I have written a page on me : how I feel and what my life looks like in this constant pain. Each time I read it, I cried. It is a part of my soul, of my so damaged soul. Today, I tried (again) to have a conversation about emotions with my husband. As usual, it fails. As usual, I cried. As usual, I think it is time to get divorced. But in 1 ultimate moment of clearness, I had the idea to make him read my text. So he would understand so deeply what it is like inside me. He read it, did not say a word and went out for a cigarette. He came back, looked sad, but did not say anything about the letter. I should have understand to STOP the conversation there. But no...I had to ask him how he was feeling about it. His answer is like a sharp knife killing me, stabbing me, again and again. I want to cry so hard and to self-harm so badly. I was not expecting something in particular, but there is limits which should be respected with selfishness...his of course. By now, maybe you want to know what he answers, maybe not. Maybe you think I am exagerating again. Maybe not. But what is life if not a web of "maybe", ready in case you need them. My husband answered :"I was disappointed because I already know all of this about you. I was expecting new stuff." I hate him. I hate myself. I hate life.