It had to happen. There was always going to be a worst time. If anything I’ve wanted it. I’ve wanted us to reach our rock bottom as undramatic as it is, so that we could lift ourselves back up again and know we were on the upwards climb. Rock bottom usually involves some sort of breakdown. Tears. Alcohol. A near miss. Ours is pretty undramatic. We’ve been shouting at each other. We’ve argued. We’ve struggled to find our way back together. We’ve let each other down. Resentment has crept in.
I’m not usually one to say I can’t live like this or I can’t take much more, but that’s the point I have reached. Being the positive one. Being strong. Being the optimist. I don’t feel I can be that person for anyone but myself right now. I am exhausted. I hate the house. I’m losing sight of the flame.
I hold Ben accountable for his reactions and for his failure to cope. He needs a gentle touch, but all I have is a sledgehammer. I know it’s as dreadful as telling someone with depression to just snap out of it. To just decide not to be depressed anymore. Because Ben has every reason to be acting the way he is. It’s not his fault. It’s situational. But it’s still not good enough. I can’t go on like this.
Ben and I are so close that we are Benna. We are really one and not two. So his mood fundamentally affects mine. I don’t need him to be a dreamer right now. I just need him not to be so angry and so negative.
He needs support, and he has no one to turn to for it. No one he trusts with his inner turmoil, no one he is comfortable sharing his burden. And this makes me angrier still. And I’m being eaten away by every minute that I’m not as open as I am desperate to be about this dream. And I’m dreading the consequences. And I never want to come back to England.