awakenings

I am told – by the few I know who have been through this – that there will come a moment when I will know. No amount of soul-bearing, heart-rending self-analysis will bring that moment closer. I can fret and flap until I am blue in the face, and I can argue with myself until the cows come home – but none of it matters, in the end. I will be ready when I’m ready. I will know when I know.

It’s coming. The knowledge of this rolls over and through me, like the shadow before the crest of a wave. There are flickers of fear, of eagerness, of love and pain and wonder and awe – but mostly, I’m still. It will be here soon. There is nothing I can do to change that. And most of the time, I’m okay.

I think he feels it too, though of course I don’t ask. Despite our heart-wrenching talk, he has said nothing on the subject of separation. Instead, he clings tighter to our life, talking about our future as if it’s concrete and grabbing at me like a greedy child. This infuriated me at first, but I eventually made a decision: he can keep his fragile peace for now. It is the holidays, after all.

In the moments between tinsel and candlelight, between crumpled paper and piles of gifts, I have been quietly preparing myself. The practical details of my exit once filled me with abject terror – the vast nothingness where my future used to be was too dizzying to look at, let alone plan for – but now I realise: the blank space only remains so because I have not yet made a mark on it.

And so I worry less and less about the uncertainty of student loans and finances and housing, instead focusing on the solid facts of our situation: there is money, even if it’s not mine. If worse comes to worst, D. and his family will not see us out on the streets. I would rather buy my own way to autonomy, but the truth of the matter is, I am simply not financially able. To reject all offers of help would be martyrdom for its own sake. If it were only me leaving this home, I would happily move back in with my mother – who, I know, would welcome me with open arms – until I finished my schooling and got a job. But it’s not only me: I have a son to think about, one whose needs must come before my inflated sense of pride. As much as it galls to have to depend upon someone for independence, it may be a necessity I cannot avoid.

I know that D. will do all he can to actively co-parent our son, but circumstances alone dictate that I will be the primary caregiver. I have to think about where I want us both to be living. I do not want our son growing up in the red-brick gloom of the city, where the children are wild and the streets are riddled with crime. If there is a way I can live close to this village, to his sweet father, to his friends, and to the school we’ve chosen – even if it means swallowing my guilt and being humble enough to ask for money that is not mine – I will try my best.

There is a gulf between the life that is ours and the one that will be mine; I inch closer to it with every passing day. When I feel strong, I curl my toes at its jagged, fractured edge. It pierces my skin, and I let myself bleed. I hurt. I weep. I fear. I am.

I hope.

My first lesson in femininity came at the age of eleven, when I was on holiday in Zakynthos with my family. It was early evening, and my parents always liked to get a few drinks at the bar before we went out for something to eat. Jumping up onto a stool, I asked my dad for a Coke and sat back. My older sister looked across at me, stricken.

‘For God’s sake, Bee, put your bloody knees together,’ she said. She looked up and away from my legs, but her arm flapped in the general direction of my crotch like a flag in the wind.

I looked down at myself, confused. ‘I’m not wearing a skirt. You can’t see owt.’

‘You sit like a man,’ she said, as if that should explain it. Her face twisted in distaste.

Earlier that day, we had scuffled barefoot over our balcony railing to put our Lilos and beach towels out by the pool. Dad said the Germans would be up early trying to nick all the loungers, so we got there first. We played tig between the trees, looked for lizards, dangled our toes in the cool water and splashed each other. When the sunlight spread like butter across our cheeks, we ran to get our breakfast and put our swimming cozzies on, just like we’d always done.

I looked at this stranger with my sister’s face and wondered where she’d come from. I watched her swing one slender leg over the other, toes pointed, spine straight. She was wearing a mini skirt that clung to her like a skin, and her gaze kept flicking towards the barman, a swarthy Greek with long black eyelashes. Leaning an elbow against the bar, with her palm cupping her face and one shoulder thrust forward, she didn’t look twelve. She looked sort of beautiful. Like a dancer, or a model. Like a woman.

