trying.

I had to go back to the house today.

I knocked on the door, because even though it’s my house, it’s not my house. Not anymore. And it’s strange, because it still looks the same. Except for a few blank spots on the walls, I mean.

And now there’s that hole in the wall, punched clean through. I remember that night; I had spent that morning and afternoon by myself at the book store in that city that has the famous horse race. Louisville, right? I just remember that’s all they talked about on their signs and their shops and their tee-shirts. It was racing and horses and horses and racing and don’t you want to send a post card home about this? Because surely there aren’t any people that do anything other than race horses in this town.

But I went to the bookstore. I piled myself up high in books that all were trying to help me save my marriage. I read one, at least, from cover to cover, willing it to make a difference. I didn’t even care that the man next to me might look at the book I was pouring over and know. This was too important to be shy about.

I had a show that night and I was dealing with this new-found anxiety on stage. I held Colt’s hand and suddenly I wasn’t acting so much anymore. I squeezed his hand because I was terrified. I didn’t know if my husband loved me anymore and this made it very difficult to sing and dance and act in front of thousands of people, actually.

After the show, all my friends went out. They ate and drank and laughed and I found an obliging park bench outside of the restaurant. I called him and he answered and could barely say two words. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “I’m just so tired…” he told me. “Well, do you think you could wake up? I think I need you to wake up and talk to me; I’m scared tonight.” I said.

“I’m really really tired…” he said, his words starting to slur.

And then he said he was going back to sleep and that was that. And I sat on that bench and I was very alone that night. I couldn’t go back into the restaurant; I wasn’t up to it. I didn’t trust myself to arrange my features to look happy and I wasn’t okay with people knowing that I wasn’t. I called Christian and talked to him; he listened and I felt some strength from that.

The next day I called him again, asking if he was feeling better, less tired today, while I was walking in the drug store, looking for some lotion to buy. He wasn’t. Nothing helped, he said. And then he told me that he punched a hole in the wall the night before, he was so angry.

And then I made plans to come home to him shortly after.

I had read a whole book on marriage from cover to cover, after all.

Maybe that would help.

It didn’t, but I’m glad I tried.

I’ll never regret trying, at least.