Well, I've begun to have those debilitating cries (wild sobs of despair) and thoughts of self doubt (my husband can't respect who I am or what I do and thus, maybe, just maybe, I am not worth anything, Ph.D. isn't worth anything, teaching is not important, etc.). Don't believe it, don't believe it, don't believe it, I just keep telling myself. Instead of anger, though, I'm upset. I'm hurt. I don't know what I want. Maybe I should just tell him to f... off and not come home. He says that's what he would do if roles were reversed. That's a way of saying to me there is no respect there.
I am hurting so badly. I want to write fiction again, I want to work on the novel, fill the hole with writing but can't. Can't focus on my characters (they are all just shadows now, the two brothers, the father, the woman. Just empty caricatures of what they were when I first started to hear them in my head years ago). Even poetry seems too unfocused now, too blatantly emotional without substance or solidity. How can you write without discipline? How can you write without hearing the voices or the words themselves?
Need to go cry again. I need to cry for me. As much as I need to. I need to get angry and I will. But I need to cry. Can't just accept everything and take it and hold it in. That isn't good for anyone: the kids or me.