Agony
"What makes loneliness an anguish
Is not that I have no one to bear my burden,
But this:
I have only my own burden to bear." – Dag Hammarskjold, Markings
He's running away again. He always runs, as if he can somehow escape himself and his memories. I know he's in constant pain; I can see it in his eyes, in the way he always seems to be hunched in on himself, waiting for the next blow to fall. I know the guilt is destroying him. The nightmares are testament enough to that. And I know I could help him, if he'd let me. But he won't. He won't let me in, won't tell me what demons he's fighting.
I'm here for him. I've told him that, and he knows it. He used to come to me for comfort, for support, for a sympathetic ear to pour his fears and doubts into. But lately, he's stayed away—physically and emotionally. The kids miss him. They don't say it, out right, but I can tell by the way they watch the door that they're waiting for him to come back.
I'm waiting for him. I miss him, too. I miss the talks we used to have. I miss falling asleep beside him, knowing that for a little while, he was at peace. I miss being able to make him smile, now and again. Something's eating away at him, and he's hiding it to keep me from getting hurt.
He doesn't know that his silence hurts me more than any confession ever could.