I wasn’t sure what the fuss was all about – even if the barman was sort of nice-looking, he was far too old and he smelled like sweat – but I gathered from my sister that we were supposed to be getting him to look at us. I tried to copy her, but in my crinkled orange shorts and tatty trainers, I didn’t look graceful or girly. I looked like what I was: a kid trying to play grown-up. My hair was threaded into a French plait; I’d asked Mum to do it earlier because I liked the feel of her gentle fingers combing my wet scalp. Now, I scowled at my braid and angrily tugged the bobble out.

‘Where you goin’?’ The question followed me as I slithered down from my stool and stomped across the sun-warmed tiles. I glanced back, but her attention had returned to the barman.

‘To change,’ I said.

As a self-confessed control freak, I find nothing more distressing than uncertainty. This stems, perhaps, from my relationship with my father: he never hit me, but his frequent threats to do so left me guarded and skittish. I lived in near-constant dread of provoking an outburst, and the anticipatory tension that wound itself around my spine completely exhausted me. As bizarre as it sounds, I just wanted him to get it over with. Cuts and bruises would heal quickly enough, but the fear never really left me.

Though there is no threat of violence, this situation feels much the same. The walking-on-eggshells anxiety, the crippling indecision, the curling body and constant tension. Am I doing the right thing? Am I being cruel? Am I seeing things how I want to see them, not how they really are? What if I leave and it is a mistake?

I am aware that I sometimes have a ‘grass is greener’ mentality, and that I can occasionally be a bit lazy. I hear so much about people needlessly ending marriages through their own unwillingness to work harder, and I ask myself: is that me? Am I throwing in the towel without even really trying? Is my sexuality just an excuse? I have a good thing here: a caring boyfriend, a beautiful home, a supportive family. Am I tossing it all aside for selfish reasons? Will I ruin my own life, and my son’s, on a whim? Could I learn to fall in love with him again? Should I? The questions flicker across my brain faster than I can process, until I am dizzy and sick with the effort of it.

When I set aside the thorny issue of my sexuality, I know what our relationship problems stem from: D. and I have always struggled to communicate. In the beginning, our vision was tunnelled by passion and our mouths were easily distracted by lustier pursuits. But on dates where this was not an option, the silence broke over us like waves – and while he seemed content with this, I squirmed with discomfort, babbled inanely, and longed for conversation that never came. I remember telling my mother about one of our first dates: I was sitting in a restaurant with D. and staring over at a couple to our left. They were two forty-somethings eating wordlessly with diverted gazes, occupying separate spaces at the same table. In the half an hour since we had arrived, I had not seen them speak once. I asked my mother, with dismay clogging in my throat, ‘Will that be us in ten years?’ And, with the knife-edge of alarm: ‘Is that us now?’

I suppose it matters less how we got here than what we plan to do about it. But that’s the problem: we don’t agree. D. is from determined stock: his family are the type to fix things through sheer force of will, and word ‘surrender’ simply is not in their vocabulary. We often laugh at D.’s dogged attempts to complete impossible tasks. I, on the other hand, have always been rather pragmatic about such things, and my attitude is usually along the lines of ‘Why flog a dead horse?’ Naturally, at this point in our relationship – or lack thereof – we have completely different opinions as to where we should go from here. He wants to try, and try harder, and try harder still…and I am longing to let go.

I suppose, when you think about it, neither option is wrong. But I am more likely to be judged for walking away than for staying. His parents have been together since they were nineteen; his mother surrendered her career after the birth of her first child and never went back since. Despite the fact that I can sometimes see undercurrents of bitterness between them, they have just celebrated their ruby wedding anniversary. Even my mother, who was married to a lying, abusive philanderer, found excuses to stay with her husband for twenty-plus years.

