This post is not about Jack. This post is about me. I seldom write about myself, as most of my life takes place in relation to Jack and what he needs. But once in a while my own dark places pay a visit, forcing me to look them in the eye and stare them down. Tonight I am staring them down with my words.

I am far from suicidal. But in this moment, as I try to balance self care with caring for Jack, I am stuck in a hole. On the surface, you could say my vitamin D is off, or that I haven’t been getting enough rest. But that is just the surface. It is my own fear that has caught me.

I stare down my fears at night, more than anyone knows. I wrestle with the what ifs. I struggle to comprehend a someday without Jack in it. (That feels too big to fathom.) I lie awake at night, terrified beyond words at the thought of my vibrant, happy husband disappearing in front of me. But that has already happened in many ways, so that should no longer scare me. It still does.

I miss Jack most after dark. He is still here, of course. But his presence isnt, if that makes sense. What I miss are the long conversations, the talks in bed, the falling asleep in each other’s arms, the easy companionship, and the wordless energetic connections. All of that is gone now. I don’t love him any less, but I don’t know if he understands.

I dwell on my own shortcomings at night. This is a long-standing habit that shows up more often than I care to admit. It is worst at three in the morning, when I lie there with Jack snoring beside me and I can’t get back to sleep. I think of everything I haven’t done, or have to do, or didn’t do, or did wrong. I question myself constantly. I wonder if I’ve done anything right at all.

And then there are the times I outright hate myself. This usually happens at night after Jack has woken me up for the fourth time because he needs to pee. Or else he refuses to put his CPAP on and I have to listen to him snore. Or else he goes into sundowning mode, and I am short on patience and frustrated and get upset rather than distracting him. At these times, I am ashamed of the thoughts in my head. I feel like he would be better off without me.

I feel guilty because I can’t fix him. When he begs me to stop what’s happening to him, I cry because I can’t. I don’t cry in front of him, of course. I find ways to reassure him, and I tell him I will never leave no matter what happens. The tears come later. Like everything else, they show up in the dark, usually when I should be asleep.

But somehow, even in the darkness, I find the strength to continue. When I pray for help to stay patient, the patience comes, and the angry thoughts (usually) stay in my head. When I ask God for strength, it always comes. By some miracle, I can stay patient longer, find more humor even in the darkest times. And on nights like this, when the darkness seems too strong, it is the act of writing that reminds me it isn’t. I will always be thankful for that.