I’m bipolar-ish these days. Happy and hopeful with one of those “go get ‘em” attitudes. Or depressed and fearful with one of those “why do I even try” attitudes. PMS seems too easy a target to blame.

I’ve tried not to whine in excess in this diary lately, because you can only spend so much of your life complaining about stuff, but I have no where else – and no one else – to whine to. And I feel like whining.

Without question I’m trying hard as I can to save my marriage. But every time he is grumpy or tired (or totally human) I think he’s upset with me and that I’m potentially 10 seconds from a kick out the door. He could be pissed off at the stupid heat wave and I feel responsibility to say sorry. I fear I’ll turn into a nervous yapping Chihuahua of a wife asking, “do you still love me? Is everything OK? Are you sure?” sixty million times per day.

And this pretending to be cheery and lighthearted all the time, while terrified inside, is taking a toll. And one of my “friends” is a very antagonistic sort who knows all about our problems, via him, and seems to be finding joy in bragging about how great several things are in her marriage (those several things being the exact “issues” Rob has with me.) Also, as she knows one of his “conditions” was that I socialize more she’s being as horrific a bitch to me as she possibly can – I guess for fun, because she knows I won’t be doing anything about it.

This whole thing sucks.

And he doesn’t call me at work just to say “Hi” like he used to.

Would it be easier if I’d cheated? If I had some tangible fuck-up to blame? Instead it’s vagueness and personality traits…potentially just excuses. Like saying, “you don’t look good in blue” when what you really mean is “you look like shit” in general. Is he staying with me because I begged and pleaded and he just feels sorry for me? Because I know that won’t last long. Maybe he’s waiting to see how much I can take?

I try to see the positives like living on my own again and having my own space, all the Girl Alone Time in the world, etc., but I fear I’ll become a Cathy Cartoon…a fat middle-aged woman living alone with her cat.