I know you wouldnt have done this for me. It’s just now making me bitter. Feel foolish. Foolish. You told me when I found out I had Lupus you were sorry for the bad timing as you hit the door. The bad timing? Now, now, now that we are here–again–the third year and look. Look what I am putting up with with your illness. Did I walk? Did I fester in the inability you have to communicate the emotions you feel? No–I supported–books on your illness, long nights holding you, planning my own birthday, and listening to how shitty you feel when my nephew is near death in ICU, I have not health insurance for myself, diabetic four year old or autistic son’s medication–oh, what did you say? You have to get back to your job? The one with health insurance? Yes, of course. Your life is pure shit. I didn’t depend on you during this time. I certainly didn’t ask. Ask why you no longer wanted sex. Ask why you were so sick. And then the trap is set frequently. I often think it’s how you sabotage us. I have no needs–no say–no rights to be intimate in an intimate relationship. Your time. Your clock. Your rules. And if I express a need–you run from it. So you didn’t hear me tonight. You don’t ever hear me. . . but you pretend to listen. Hear this. Get the fuck up and do something already. If you want it to change, fucking move–in ANY direction but do something. Perhaps the art of giving to others may inspire you to FEEL again-do something about it other than popping a magic pill that is not doing shit. Face yourself for one damn moment and fix your path. Take a new one. Start over. BUT DO SOMETHING. You are dying. You are killing yourself. You are killing us. Honestly I don’t know if you give a shit anymore. . . and frankly, one day I won’t give a shit either. Then we’ll finally be on the same page.