The pain settles itself into the bottom of my stomach to be dealt with later; right now, there's work do to: widgets to make, dinner to plan, homework to help with, teachers to meet, dogs to feed and let out, tables to wipe and set and serve on then clean up again. There is no time to ponder the direness of the situation, or the urgency of my cravings, or the desperation of my need for closeness and intimacy and deep, satisfying love. There is no room for the work I need to do to repair my marriage, and nobody that would notice except me anyway. At the end of it all, I am an instrument of my children's existence and a means by which they survive and enjoy their First-World problems. To my wife, I am a symbol of some outdated definition of success, and a source of fuel for her self-loathing. To myself, I am a burden. Lift me, and relieve them all.
* * * * *
Yes, this is the depression talking. Yes, I know parts of it are rather pathetic and some may even be offensive. That is the nature of the pain; I offer no apologies, only some disclaimers (ONE and TWO).