So I am not being pessimistic when I say that they will not understand. Where I grew up, ending a relationship for some wishy-washy reason like ‘unhappiness’ or ‘sexuality’ was considered utter bollocks. If you divorced, it was because he gave you a black eye, or because he shagged all your friends and his idea of a thoughtful gift was a couple of STIs. If you divorced, it was because he’d gambled your life savings or gotten arrested (again) for fighting. A good husband was defined by his ability to put food on the table and avoid beating you senseless. By those standards, D. is an Adonis.

So I am back at square one. Do my feelings justify my exit, or am I just making excuses? Do I stay? Do I try? If I go, will I regret it? Is this my fault? Am I lazy? These aren’t rhetorical questions, by the way. Feel free to pitch in.

Lately, I have been spending an inordinate amount of time on the internet. Though I am aware that it has spiralled from a hobby to a near-addiction, I simply cannot seem to stop. I am known to waste 7 or 8 hours video-hopping on YouTube; I spend entire days doing Google searches for articles, forums, and websites that will help me make sense of how I’m feeling. My grades are slipping, the house is a mess, I’ve put on weight, and I have a constant low-level throbbing in my temples from too much exposure to LED backlight.

When the truth comes tumbling out, it is more by accident than design. D. and I put the little one to bed and begin our usual nightly routine of sitting at opposite ends of the couch. I curl with my back to the armrest and open my laptop, using the screen to shield me from view. He flicks through the channels, coming to rest on a cooking programme, and absent-mindedly rubs my socked feet. The silence yawns uneasily between us.

I am watching Ellen and Portia’s wedding video, on mute, for what must be the hundredth time this week. Seeing their happiness, so pure and free and unsullied by doubt or fear or shame, fills me with a hunger that is bone-deep. I have never dared to watch it with D. in the house before, and it is a mistake. The grief in my face is naked and raw, impossible to miss, and it gives him pause. He asks, not really expecting or wanting an honest answer –

‘Are you okay?’

– and without warning, I snap. Sobs roll up my spine and burst out of my
chest, animal sounds that echo against the silent wall of his surprise. He gently disentangles my fingers from the computer and sets it aside; tugging me into his lap, he rocks me as though I am a child.

We talk for hours. The hope in his eyes is sweet and brittle as glass; it fractures with every word I utter, and I watch him fold at the waist with the agony of it. I tell him that I am unhappy, but I do not tell him why. I tell him I know that I am not in love with him, but I do not tell him how. I tell him I am sorry, over and over and over, until the syllables taste strange and foreign and my lips are numb with regret.

He begs. Oh, god, he begs, and it is all I can do not to just give him what he wants. To let him have me, no matter what the cost. He tells me he still loves me, and though I knew this, hearing it and not being able to say it back is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I tell him he deserves better, and he tells me he does not want better – he wants me.

We can make it work. Please, I’ll do anything, anything you want. There has to be something left.

I say it, not just once but over and over, because he does not believe me. No. No. It’s not going to work. I can’t do this. There is nothing left in me to give. Self-hatred rises like bile in my throat, and I want him to slap me, to kick me or bite me, so that I bruise in places he can see.

The silence, afterwards, is almost worse than the tears. The air is open and raw as a wound. I rest my forehead against his arm and quietly fiddle with the seam of his t-shirt.

‘There’s a hole,’ I say. ‘You have a hole here.’

He looks down. A baby-blue cellular blanket is crumpled on the floor by his feet. It is the same blanket, I realise, that we brought our son home in from the hospital, and I wonder what it is doing down here. He picks it up and gently folds it into a square, and then he presses it to his chest.

‘Sounds about right,’ he replies, and I know I have broken him.

I went to university at eighteen and discovered an entirely new concept: fuck buddies. Here was a way to experience the fantasy without ever having to commit to it. Despite the fact that casual intimacy had never appealed to me, I tried it out.

The first girl I slept with had soft curves, full lips, and limpid green eyes. We met at a pub, and she extended her forearm across the sticky surface of the beer-splattered table to show me her tattoo. Tracing the dark shapes with my index finger, I drank glass after glass of Malibu and Coke, until the coconut-and-sugar taste drowned out the acrid tang of my own fear.

