I see myself. I’m lying on my side, legs curled, eyes wide and fixed, mouth open, barely breathing. That’s my shell. I’m in there, deep within. In there, but trapped. I can hear, see, and feel, but I can’t respond to anything. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I don’t have the energy to speak. Breathing in enough air to speak, moving my lips and tongue, engaging my vocal cords – it’s all too much, and I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to get up. I just want to escape inside my shell. It protects me from the world. But it takes me away, too.
Away from my loves. The people who love me. The people who need me. I love them, and I want to be everything they need me to be. I want to be here for them, with them. I want to. I want to want to. I so desperately want to. But also, I don’t.
I don’t want to live in pain. The pain is so heavy. Some days I can hardly stand under its weight. Other days I manage to carry it, but I can’t stand upright. It takes all my strength to survive. Barely surviving is not the life I imagined for myself. And watching my grip on life loosen is not what I want for my family.
I don’t want to cause them pain. It’s gone on for far too long. What kind of person would I be to continue bringing pain? How can I continue to hurt them? I don’t want to be that person. I can’t be that person. I’m not that person.
I don’t hurt people. Except I do. God, help me.
My heart is breaking because I don’t want to hurt them, but I’m a wrecking ball, and destruction is my wake. They deserve better than that. Why should they have to suffer? It isn’t their fault. They are innocent victims in their own home. He needs a wife and they need a mother who is strong and able. Happy and joyous. All the things I used to be. They don’t need to be pulled down with me.
Would it be better for them? Would it be a happier home? Would they forgive me? Would they understand that I did it for them? Would they?
I don’t know. But I wonder. Stay or go? I don’t know.