A thank you once in a while.

Please, would also be nice to hear more often, it makes one feel less like a servant.

I’m sick of you asking “what’s for dinner?” and not helping me out with an idea when I give you a list of things I could make. I am tired of making that decision day in and day out. Then having you complain that you didn’t want that.

You know you’ve been told frequently that you are difficult to hear (and not just by me) because you mumble or speak too quietly. Why don’t you turn down the sound on the TV and speak loud enough for everyone to hear you.

Because you’re afraid I won’t hear you if you fall or get sick again, I’ve slept on the couch for well over a year now. My back hurts.

When you fall, you insist I help get you up and you know you’ve injured my back enough times that…my back hurts.

You get mad at me when I call for help to get you up.

I cook.

I clean as best as I can…but my back hurts.

I go to our family doctor, tell him my back hurts, and he asks how you are doing.

He doesn’t check my back. He doesn’t order x-rays or MRIs to see if there is damage. He quickly listens to my heart and my lungs. Asks if I need refills on my pills but ignores me when I tell him my back hurts.

Time for a new doctor who doesn’t know you. A doctor who sees me and not you when I am standing in front of him.

I have one friend who comes to see me. All the others have walked away. I can’t get away to make new friends either. You don’t like me to be gone for more than an hour. If I am gone longer, you look for any excuse to repeatedly call me on my cell phone (I knew I was going to regret getting it.

I am not a happy person anymore. I don’t laugh much. I do cry a lot.

I just live here, I don’t enjoy life.

These days, not so much. I spend way too much time trying to find a hidden corner in which to cry.

I try to start projects only to have multiple interruptions from The Curmudgeon and the dogs. He has developed a passion for asking me stupid questions about TV shows I am not watching nor am I interested in them but I am busy doing other things. He could take to dogs out when they fuss when I’m busy, but once I am up he refuses to do anything except watch TV.

Therefore most of my projects are half done, half-assed, or barely begun.

Is there any wonder why I have a great tendency to throw up my arms and say, “Fuck it” so often?

Yes, I’m depressed. I am unhappy. Sad. Tearful. No I don’t want medication. I want a life. I want my partner back. I am sick of living with a lump who seems to get a perverse enjoyment out of driving me crazy.