Language of Love #6: Do not eat your partner's biscuits

I gave him biscuits, amongst many other goodies, on my return from visiting the US, and then finished the biscuit package while he slept today. It was lunchtime. It was the last straw. He looked at me in disappointment, his defeated voice tinged with vulnerability.

I looked at the empty biscuit container and burst into tears, rambling about being ill and didn't he say he didn't like them anyway? I'm sorry. I wept. I coughed. I cried. I'm sorry. I'll get you some more. I'm sorry.

He didn't move. Was he even looking? I choked on my tears; my chest, weakened from infection, burned with each whimpering cough for air. Closing my eyes and putting my hand to the bottom of my throat, I kept his stillness, his emptiness, in mind and immediately thought of my often expressionless mum. My husband has withdrawn from the world. My husband is not real. Am I real? This isn't real. I'm not real.

I opened my eyes, grounding myself with sight of him.

I stared at his emptiness. And I realised: I am lonely. I am the same lonely that sat in the back of my parents' Audi on the drive up to SuperCity last week, as my dad, my brother, and my mum relentlessly exchanged familiar attacks of criticism, blame, and controlling silence. I took it in, like I've always taken it in, transforming our shared psychological pain into a sickness even the most emotionally-disabled can acknowledge and name.

Except even wrecked with the flu, I was still the same lonely. Even knowing I was rendered helpless by viral infection, no, BECAUSE I was so helpless, my parents avoided me. I cried myself to sleep the first night. When I finally saw my husband on Skype, he looked at me with a defensive precision and said kindly that he hates to see me ill. My mum came in the room the next day. "I hate to see you ill." They are parrots of each other.

"I wish I could hug you." His face looked strained with sympathy.

"Can I hug you?" My mum reached out her hand, as though she was afraid to break me.

"No," I said, looking away. My helplessness is as contagious as the flu, and it pains me to see them broken by this poisonous mix of narcissism, fear, and compassion.

I must be strong. In the same ways, in all ways, I let them be helpless for me. I let them be silent. I let them avoid me. I make excuses for their vulnerability. I write scripts in my head, fantasies that tell the story differently. I soothe myself. I fix my own problems.

I let them be helpless.

I let me be lonely.

My husband finally speaks, struggling over short phrases. "I don't matter to you." His eyes tear up. "I don't feel loved." He turns away, playing on his iPad, as I sit there staring at him.

I let me be lonely, as I softly ask my husband what we can do to make this situation better. My emotions are all over my face, and maybe that is why he can't look at me. Like my mother could not look at me, when I stumbled downstairs to ask for soup for dinner. I'm taking care of myself. I am letting myself be helped. I am compromising. I am caring. I am opening myself to you. I am making room for you. Come in, come in.

I wait for his reply. He is silent. I am hopeful. Please God, give him strength to act. Please God, let me matter enough for him to want to fix this with me. He still doesn't speak. My voice is almost a whisper. "Will you think about it?" About ways to fix this. About ways to make you matter. Another long silence. He nods quietly and returns to his game.

I ask him whether he read the article about 'language of love' that I sent him while I was away. Maybe, he replies. I ask him about his type. I lean forward with interest. You, husband, are in my mind; your reply matters to me. I wait for him to ask me. But he couldn't break the silence, nor take his eyes away from the game. The silence grows into night.

I am lonely, I say wordlessly, watching him. I am lonely and I ate your biscuits to fill me up. But you didn't ask why. Not then, not now, and probably never. The reason doesn't matter to you. I don't matter to you.

You don't matter to you.

He leaves the room. I weep; I write.