We walked back to her flat in the pouring rain and peeled off each other’s clothes, curling our clammy thighs around one another under the duvet. A pinkish glow rose like a blush from the fairy lights she had strung around her bedroom, and minutes rolled into hours as we kissed, touched, and talked. When she lay flush against me and rested her cheek against my collarbone, I felt – for the first time in my life – complete and utter peace.

I came back for more, of course, only this time I was sober. I overcame my fear by lunging at her without pausing to think, and luckily she was pleased – rather than terrified – by my apparent eagerness.

She was the first person to give me an orgasm. Her fingers danced and gripped and stroked, and I rose for her like a tide. She tipped me abruptly into a sensation that sent shock waves down my spine, and then she peered up at me in the half-light and said, with a mouthful of accented attitude, ‘I bet a man’s never touched you like that, eh?’

Indeed.

I had an insatiable thirst for the taste of her mouth, and I drank her greedily and without apology. I had no idea what I was doing, but my hands moved over her independently of thought or design, as if they already knew her. When her body vibrated under my touch, I felt something close to invincible.

That was the second and last time I ever saw her. She revealed shortly afterwards, over the phone, that her feelings were going beyond the unspoken boundaries of our circumstances. I nodded and murmured in all the right places, and then I ran like fuck.

Before I met D., there were several more like her, but none that I enjoyed quite so viscerally. By then the fear had taken me in a stranglehold. Physical intimacy has always been bound up with my emotions, and I was terrified that surrender in the bedroom meant surrender in everything else. I told myself I had made my peace with my sexuality: I dated some guys, but mostly girls, and I never shied away from showing affection to the latter in public. When I snaked my arm around a girl’s hip at the bus stop, and a bunch of pre-pubescent boys on bikes yelled ‘DYKE!’, I did not move away. I did not apologise. In fact, I gave them the finger. But every time someone got too close, I took to the hills as though my feet were on fire.

I ran from what was to be my last relationship with a woman straight into the arms of D. He was a kind and generous lover – and, to my utter surprise, I was deeply attracted to him. He was endlessly patient and he taught me how to relax again, how to give myself over to sensation. I told myself that I could not be gay, that the pleasure I felt with him during sex was far more important than the emptiness I felt after it. I told myself that it was time to break away from everything that had gone before. I told myself that it was time to move on, to create something new, to forget everything old.

And for a little while, with his help, I truly did.

Dear Moonchild,

It seemed inadequate simply to leave you a passing ‘thanks’ after that beautiful letter. And so I sit in my study, drinking green tea with agave nectar, and offer up my own words in return for yours.

I won’t lie: your truth damn near broke me. I read it this morning while I was cleaning the kitchen, my forearms immersed in a sink full of bubbles. I read it once through, and again once more, and then I bent double over the counter and wept until I could not see.

You are right: truth has its own gravitational pull. In the carrying of it, you can scramble for a foothold or shift your position – and sometimes that works. Sometimes it does. But inevitably, your bones begin to shake with the weight of it, until letting go becomes less of a choice and more of a necessity. I am at that point, I think, or near it. As your body fought against your husband’s, so mine does with D. Each time he tries to kiss me, I slip through his fingers like air and I am gone before he has chance to voice a protest. I feel the full force of his sorrow at my retreating back and it brings me to my knees. But still my body will not – cannot – let him in.

The inevitability of this is what left me sobbing this morning in the butterscotch light of the kitchen. It is happening, it is coming, and I don’t know when, but I know it is soon. I can only sit and wait and watch for that moment of heartbreaking clarity – that moment you talked about, the one where you just know – and let it knock the air from my lungs. I can only hope that once it does, I will have the strength to get back on my feet and learn how to breathe again.

