Once there was a girl who went out to brunch with her husband and came home and had a miscarriage.
For awhile she rested on the couch, afraid to be alone but later on into the evening, the cozy bed and duvet seemed a more comforting place to be. She climbed the stairs from the basement to the second story. She walked down the hallway to the washroom; she brushed her teeth. She saw the dark curtain of a black-out lower over her eyes.
I knew if I passed out and fell, I would knock myself out in that tiny bathroom, either on the tub or the clunky old vanity. In that moment all I wanted to do was fall but I also knew I would not be found until three or four in the morning, when he would come to bed. So, I did the only thing I could think to do: I gripped the sink as hard as I could until I felt sure I could move without fainting, washed my face with cold water and went back to bed. It was the only time in my life I thought I might actually die if I closed my eyes, and to be honest I really didn’t care.
I’ve been reflecting on this moment a lot. This is the moment where I should have known something was not right. I had just lost something I would have killed for or died for, and there I was, living with someone who wouldn’t, or couldn’t for whatever reason, check in on me to make sure I was comfortable, let alone breathing on the worst day of my life.
One true thing I believe about the end of my marriage, is that nobody will ever know what happened to it, except the person who ended it. This bothered me for many months and I thought if I just had some scrap of understanding about where all this came from, maybe I would feel better. I don’t know how it has happened, but lately I notice that I have been released from caring about this particular worry. Maybe though, I wish, I had chosen to notice when it was clearly failing and make my own decision about how to proceed. The thing is, I would never have said I was unhappy or lonely in my marriage. I guess it’s just a lot easier to see now.