Alone at the table
Today was a rainy day. The day after Christmas.
Nothing about today was out of the ordinary.
Except, it was just that. Ordinary.
It’s become a routine at a certain point that you don’t communicate. I mean, we could go without saying that and it’s pretty common knowledge between the two of us. This evening around 5 I called to ask something. You said you’d be leaving shortly. I waited around, debating if I should find dinner or wait for you. About an hour later I just decided I may as well eat dinner myself. Again.
After almost nine years together eating dinner alone is something I’ve become accustomed too. It’s not because I choose to. It’s because I don’t have an option to eat dinner with you. You choose to not come home. I’ve learned to not let it affect me or bother me. But it always hurts. After years of eating alone, and leaving cold food on the counter, I often wonder if that’s what my life will consist of. Always feeling so alone at the table.
I feel alone at the table in so many ways.
Alone at the table for dinner. Alone at the table for finances. Alone at the table for intimacy. Alone at the table for life decisions.
There’s never been a time where you’re actively present at the table with me or for me. There’s never been a time you’ve served me at the table. Part of marriage is to serve your spouse. I’m very humble in trying to serve you as often as I can and I honestly feel it’s not reciprocated.
This evening as I made food and sat in the quiet house alone, I cried silent tears into my bowl of chili. Tears of frustration and feeling alone. It hits me often that I feel so sad. I sat there wondering if my next thirty years of life will be filled with these cold alone suppers.
I don’t want the “ordinary” to feel like this. I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone and feeling like there’s no one at the table with me. I’ve tried bringing these conversations up to you and get no response. Not even any emotion to the topics.
To me, that implies that you don’t care. That I’m not important enough in your life to talk to let alone come home to. I can’t even go into explanation how horrible that feels. To a perfectionist, that’s the biggest insult you could throw at them. To me, no matter how hard I work, how many of the bills I pay, how much of a clean house I keep, or how many meals I make, I feel I’ll never have your approval.
So, while you’re laughing and having fun drinking beer with your friends away.
I’ll sit here alone, at the table.