You are right, also, in that our communication has been ‘buried’. The sad thing is, it has always been this way. I am a talker: I talk to heal, to resolve, to reach out and comfort; I talk for honesty, for fun, for a challenge. D., on the other hand, has been taught that problems go away when you pretend they don’t exist. I often wonder if things would have turned out this way if I had succeeded in my attempts to open him up. But I am beginning to realise, just as you did, that it is not my job to fix him.

Sometimes I wish that I, like you, had a ‘catalyst’ – a woman whose eyes and mouth and voice gave me reason to doubt the life I was living. Then, at least, I could seek solace and affirmation in her arms, and know that my sacrifice was for her and not just myself. But then that’s not really the point, is it? The whole reason this began was because I wanted to find out who I was. I need to learn the rhythms of my own body before I can explore someone else’s.

And so – to my other questions. ‘I feared for our kids.’ How did they cope? Did they understand? Were they angry? My sweet boy is sleeping off a fever in the room directly above my head. He already knows that something is amiss, and he has been following me endlessly around the house like a wounded puppy. I am not the best mother in the world – I am honest enough with myself to know that – but I adore him. I could not live with myself if I made him hate me.

‘Choosing your own presence and wholeness will only bring more love into the world.’ Oh, Moonchild, I hope more than anything that this is true.

With much love and gratitude,
Bee
xox

Dear Bee,

I’ve been sitting near your questions for a few days now, aware of them waiting, each an invitation for me to move into a space of remembering the long, agonizing moment that I couldn’t believe at the time would ever live in the realm of memory. I sit here in a dark, cozy lounge, drinking a Cosmo. Wondering where to begin. Knowing that whatever responses I’m able to offer may give you comfort, a sense of not being alone, and knowing how that counts for so, so much. And also that you will move through this in your own days, your own way, finding your own places of what you are able or choose to tolerate, where you are able or willing or unwilling to negotiate with yourself or someone else, your own places of learning that you cannot break another human being, that choosing your own presence and wholeness will bring only more love into the world.

But I know the fear. More like terror. Sheer terror. And later the guilt, the body-curling loss. The disbelief mingled with the laser-sharp clarity.

How did I find the strength to tell the truth?

I’m not sure I did, as much as it was the truth that kept telling me. It was unrelenting, visceral, fierce, raging, refusing to be pushed back just as a river cannot be made to flow upstream. Once I knew–and I knew in an instant, a song, a moment of my eyes catching hers for that extra beat. I knew that the beautiful life I had built stood on a fault line bigger than the San Andreas, I knew without a word, without thought, shuddering, violent, feeling-knowing.

I did not let go easily. I told the truth within a few days of that experience–sat on the couch one night and said, “I have something to tell you.” That was the kind of marriage we had. The kind where we told each other things. His initial reaction was shock, and then to flee, to bail, to say, “This is not what I signed up for.” In the months that followed–and I am condensing a lot here–I feared he would hang himself in the garage. I feared that I had “snapped him down the middle.” I fought with my knowing, or tried to. “How could I leave, how could I leave”–this was a constant question that plagued me. My body was on overdrive for months; I’d wake up at dawn with my heart pounding as if I’d been running. There was deceit. I felt a total rejection of him to my core, cried every single time we made love, or tried, despite my attempts to stay open to him. My body said “NO.” It roared. It raged. It railed against him. All I wanted was to go to her bed, surrender. I read Adrienne Rich and wept. I feared for our kids.

It was tormenting. Torturous. I consulted friends and family. My mother insisted that I turn my attention back to the sacred commitment of marriage. I raged some more. I lost fifteen pounds from an already small frame.

I see the difference here, or part of it at least from what I understand of your story, which is that you are suffering in silence. He may be in denial, but the communication between you is buried. I don’t think one is easier than the other; one of the wrenching things about my process was that he went back and forth between raging, hurt, rejected, terrified husband (and little boy whose father died), and amazing, seeing, loving friend who understood that I needed to come out.

