends coming over this weekend, and all I want to do is lock myself in my bedroom with a book and pretend that the real world does not exist.
It is hard to accept that this is the end. That the last 17 years of my life have, for all intents and purposes, been a failure and a waste. My dead-end job, my dead-end marriage, my dead-end life. I am so terrified of telling my parents that.
The soundtrack of my life, brought to you by ABBA:
Happy Valentine’s Day. FML.