“Well, I see that you don’t want me here, so I’ll go. Do you mind if I leave the equipment? ”

What?! No you can’t leave it here!

(My inner voice was getting angry).

“…I can come back early in the morning and get it.” he said.

WTF IS HE SMOKING? HE DON’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE! 

(Why does my inner voice suddenly sound like Afro Samurai’s alter ego Ninja?).

I took a deep breath and concentrated on not raising my voice.

“No.” I said calmly, “I would like you to take it all with you tonight…now.”

I didn’t even wait for a response, I just went downstairs and washed my face. I could hear him slamming things around upstairs as he packed things up. He stomped his way down the stairs and out of the house repeatedly getting the equipment out, making as much noise as possible I’m sure to try to get me out of the room, but I wouldn’t budge.

I couldn’t understand why he was getting angry.

He asked to leave.

He had moved out instead of making any changes.

He had said that we were going to go to counseling, but it had been a few weeks and he’d said nothing about it.

I went into the bedroom through the adjoining bathroom door and sat down on the bed. His closet door was open a bit, still full of his clothes, there was even a bag of dirty laundry of his in the corner of the room which I refused to touch in silent protest.

Do NOT help him, he hurt you girl. (Shut up Ninja!).

But at the same time, I could see something in him breaking as well, and I didn’t want to be the one responsible for tearing him down.

I still loved him.

We will get through this. It’s only been three years. As soon as we get to counseling, we will find the tools to get through this.

I went back into the bathroom to get something and he was calling my name through the door.

I opened it and that’s when the yelling started.

I can’t remember everything that was said, I just remember being in shock because I’d never seen him this angry before.

He was seething.

I wasn’t scared that he would hurt me or anything.

‘Course not! The man might be crazy, but he ain’t stupid. (Really Ninja?)

I was more concerned with the sharpness of his gestures, the volume of his voice, the way he spat words out at me.

I was stunned. What could I have possibly done to make him this angry?

Was I that horrible of a person? Of a wife? 

“No.” I said it more to myself, than to him I think.

“What?”

“I don’t…”

“You don’t what? Want me here? Want me around you? What do you want? These?”

When he’d moved out I’d asked him to relinquish all the keys except the one to the downstairs entrance.

Those he now dangled angrily in my face.

“I didn’t say that.” I said quietly. Part of me wanted to hold him until he calmed down.

The other part wanted to rip the towel bar out of the bathroom wall and beat him with it.

All of my emotions had me paralyzed and rooted to the spot.

“Well?!”

I was exhausted from walking around everyday like nothing was wrong.From taking on multiple freelance gigs to pay all of the bills. From keeping my mask on straight. I didn’t want to tell neighbors or friends what was going on, I didn’t want anyone to know that my marriage was falling apart, that my husband and I no longer lived together. That I’d somehow failed as a wife, a previous miscarriage had proved that I’d failed as a mother. I had done everything he’d asked of me. I had left him alone when he’d asked for space, I’d paid all the bills when he pursued his acting career, I’d cleaned the house when he was “going through it” and was too depressed to lift a finger. I never bothered him when he was off singing karaoke, or visiting friends. I always tried to make sure there was enough food in the house to eat, that he had everything he needed, but none of it was enough. I’d even paid for a storage space and set up an office area in the corner of the living room so he’d have a place of his own to work. But none of that mattered, none of it was enough.

For some reason, the man standing in front of me, the man I had married was currently acting like he hated me.

And that hit me like a punch to the gut.

When I tried to speak, all that came out was an angry sob. And I couldn’t stop.

They were angry, frightened tears that blinded me momentarily. It was like trying to see through a windshield during a downpour on the highway. You’re petrified that you’re going to crash, but you can’t see and so you try to slow down, looking around desperately for a safe place.

But in this case, my safe place was the source of my panic.

When I had finally caught my breath I looked up and he looked like I’d slapped him.

He expected me to fight, not, apparently, burst into tears.

He reached for me apologizing profusely.

My confusion and conflict was still evident however, because seconds after he held me, I pushed him away angrily, sloppily wiping my face with the back of my robe and said as calmly and as clearly as I could…

“Get. Out.”