I could no longer cover his pain or take care of the family system. The toll this took on me during the few years leading up to this moment with increasing intensity just exploded, no longer containable. I remember blurting out to a therapist, “I DON’T WANT TO BE MARRIED.” But, you see, I was married, for a decade or more, to a man who loved me beautifully, unconditionally. He used to say he hit the jackpot with me. And we had babies. Magic. And yet. And yet. My other refrain. And yet.

Was there relief?

Yes, in bursts. Fits and starts. Moments of searing freedom, exhilaration, letting go, sexual pleasure and hunger beyond anything I had ever, ever experienced. And there was grief, so crushing I thought I would die. And rage, a lifetime, that poured out over the course of many months. And confusion, and doubt, and longing to go back, to go home again, and enough drama to make up for decades of avoiding drama. So many pictures of each of these in my mind. And yet–you will have your own story, your own pictures, your own moment of moving through the thing that still lies before you, that feels insurmountable, the thing that consumes you, robs you of sleep and presence and appetite.

Finally one day, we stood in the woods. There was no one else to consult, no more time to take to see if “things would shift.” We stood under a tree, summer sunlight streaming down through the fullness of the leaves. And we called it. We surrendered. I told him that this life force was flowing so powerfully through me, from my vagina through my core, up and out of my mouth, a flow that could not, WOULD NOT, be reversed.It was a quiet moment, followed by many harsh moments and deep, illuminating conversations and shutting down and sorting out years of projection.

How could I face myself?

Every single day, I have had no choice to but to keep going. To face myself in the mirror, sometimes looking destroyed, sometimes sexier than I ever imagined, sometimes depleted and aged, sometimes bleak, sometimes hopeless and scared, sometimes shaking with resentment or shuddering with guilt. But never once has the mirror cracked.

How do you gather the strength it takes to snap another human being right down the middle?

He did snap. He broke. Bereft. Angry. Hurt. Alone. Lost. Abandoned. But slowly what became so, so clear was that he was already broken. I did not break him. I did not abandon him. His father did that, when he was a small boy. For many years, I protected him. And being with him protected me from myself, too, the raw power I knew was there was did not know how or was afraid to access and let out.

I saw that he was broken the day I met him when he spoke of his childhood. There he was, exposed without my comfort, faced with his own survival. And I could not bear responsibility any longer.

I will close for tonight.

Send me your next questions, and I will share what I can.

Please, Bee: be good and gentle and patient and forgiving with yourself. Feel you way. Trust what you feel. Take your time. Everyone, so many people, told me, “You’ll know.” Oh, how I doubted this. “But HOW will I know?” I wailed. “WHEN will I know?” And then I did. I just did. Not that that was that, but those moments do come, and you can’t force or rush or push them. I hope you can rest a little there.

With so much love,

Moonchild

When my mother left, she promised that it wouldn’t be long before she came back for us. I don’t remember whether it was days or weeks or months, in the end – all I remember is the thick heat of my dad’s rage, boiling through the house and scalding everything it touched.

Outside of work hours, he spent most of his time drinking himself into a stupor at the local. When eventually he stumbled home, a scowl scrawled across his face like a warning, we prepared ourselves for the inevitable tirade about how our mother was a bitch, a whore, a dyke, or all three.

He was relentless, a zealot utterly devoted to his cause. Blaming everybody from our mother to our aunt to our next-door neighbour, he would sprawl on the sofa, pathetically brandishing the remote control as though it was a weapon. He reeked of beer and self-pity.

Meanwhile, an unwilling audience, my own anger was stirring restlessly in the pit of my belly. With every syllable he flung at me like a punch, it gained roots and grew. I both hated and feared him in equal measure.

One night, he came home in a foul temper, and immediately began to bellow at my sister and me for not cleaning the dog’s muddy paw prints off the laminate floor. My sister sat quietly, as she always did, looking deferentially at her feet. She knew that he was trembling on the edge of losing control. She could see in him a telltale darkness that promised violence; it lingered behind his eyes like a bruise.

