I am his wife. He is my husband.

Sometimes we just look at each other and smile, like we cannot believe it really happened.

Sometimes I look back at this blog – this journal – this everything that came spilling out of me when I was somebody else’s wife.

And I wonder how I got so lucky.

Fingers tangled through my own hair, tears hot on my cheeks, quiet, scared, pulling the pillow close – trying to pretend.

Even now I can never ask for what I need.

I am strong. That is what he says.  Maybe he forgets.

I pretend. I have always pretended – because I do what I have to do. I do the homework, I kiss the tears, show up at the school, teach the ABC’s, stand up to the ex.  It has to be done.

But that is not really who I am.  It is just who I am forced to be.

I wish it was really me.

Because being so soft and small inside is scary.

But that is the girl he found 3 years ago.

It is the girl I still am.  Needy, small and scared of the whole world. I just cannot say it anymore.

But he will probably decide that he does not want that girl anyway.

Just like the ex.

Who I really am is not ok.

Who I am is not good enough.

Outside in her bathrobe, practicing tennis, because she has to get it right.

My dead mother – her grandmother used to play with the pros.  I used to play every day, all summer.  But it took the professor to buy her a racket. He brought that to her life. He brought jelly pancakes and boys night and eating dinner outside. He brought hula-hooping in toy stores and dictator breakfasts, and peeps in the mailbox.

He brought all of that.

Everybody else pours into me, and I lose track of the part that was me to begin with.

The baby needs me.

The girl needs me.

The boy needs me.

The show needs me.

The lawyer needs me.

But I need him.

And there is so much between us – that I can never get close enough.

I miss him – more than I should for a man who shares my bed, and works out of the basement.  I don’t have words to tell him this.  I don’t even try anymore.  I feel like I cannot hold on tight enough.

They were not spent at a fancy dinner.

They were spent in little one room cabins, out of the way coffee shops, and in his arms.

It does not take so much to make me happy. Maybe it seems like that – because I want so much for everyone else to be happy – so I wish for what they need.

But for me – all I need is to be whole.

All I need is him.

But now I am beginning to see the truth.

People are interested – fascinated – they are hungry to hear the story, because believe it or not – they are more like me than they care to admit.  It is everyone’s dirty little secret – and while nobody is talking – boy do they like to listen.

Which is making me think.

Why does it happen?

I know why it happened for me. And I suspect, that again – I am not alone.

I have blamed myself for quite some time.  “If I had been prettier -  smarter -  less of a mother and more of a wife. If I had made better dinners, not hassled him about fixing the bathtub” maybe he would have seen the good in me. If I had only been better – at anything  – at everything – maybe it would have been ok.

I know it is not true – that it can’t be true.  Nothing would have made it ok.

Then why do I still feel like it is all my fault?

I have flaws.  Too many to count – quirks and idiosyncrasies that would drive anyone up the wall. I know that is true of me. I don’t like it it – but it is true.

What I am slowly coming to realize – is that we all have them.

When I was little, I would visit my granddad’s jewelry shop. He would let me look at diamonds through his scope, and help me find all of the little flaws – the tiny pinpricks of imperfection.  But no matter how many cracks, and spots and flecks we found – the product was always the same – a dazzling piece of near-perfection, dropped into a beautiful setting. It was always a diamond – always beautiful.

But I cannot see the diamond in myself.

I see the flaws, the spots – the cracks and gullies. And when someone else points them out,I became less precious, less of a jewel – I lose my worth.  I am just a rock. Not a rare and beautiful thing – just a rock, like any other. And no matter how beautiful the setting is, there is no way that a stone with so many flaws can be brilliant or beautiful. I cannot see the perfection in me – and don’t know if anyone else can either.

The closest I ever got to being a diamond was once upon a time at a lake in the woods – and that is all I will say about that here.

The real reason that I cannon write here, is because I am in the middle of a custody dispute.  And even though I know the truth – even though I know that the reality of how their lives are, I would hate for this place to be misconstrued.

But soon, when the dust has settled, I will be back.  I have so much to say.

Right now it is hard to be just me.

Custody issues, child support, house remodeling, subcontractors (no one in my basement speaks English), minimal sleep.

But when my head is on his shoulder – when my skin is warm on his, everything is ok. The whole world is perfect.