I am not in "proper contact with my feelings," they say at the psych ward.
I hadn't noticed.
I've been with her for 6 years, this time, yet what have we had together?
She came back a year after the first split, and I chose not to choose.
She goes to couch at 10, watching TV even in her sleep.
I sleep alone, in the wasteland of our King-size bed.
After her mid-morning nap, she goes to bed.
I surf the net purposefully aimlessly, trying feebly to ignore the fire burning within me.
I want to fix her.
I want to fix me.
I want to fix our relationship.
I want to be a good replacement dad for her daughter.
I want to cook, but she'd balk at whatever I chose.
I want to clean the place, but it's overwhelming.
I want to fuck her, but she is more interested in the sex lives of our cats.
I want to do something - anything - for her daughter, but I just. don't. have. the. energy.
Going to bed without her, I feel as if I'm utterly alone.
Vegetating at the computer, I feel wrung, like a rag at the hands of a gorilla maid.
Carefully, as if waking a sleeping dragon, I wake her at 4, hoping for a dinner decision. I feel powerless.
Watching her 220 lbs of blubber eat sasquatch-sized portions, I feel utter disgust.
I can't live with her, yet I can't leave her.
I feel trapped. I feel responsible. Am I?
They say I don't feel. I wonder what I'd feel if I could.
I wish our twosome would be halved.