“My husband is not in love with me anymore” I seem to repeat that phrase at least 10 times a day, at the most random times, as though I’m trying to let it sink in. I can see why he wouldn’t be in love with me, still it doesn’t take away the sting when I hear it in my own voice.

For the past thirteen years he’s been so attentive and passionate that it became a part of me, much like eating. It’s something I didn’t think about, yet somehow I needed it to survive. I’ve allowed it to be the food that nourished my spirit for more than half of my life, and the first few months without it caused rapid changes in who I perceived myself to be, much like weight loss when you first remove nutrients, my spirit and well-being quickly began to dissipate into air. Eventually it leveled out, and the loss didn’t appear so great externally, but it was still wreaking havoc inside.  Like the human body, there is only so much starvation that the spirit can take. Finally I’m to the point that I’m tired of being punished by deprivation, and I’m just ready to seek fulfillment to my hunger.

Sure, we could go on pretending like we have been, ignoring the fact that we’ve depleted our supply, but what good is a refrigerator without food… a marriage without love is a waste of space and energy.

Every good feast has a beginning and an end, the hardest part is cleaning up the mess at the end.

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