Moments with Michael

Insecurities

It's the year 1989 and you and Michael have been married for three years. You don't have any children (yet).

I sit on the double bed in me and Michaels bedroom, cross-legged and looking down at the clean, white sheet. Another wet spot join the already uncountable, as another tear falls from my eyes. I don't even try to hold them back anymore.

Suddenly, I hear steps outside the door, and my heart almost skips a beat. Michael is home. I try desperately to dry my eyes, try to cover my sadness. I see the door opening, and Michaels smiling face appears.

"Hey sweetheart, I..." He begins, his smile fading and his voice trailing off as he notices my tearstained face.

"What's wrong, baby?" He asks softly, sitting down beside me on the bed. I try to answer him, but even if I had been able to get out a word, I wouldn't know how to explain it to him.

I wouldn't know how to explain that I feel, no I know, that I'm the absolute worst person this earth have ever seen. That I don't deserve life, let alone a life with him! That I know he can't possibly love me, and I accept that, because how could anyone manage that?! That I'm just a burden, just another problem, for him and every other poor person which life I have poisoned with my existence.

But I just sit there, shutting my eyes hard in a failed attempt to stop new tears from streaming from my eyes, over my cheeks, for then to fall on the bed. I feel his arm around my shoulders, strong but endlessly careful. For a moment I just want to hide in his arms. I want to curl up in his lap and never have to see the world again. I want to stay with him, and to forever feel the peace he brings me. The next moment I curse myself for wanting that. For wanting to keep ruining the life of this wonderful person, who have been kind enough to tolerate me for so long.

I should just get it done. I should break up with him, set him free. I should free of him of his kindness' chains, free him of the burden I am. But it's just so hard. He's the light in my life, and I know for sure, that if I don't have him anymore, I'll die. Up until now I haven't touched the knives in the kitchen drawer, or the pills in the bathroom. I have held myself away, because I know it would hurt him. Not because he loves me - how could anyone? - but because he's kind, he's caring, he's loving. He don't see how terrible I am, and therefore he would still be sad if I died. Maybe he would even blame himself - that thought have more than once been the final straw to keep myself from doing anything. I would never, ever, intentionally make Michael sad, and I would never want him to think that he is to blame for anything.

Michael puts his other arm around me, hugging me and holding me close, not saying a word as I sob into his shirt. We sit like that for a while, and my crying eventually dries out. After half an hour, it's quiet in the room, the only sound being our breathing - mine heavy, his quiet.

"Are you okay?" Michael asks, soft and careful, as if he's afraid he'll make me cry again.

"No. No I'm not" I answer truthfully.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?" He continues. With one hand on my cheek he carefully lifts my head, and my eyes, red from crying, meets his, dark of worry.

"It's... it's me, Michael." I stutter. He places his other hand on the opposite side of my head, holding my face as if it was porcelain and could break if he made a sudden move.

"What about you?" He says, his voice softer than ever. I feel myself melting on the inside, ever so grateful that I should be lucky enough to hear this voice, talking to me. I clear myself up, and with a voice as normal as I can possibly manage right now, I tell him:

"I know I am in no way worthy of your time, Michael. I will be you forever thankful for everything you have given me - understanding, compassion, kindness. But I don't want you to stay with me. I want you to live your life and be happy, to have good friends and a wife who can give you something in return. I want you to be happy, and you don't find that happiness with me"