"No," he agreed simply. "I can't do that anymore."
He didn't mean to blame her, necessarily. It was all connected to her but he wasn't sure it was her fault. When Art had been talking to him last week and said he should be able to go places and do things without feeling as though he had to make excuses to Melody, it wasn't as though he had any evidence he could produce that really proved she'd forced him into that. She wasn't waiting for him every time he flooed home, and she didn't pester him about every time he left the house. It was more of a feeling he got — that if he did anything she didn't like, she'd know, and he'd be in trouble. A feeling that had proved not too far from the truth, at least in terms of trying to keep Elliott from her. Had Melody started that, somehow? Had she done something, prior to going through his letters, to validate how paranoid he was about her?
If he wanted to blame that feeling on her, it meant that he also had to accept responsibility for her never unpacking her bags. He'd never given her cause to think he would leave (actually leave, not just go to Aldous or Art for a few hours), so he resisted that idea vehemently. She'd come up with that herself, he thought, and she was projecting her feelings onto him. She was insecure, and she perceived their marriage to be insecure, even when he had no thoughts of walking out the door.
If she was projecting her insecurity, though, what was he projecting? Where did the paranoia come from? He had to admit that it wasn't the first time in his life that he'd felt that way. His six months in Canada had been hell in that regard; he'd always been looking over his shoulder, always worried that something he said or did would get back to his brother and prolong his exile. He hadn't slept around or gambled or done anything illegal that whole time — he'd hardly even drank. Trying to prove to everyone else that he was better, when really he had no desire to be better.
He sighed. "I don't know," he admitted, putting one hand on his head to rub his temples in frustration and exhaustion. This all circled back to the same thing he'd said before Christmas, didn't it? He didn't feel like he was cut out to be a husband. He was faking it, and failing, and it was exhausting. But where did that leave them?
"I don't know," he said again, wishing he had a drink.
MJ made this <3
He didn't mean to blame her, necessarily. It was all connected to her but he wasn't sure it was her fault. When Art had been talking to him last week and said he should be able to go places and do things without feeling as though he had to make excuses to Melody, it wasn't as though he had any evidence he could produce that really proved she'd forced him into that. She wasn't waiting for him every time he flooed home, and she didn't pester him about every time he left the house. It was more of a feeling he got — that if he did anything she didn't like, she'd know, and he'd be in trouble. A feeling that had proved not too far from the truth, at least in terms of trying to keep Elliott from her. Had Melody started that, somehow? Had she done something, prior to going through his letters, to validate how paranoid he was about her?
If he wanted to blame that feeling on her, it meant that he also had to accept responsibility for her never unpacking her bags. He'd never given her cause to think he would leave (actually leave, not just go to Aldous or Art for a few hours), so he resisted that idea vehemently. She'd come up with that herself, he thought, and she was projecting her feelings onto him. She was insecure, and she perceived their marriage to be insecure, even when he had no thoughts of walking out the door.
If she was projecting her insecurity, though, what was he projecting? Where did the paranoia come from? He had to admit that it wasn't the first time in his life that he'd felt that way. His six months in Canada had been hell in that regard; he'd always been looking over his shoulder, always worried that something he said or did would get back to his brother and prolong his exile. He hadn't slept around or gambled or done anything illegal that whole time — he'd hardly even drank. Trying to prove to everyone else that he was better, when really he had no desire to be better.
He sighed. "I don't know," he admitted, putting one hand on his head to rub his temples in frustration and exhaustion. This all circled back to the same thing he'd said before Christmas, didn't it? He didn't feel like he was cut out to be a husband. He was faking it, and failing, and it was exhausting. But where did that leave them?
"I don't know," he said again, wishing he had a drink.
MJ made this <3