When I was pregnant, I really hated that phase in the beginning where I’d start to get fat, but didn’t really look *pregnant* yet. I remember wishing I could wear a sign that said, “I’m pregnant! I have a reason to look like this! I’m not getting fat, I swear!”

At least in that case the truth is simple, and it “absolved” me. Of the horrible crime of looking chunkier than I normally might.

I’m having to admit to people now that my husband left me and our children. As in, he’s living elsewhere and I’m taking care of a toddler and baby by myself. As in, he wants to end our marriage. As in, if I had to fill out some long form that asked me my marital status, I’d have to check the “Separated” box if they offered one.

And I really wish I had a sign to wear that says, “I’m a good wife, I swear! Or at least, I really have tried, I really have! And he’s not as awful as this makes him seem, he’s not! He’s a brilliant, wonderful, deeply troubled person! I’ve called him the foulest things recently, but YOU shut up about him!”

The truth is not so simple, and it doesn’t absolve me or anyone.

The truth is that he wants to be separated and I don’t. Any “truth” beyond this gets very murky.

Come to think of it, even that one thing isn’t exactly black and white. I want to be separated inasmuch as I don’t really think it’s a positive thing for him to be around me and the girls in his current condition. The night he left, he was unkind to all of us, and if he hadn’t voluntarily moved out I would’ve probably suggested it.

Our relationship has been bad for several years, but neither of us has done much to deal with our issues. I’ve suggested a therapeutic approach a few times, but that’s a non-starter with him. Which has left us doing nothing, continuing a sort of dysthymic coexistence that is occasionally interrupted by some good sex (or so I thought), happy moments with our children, and, more rarely, frightening battles in which all the monsters lurking beneath the dark waters surface at once in a show of power.

My assessment of our situation—and keep in mind what I said about the truth being murky—is that his thinking is disordered now to the point that he either can’t or doesn’t want to make decisions with anything other than his own overwhelming needs in mind. There are a hundred unassailable rational and moral arguments against the way he is choosing, but none of them carry any weight with him. Again, this is MY perception, my best guess at making sense of what has happened here.

I am a pretty resilient person. I attribute this mostly to losing my brother to a tragic accident when I was 15; although my grief process was not exactly exemplary, 22 years later I can say that I learned how to hurt and keep going. I value rational thought; I value persistence in the face of adversity; I value defeating crippling emotions; I value the ability to find stability in the midst of chaos, which actually requires an ability to embrace the chaos.

So, I’m going to be all right. I can’t control Dan, and I wouldn’t want to if I could. No matter what happens to my marriage, my life is going to be good. God has always taken care of me and my girls, and he always will.

But lately, I feel like I’m dying pretty much all the time, so I will take any prayers, kind words, or other measures of support you want to offer.