My wife says it’s not safe for her to talk to me. What she means is that I might, probably will, write about our conversation. I’m doing so now. The narratives apparently frighten her because they illustrate a side of her character she would prefer remain private. I get it. Plus, she says I have misquoted her and/or taken her words out of context. Not so. If she said anything kind to me, I would record that. That she only judges and feigns misunderstanding the simplest things—like being surprised tonight that I might need the cars out of the garage in order to pack up the moving and storage Pod—is all on her turf, not mine. This is her turf, and I know she wants me gone, despite not making the leaving particularly easy. It seems that she would prefer I pack up all my earthly belongings, in her not large flat, without taking up any space she might otherwise need. Heaven help me if I impinge on yoga space (for three days…)

We are both counting days, maybe hours.

I’m writing because I need to write about what’s happening now. It’s my therapy, and cheaper than my long departed but much loved therapist Dr. Ralph. My wife thought he was a waste of money, that we only had intellectual conversations. I guess she meant she didn’t see the improvements in my behavior, unexpressed, that she hoped to see. I don’t know. She wasn’t there so how would she know what went on? Perhaps it was professional competitiveness.

I am done apologizing for all the little things she finds fault with, daily.  I apologized in spades for all the big things. Not once has she apologized to me for the suffering, the dislocation, she’s caused.

I remain grateful, which I don’t believe she accepts or understands. I don’t believe she accepts or understands that I still love her—even when I’m not happy with her. Her mind doesn’t work that way, and anyway she’s told me now many times she doesn’t love me (“I’ve fallen out of love with you.”) To love someone doesn’t mean they have to love you back.

That’s the tragedy of love.