Adultery(19)

Of course. My sadness has become so routine that no one notices anymore. It’s really good to finally talk about it, but what I have to say runs deeper than that false happiness. I don’t sleep properly anymore. I feel I’m just being self-obsessed, trying to impress people as if I were a child. I cry alone in the shower for no reason. I’ve only really enjoyed making love once in many months, and you know what time I’m talking about. I thought perhaps I was going through a midlife crisis, but that isn’t enough of an explanation. I feel like I’m wasting my life, that one day I’ll look back and regret everything I’ve done, apart from having married you and having our lovely children.

“But isn’t that what matters most?”

For lots of people, yes. But it isn’t enough for me. It’s getting worse every day. When I finally finish my housework each evening, an endless dialogue starts in my head. I’m afraid of things changing, but at the same time I’m dying to experience something different. My thoughts keep repeating themselves uncontrollably. You don’t notice because you’re asleep. For example, did you notice the mistral last night rattling the windows?

“No, the windows were shut.”

That’s what I mean. Even a high wind that has blown thousands of times since we’ve been married is capable of waking me up. I notice when you turn over in bed and when you talk in your sleep. But please don’t take this personally—it seems like I’m surrounded by things that make no sense. Just to be clear, though: I love our children. I love you. I adore my work. But that only makes me feel worse, because I feel I’m being unfair to God, to life, to you.

He’s barely touched his food. It’s as if he were sitting opposite a complete stranger. But saying these words has already filled me with an enormous peace. My secret is out. The wine is having its effect. I am no longer alone. Thank you, Jacob K?nig.

“Do you think you need to see a doctor?”

I don’t know. Even if I did, I don’t want to go down that road. I need to learn how to resolve my problems on my own.

“It must have been very difficult to keep all these emotions to yourself for so long. Thank you for telling me. But why didn’t you tell me before?”

Because it’s only now that things have become unbearable. I was thinking today about my childhood and teenage years. Does the root of all this lie there? I don’t think so, not unless my mind has been lying to me all these years, which I think is unlikely. I come from a normal family, I had a normal upbringing, I lead a normal life. What’s wrong with me?

I didn’t say anything before—I tell him, crying now—because I thought it would pass and I didn’t want to worry you.

“You’re definitely not crazy. I haven’t noticed any of this. You haven’t been particularly irritable, you haven’t lost weight, and if you can control your feelings that well, then there must be a way out of this.”

Why did he mention losing weight?

“I can ask our doctor to prescribe some tranquilizers to help you sleep. I’ll say they’re for me. I think that if you could sleep properly, then you would gradually regain control of your thoughts. Perhaps we should exercise more. The children would love it. We’re far too caught up in work, and that’s not good.”

I’m not that caught up in my work. Despite what you think, the idiotic articles I write help me keep my mind occupied and drive away the wild thoughts that overwhelm me as soon as I have nothing to do.

“But we do need more exercise, more time outdoors. To run until we drop with exhaustion. And perhaps we should invite friends round more often.”

That would be a complete nightmare! Having to talk and entertain people with a fixed smile on my lips, listening to their views on opera and traffic. Then, to top it all, having to clean up afterward.

“Let’s go to the Jura National Park this weekend. We haven’t been there for ages.”

The elections are this weekend. I’ll be on duty at the newspaper.

We eat in silence. The waiter has already been to our table twice to see if we’ve finished, but we haven’t even touched our plates. We make short work of the second bottle of wine. I can imagine what my husband’s thinking: “How can I help my wife? What can I do to make her happy?” Nothing. Nothing more than he’s doing already. I would hate it if he arrived home bearing a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers.

We conclude that he’s had too much to drink to drive home, so we’ll have to leave the car at the restaurant and fetch it tomorrow. I telephone my mother-in-law and ask if the children can sleep over. I’ll be there early tomorrow morning to take them to school.