The world has sharp edges this week. I've found myself thrown around again, with no life jacket. Sick of the sudden ups and downs, sick of my own self. Sobbing SO HARD into Daves chest the other day, hiccupping. "I thought you were going to die! And you didn't die! Aren't we supposed to be happy every day for the rest of our lives now? We got through ... but why do I feel so BAD."
Walking around the house, waiting for the next disaster. A helicopter is poised to smash into my house, at all times. This is how I constantly feel. I know it's not normal, but then again, I never said I was normal.
I would *hate* to be married to me. Dave married me exactly four years ago today. "It's your wedding birthday!" Max told us both this morning.
But Rocco was crying and Tim was late and I was cranky and Dave is stressed and lunches and sick and bottles and recess and school clothes and taxes and quoting and emails.
That was all before 9am.
Life swallows me up and I crumble like a sack of shit and Dave is there ... always there, being the ground and the earth and drumming his drum.
And he didn't die.
All is Well.
Four years married, nine and a half years together. Being faithful to each other. We are good for each other, I think. When I was little I would stare out my bedroom window and imagine having a husband one day. I'd think about it all the time. "Somebody out there is growing up, just like me. And one day I'll meet him and fall in love and get married. WOW."
Now I show him my old-lady knees and he laughs and tells me I'm not old. (Did you know knees sag?!)
Happy Wedding Birthday, Davey Gravey. You deserve a motherfucking medal.