Sometimes...it's about time.

Sometimes done is done, even without discernable change.  We can pull and pull and push and push and talk and talk and still...

Done is done.

God, that's a sucky lesson.  Worse than the cancer thing? Ummm...about even, I think.  Maybe because the losses that drift so slowly away, even in front of me, even while sleeping beside me, those losses are constant and fresh and jagged.  My brother's cancer is...well, sort of a progression, a path, if you will. 

I'm tired of asking, suggesting, telling, showing, screaming the same things over and over. At some point I have to accept that what's not there simply is not there.  And there's no expecting, there's no changing, there's no discussing that which is not there.  I've been foolish in all of this, I realize.  I'm not laying blame, really, I'm not.  How could I?  There is no fault, except maybe letting too much time pass, maybe letting hopes get too high, and those are childish, foolish things, aren't they?

I can't do it. I can't pretend.  What's worse, I can't explain why I can't pretend, or even why I might wish I could pretend.  He's good.  I love him.  All my heart is laid bare for him over and over and yet...I don't know, is it that my heart isn't true enough for him to see clearly?  Could I explain better if I uncovered some subterfuge in myself? I don't think so.  Not good at subterfuge.  Not clever.  Never said I was. 

But's it's not so much about what I've said or not said--not really.  It's, well, it's realizing what I no longer hear, or worse, what I've never heard.  How thick am I? How long should it take a wife to notice such things? Especially a wife who knows her husband essentially cannot lie.  Like I said, he's good. And I love him.

I can't take another kiss on the forehead as my only kiss.  I can't bear begging for kisses--am I so pathetic?  He gets angry. Defensive. There's no good way to beg for kisses, if one has to beg.  Duh.
Jesus. I'm tired of asking, reminding, hoping. Yes Lord, I'm tired of hoping.  I can't stand wondering if I even really need to be there for sex--it isn't like I participate, not really...overall, I think that we're overstaffed in that department, if you know what I mean.

So sometimes, even if everything stays in the same place, even if I'm not leaving, and he's not leaving, and blah blah blah, sometimes all that means is that it's done and  it's time to quit looking for what simply is not there.

God, how I weep at this.  And I weep knowing that it's me.  I am not beautiful to him and there is nothing I can do.  This is not a concept that can be readily discussed on an objective level, so what's the point?

I wrote him a note pretty much paraphrasing that last bit.  This will save him lots of time and he can go to the gym and run marathons and keep on with that separate life he so mightily prefers, and I think that's good for him because he keeps asking me what's wrong--what the fuck should I say, right? I'm tired of saying and saying and failing and failing. . 

So now, my darling, my Very Great Love, you go on and put that note in your wallet  right where you used to keep my lovenotes. Funny thing, it kind of serves a similar purpose for you, doesn't it?

Beloved, my Best Beloved.  Now you know.  How simple. How efficient.

You're welcome.

Hurry up and get to the gym now, okay?