Whether I was unaware of it or whether I simply chose to ignore it, I do not know. What I do know is that the words slipped from my lips like the snarl of a dog, even as my spine convulsed with fear.

‘If you’re going to come home in a mood like that, you might as well have stayed at the fucking pub.’

I did not finish the entire sentence; the resultant roar swallowed it whole. In a heartbeat, his face was centimetres from my own. I felt spittle fleck my skin. His cheeks were raw and red, like wounds.

‘I’M ALWAYS IN A FUCKING MOOD!’

I had seen him fight before, testosterone-fuelled scraps with his mates, and I knew that one punch was strong enough to break a grown man’s nose. The thought came unbidden, a survival instinct long forgotten:

Distract him.

I raised my arm a millisecond before he raised his. In my fist, I held the phone and the remote control; I hurled them at the wall with a strength I didn’t know I had. They shattered like bone, scattering pieces of plastic and metal across the living room. He moved back, momentarily stunned, and I leapt from my chair and ran.

My sister told me later that he chased me to the back door, screaming obscenities that slapped at my back. I don’t remember. I don’t remember where I went or how far I got, barefoot and wearing nothing but pyjamas and a dressing gown. Despite being his biggest champion, even my sister admits the truth: had he caught me that night, he would have beaten me black and blue. The only reason he didn’t – the only reason he has never laid a finger on me – is because I have always been fast enough to outrun him.

I see him in myself now. Filaments of his rage have threaded themselves unalterably into my DNA; I am angry all the time these days. The knowledge of that terrifies me. I wake night after night drenched in sweat, after nightmares in which I’ve slapped my son right across the face or gripped him so hard that his sweet white skin became mottled with shadows. I have dreamt of screaming in his face until he was catatonic with fear, of snarling abuse at him until his spirit folded like tissue paper. Each time, my conscience was begging somewhere in the back of my brain: Let go! Leave him! For god’s sake, he is just a baby! And each time, I let my fury take over. I watched him flinch as I approached. I watched his eyes dart in search of escape. I watched…and I hurt him anyway.

Outside of my dreams, I have never touched my son. I have never screamed in his face. Why would I, when the sound of raised voices makes me shake from the inside out? But there is the anger. Always there, just waiting for my guard to slip. And if my guard does slip, it will ignite and it will spread and it will not let me go until everything around me is on fire.

I am a control freak only because losing control will make me dangerous. I will never let that happen. I will never allow myself to watch while someone who wears my face snaps my beautiful boy into unrecognisable pieces.

I’m always in a fucking mood. I feel trapped here, living this life that is not meant for me. And like an animal cornered, my instinct is to turn and fight. But nobody is holding me against my will; no-one here is my enemy. I have only myself to blame. Whether I like it or not, I have to make a choice: do I sit here and pretend until I implode? Or do I get out before that’s even an option?

I already know what the answer is. Maybe I just needed to hear that there was a question.

I am drifting further away with every breath. He senses it, I think – my movements, however small, vibrate along the ghost of a chord that once held him fast to my insides. When I take a few steps away, even just to pick something up or go to the bathroom, he is instantly vigilant.

Where are you going?

Mummy, come back and play with me.

NO, Mummy. Stay here.

It is simultaneously heartbreaking and suffocating. I cannot go anywhere without being followed by the patter of his footsteps, the impatient tap of his hand. Self-reflection requires solitude – at least for me – but he allows me none. The anxious rope of his voice repeatedly tugs me backwards; I am not sure whether I resent this or am grateful for it. Often, it is a mixture of both.

He is not quite three years old, yet he is more attuned to me than D. is. Sweet and exquisitely sensitive, he mimics my moods so accurately it hurts me to watch him: for weeks now, he has been weepy and bad-tempered without ever seeming to know why. As he lacks the all-too-adult capacity for denial, his face crumples in the most innocuous of moments and he gravitates instantly towards me, crawling up my torso like a kitten. It is all I can do not to weep along with him, but instead I do what I know I must: I rock and stroke, whisper and soothe. I rub slow circles on the small of his back. I kiss him.

