Images 9/1

September. And I want the summer back.
a dinghy: blue & white. Once loved, once contentedly tied to its place on the shore. Cast out & drifting alone on a lake. A still lake. Mirroring darkness, light, sky and trees  & stars at night (probably), or perhaps the stars live deep in the lake and the sky reflects the stars. It doesn't matter.
A lake where loons call, dragon flies--iridescent blue--dart across the water. A lake where we kayaked out to the loons. They called and lifted their wings. We stopped, drifting, holding each other's paddles. Talked. And it was easy. The loons dove deep and long, resurfacing in unpredictable places.
The dinghy blue and white,  paint just a little scratched, its cut rope shredding, fingers spreading across the lake's surface.
A dinghy: shot full of holes.

Progress? Accomplishment? Me?

It is a hard road from saying, "I did my best," to believing it and letting it rest. But I think, at least for this moment, I am there. For so long Tom has been going on tirades, telling me all of the ways I failed, and failed him. For a long time I looked at him and saw how terribly unhappy he was, not knowing he had bvFTD (Behavioral Variant Frontal Temporal Dementia), thinking he was either a jerk or depressed, and wondered why, when I had tried so hard, had put so much into this marriage and into him, he chose to be unhappy. Why, I wondered with great hurt, was he not happy and so terribly unhappy? When he accused and told me all of the things I had "said" and "did not do," and "did do" I literally screamed that was not the case, screaming to assert that I do exist, that I did try, and that I was good to him. When talking is not heard screaming is the only way to hold onto some small scrap of self. But I hate it. And I should not have to do it. My children tell me I was very good to Tom, that I still am, and that I have gone far, far beyond what many, or perhaps even most people would do; that I have put up with way more than necessary and more than many others would. And yet, I couldn't find it in myself to know that. There were angles and splinters of doubt, and thus the scream, the "NO, NOT ME, THAT IS NOT WHAT I DID OR DIDN'T." The scream of self preservation. But tonight, when he started his onslaught I said I could not do this. He persisted, he pursued. I kept saying, "We have talked about this; I am sorry you feel that way; I can't do this every day; I can't let you talk to me like this," and when I could say no more I went out and sat in the car. I sat for just a few minutes, and started inside. "I will leave," he said, shaking fingers and voice at me. Admonishing--my fault again. I stood in the light on the porch, watched him drive away, then walked inside and said, "I did my best." I did. And while I feel sad, I don't feel bad. I know I did my best. I know it. This is not about me. I know that too. Know. Know it. And feel at peace. For now  anyway. Sad, but at peace. And that is progress, an accomplishment. For me.
And I know I will save myself.