I am still grieving the end of my relationship with Chris, hubbie II. We separated for the second time 6 weeks ago and yesterday morning we had ‘the talk’. One of many talks but we finally both voiced that we will never get back together as husband and wife.
It is hard to grieve the loss of a relationship when that person is still in your life every day. Chris moved out of my bedroom into the room in the garage, and over a week gradually moved all his numerous things down with him.
He has ‘numerous’ things because he has Aspergers. He hoards. He buys things he doesn’t need or he buys things for his current ‘specialised interest’ photography. He has more clothes and shoes than me. A knife collection, a watch collection. He has Aspergers.
We don’t sleep together, we don’t touch each other, we don’t use affectionate nicknames or terms of endearment. He used to call me sweetie, and sometimes he forgets and still says that to me. It stabs my heart. I am no longer his sweetie. He told me well over 6 months ago that he no longer loves me. We are incompatible. But as the support boards I am reading explained, Aspergers and ‘normal’ people (called Neuro-typical) are incompatible because it is like mixing oil and water.
So we eat dinner together, we watch tv together, we have even been out clothes shopping (for me) and to see a band together. It is a bitter sweet experience. I still love him in many ways. The man I fell in love with and chose to marry is kind and gentle and loving and intelligent and articulate – all the things my first husband wasn’t. But he gradually disappeared as outside stresses affected our marriage – job loss, difficult first husband, Aspergers diagnosis, depression – and his Asperger behaviour increased. I get glimpses of that man, particularly as I have taken all the pressure off him to be a ‘husband’ to me. When I glimpse that man,my heart truly physically aches and an overwhelming feeling of love and loss rises up within me. I am grieving that loss. The loss of what I thought I had and will never have.
In the middle of the night in my cold and lonely bed, sleepless, listening to the sound of the rain, or reading a book to help me sleep, something triggers my grief. I cry. I cry a lot. On my own. No-one shares my grief with me. It is my loss to bear alone. Grief is so lonely.