I lie.

I have learnt that skill all too well from his father. The man worships denial as though it’s his life source. Never in my life have I met someone so capable of ignoring the elephant in the room; it could be trampling over the furniture, crushing everything in sight, and still he would deftly step around it and paste on a smile. I used to find it astonishing, and would try poking him into an argument just for the fun of it – after all, nobody’s that perfect. I used to joke that his loudest expression of anger was a sigh. After growing up with a volatile father whose temper was fierce and unpredictable, it didn’t exactly seem like a problem.

Now, however, I just find it exhausting. I cannot fix anything if he will not admit that it’s broken. My once unwavering sense of honesty has all but been strangled into silence; it takes me months if not years to work up the courage to talk about our problems, and within minutes he has changed the subject.

I’m so tired. I’m so unbearably tired. I need to be strong for my son’s sake; I need to somehow find the courage to confront this before it gets too big. But years of crushing who I am for the sake of everybody else has taken its toll: there is nothing left in me to give. I am finding it difficult to care about anything but getting the hell out of here. My job, my degree, my house, my future – what does it matter, really? What does it matter when I don’t even want to get out of bed in the morning?

I’m sorry. I’ll try to be a better mother, a better girlfriend, a better daughter. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anybody. I’m sorry. I tried my best to make you all happy. I’m sorry. I’m gay.

I’m sorry I’m gay.

I’m not sure exactly what started it. I have been creeping towards this conclusion with my eyes squeezed shut – sightlessly groping the dark for some answers, even as I refuse to admit asking the questions.

The books, I think, were a large part of it. It’s hard to read with your eyes closed, but I managed it. Sugar Rush. The Price of Salt. Pages for You. All of them were beautiful, but none contained whatever it was I was searching for. Until then, at last – Dear John, I Love Jane.

Ah, so that’s it. It is possible to – ? Oh, okay. But it doesn’t apply to me, not really. No, no. I’m sure their husbands were lovely, but they’re not D. He can, even now, pull me back from this. He will see the book and its title and he will ask me what’s wrong. We will talk until our voices are sandpaper-dry and then go to a relationship counsellor, who’ll show us spider diagrams about communication and give us ‘intimacy homework’. In six months we’ll be back to normal, and I’ll fall for him even harder than I did when we first met. In six months I will have forgotten.

But. But –

I finished reading a book about ‘ex-gay’ Christians last week. It was rather formal in description, with most of the emotion buried beneath academic lingo – but still, it tugged something loose inside my head. The self-loathing, the fear, the seemingly endless struggle to redirect desire – ah, yes. I know this. And now, whether I want to or not, I am unravelling at a vertiginous speed.

Our son slept over at my mother’s yesterday, and I spent the evening soundlessly begging D. not to touch me. Put simply, I am running out of excuses. Perhaps he sensed my stiffening reluctance, or perhaps he was too tired – either way, he did not try. The only contact we had was when he laid his palm on my right knee, gently rubbing away the residual ache of past injury. I let him, needing the platonic relief of his warmly circling hand.

I read parts of Dear John again, only this time the stories had an echo – the eerie resonance of my own truth, bounced back at me in the words of another. I tried to sleep but could not shift the disquiet that pulsed in me like a second heartbeat; dread formed a cold, hard ball in the base of my throat. Eventually I switched off the bedside lamp, letting the darkness cocoon me from the question of his eyes.

This morning I pressed the imprint of my palms into the steam of the shower screen. I allowed myself to cry, my hot tears indistinguishable from the water that sluiced over my face. I said the words – only in my head, but god help me, I said them – and found myself shaking fiercely, unable to stop. I felt naked in a way that had nothing to do with bare skin, and everything to do with exposing myself to the purest truth.

I am coming undone.