I turned 39 on the week-end…which barely seems possible based on my usual maturity level…but I digress…

As I was laying in bed wondering if we were going to be able to make our mortgage payment next month (since there has been no action on the job front for my husband), if the make-shift car repairs will hold till winter, if my husband had taken his meds, where my sex drive has snuck off too (again), if I could have a dinner party next month or will my husband’s bipolar rear its ugly head at the last minute (breath) I was trying to remember the last time I felt safe.

I mean really safe.

Where I could come home without worrying whether or not he’d still be there.  When I could bring friends over without any notice.  When I could budget ahead more than week without worrying he’s manic and spending our money.  Where I wasn’t afraid to talk about what was closest to my heart without accidentally upsetting him.

Sometimes I dream that I’m on my own, living secretly in a little house in the country.  I have my dogs and some horses to care for and no one else.  I’m free to do what I want without fear.  I keep my lovers at arm’s length and nothing is complicated anymore.

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