What an opening looks like, and what comes back.

I nearly didn't write anything because I don't really know what I'm supposed to say. I've never been particularly good at talking about myself, and when people ask how I am, I usually just say I'm fine. Most of the time I think I am fine. I've got a good life, people I love, a job I don't mind. There's nothing particularly wrong, which makes it feel a bit strange to be writing here.

Something happened at the weekend though. I went for coffee with a friend I've known for years, and halfway through she asked me how I really was. Not the usual polite question, but she actually stopped talking and waited for an answer. And I just burst into tears. Completely out of nowhere. I was so embarrassed. I kept apologising and saying I didn't know what was wrong with me. She was lovely about it, but I came away feeling really unsettled.

I've been thinking about it ever since. I seem to spend so much time making sure everyone else is okay. I'm the person people ring when they're having a difficult time, and I genuinely don't mind that. I like being there for people. But when my friend asked about me, I realised I didn't really know what to say. I don't think I've ever given much thought to what I need, or even whether I need anything. That sounds a bit ridiculous when I write it down.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is that something about that moment has stayed with me. I don't know whether I'm unhappy or tired or just having a funny week. I'm not really looking for anyone to tell me what's wrong or what I should do about it. I think I just wanted to put it somewhere and see what it feels like to be honest about not knowing.

I’m really glad you wrote, especially given that you nearly didn’t. You don’t have to arrive here with a clear problem, or an answer to the question of what you’re supposed to say.

What you’ve described feels very simple and very significant at the same time. You were having coffee with a friend you’ve known for years and she asked you how you really were… Not in the polite, in-passing kind of way but in a way where she actually stopped and waited to hear you. Then you burst into tears, leaving you feeling embarrassed and unsettled.

I’m really struck by the contrast you’re holding. You say there’s nothing particularly wrong… You’ve got a good life, people you love and a job you don’t mind and, at the same time, you noticed that when the question turned towards you, you didn’t really know what to say. Not because you were refusing the question, from the sound of it, but because you don’t think you’ve given much thought to what you need or even whether you need anything.

That doesn’t sound ridiculous at all to me. It sounds like a very honest sentence. Especially alongside what you said about being the person people ring when they’re having a difficult time and how you genuinely like being there for people.

I won’t try to tell you what the tears meant. You’ve already said you don’t know whether you’re unhappy, tired or just having a funny week. That not knowing seems to be the thing you wanted to bring here.

So maybe we can just let this be what it is for now. A moment that stayed with you. A question you didn’t know how to answer. Tears you weren’t expecting. The beginning of being honest about not knowing.

I wonder what it feels like now, having put it somewhere.

Teri

I've been married for thirty-one years and I think I might want to leave my husband. I've never actually said that out loud before, and even writing it here makes me feel sick. He's a good man. He hasn't done anything terrible. We don't have huge arguments, he's never been unfaithful, and I know he loves me. That's partly why I feel so awful about even thinking this.

I don't know when things changed. We used to laugh a lot and do things together, but somewhere along the way it feels like we've become two people who share a house and a routine. We talk about the shopping, the bills, what we're having for dinner, but not much else. Last weekend we went out for a meal and I remember looking across the table at him and realising I had absolutely nothing I wanted to say. I felt so sad sitting there, and he didn't seem to notice anything was wrong.

What I haven't told anyone is that sometimes when he's away for work, I feel relieved. I enjoy having the house to myself. I eat when I want, go to bed when I want, and I don't have to think about anyone else. Then he comes home and I feel guilty for having enjoyed it so much. I look at him and think about all the years we've spent together, everything we've been through, and I wonder what kind of person even considers walking away from someone who hasn't done anything wrong.

I'm frightened of what leaving would mean, but I'm also frightened of staying and feeling like this for another twenty years. I don't even know whether I really want to leave or whether I'm just unhappy with how things are. I don't want someone to tell me to work on my marriage or that I should be grateful for what I've got. I think I just need somewhere I can admit that I'm having these thoughts without feeling like I'm doing something terrible simply by having them.

I’m really glad you wrote this here.

That sentence, “I think I might want to leave my husband,” sounds as though it has taken a lot to let it exist somewhere outside your own head. You’ve said he is a good man, that he hasn’t done anything terrible, that you know he loves you. I can hear how much that complicates everything for you because there isn’t an obvious wrong that explains the thought away.

The meal last weekend, as you described it, really stayed with me. Looking across the table at him and realising you had nothing you wanted to say and feeling so sad sitting there while he didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong. That is a quiet, heavy sadness. No drama. No huge argument. Just you sitting there with the quiet truth of how things feel for you now.

I also hear the relief when he is away and then the guilt, when he comes home. How you enjoy your own space, your own timing, your own choices. Then the looking at him and thinking about all the years and everything you’ve been through and wondering what kind of person even considers leaving someone who hasn’t done anything wrong.

I’m not going to tell you to work on your marriage or to be grateful for what you’ve got. That isn’t what you asked for. You asked for somewhere to admit that these thoughts are here.

So let them be here for a moment… The fear of leaving. The fear of staying and of feeling like this for another twenty years. The not knowing whether you want to leave, or whether you are truly unhappy with how things are. You don’t have to decide all of that in the same breath as admitting it.

I’m here, and I’ve heard you.

Teri