This is the talk the husband and I have every few years when his infidelity becomes more than I can handle emotionally. A few days in advance I prepare him for it by saying simply that we have to talk. He doesn't have to wonder what's up. Never will anything that could be mistaken for concern flash across his face. No, this will always be about the same thing and if he shows any emotion at all it's anger or irritation.

Over the years he's watched mute, unemotional, as I've spiraled further and further down the black hole. In the beginning it was little things that could almost go unnoticed, unless it was summertime and I still insisted on wearing long sleeves. It was never creative, it was exacted with no planning or precision, it was sudden and brutal and the fastest way I knew how to agree with him that I was utter and total scum, worthless. It was my way of reiterating his words, spoken or not that he hated me, found me unacceptable in every way possible, lest he think I was so foolish as to not know it for a fact. Watch Alice fall deeper and deeper.

Yes, you hate me. But see how much more I hate myself? I am flawed. I am not your beautiful wife in your perfect, spotless house. I wasn't your first choice, I wasn't even your last. I was simply the only girl left standing by you when your rock star lifestyle fell down around you and your career was on permanent hold. No more contracts, no more offers. No more river flowing past your front door. You let me fall in love with you. You broke my heart but never gave me yours. I forgave you this. I said in time, maybe with time you would come to find something of worth in me. I know now you never even looked. Time passed. Something changed. Maybe it was because you never saw my unclothed body that I turned every available inch of my skin into a blackboard of sorts. The things I wrote there in pen, marker, or razor, the loathing was rampant and vivid. Careful, we have that corporate thing at the end of the year remember? Don't let's make a fool of the husband with careless marks, or scars. I slowed down. Found newer and cleaner ways to hate myself for you. Neglect, my old friend from childhood. Let's just stop eating. It worked then, why wouldn't it work now? Like a magic bullet. You found me interesting enough for a time that I brought a child, yours, into the world. A beautiful girl with your ashe hair and the palest blue eyes. She was just like you, perfect.

Please tell me I did something good this time, please tell me I did something good this time, please tell me I...

She's sixteen now. She stands almost six feet tall. Her IQ is six years ahead of her age and she has a file full of letters from prominent schools in her desk. She'll become something neither of us ever managed. She will be successful, well balanced and fulfilled, despite having the two of us for parents. She can't breathe this air any better than I. She hates the pain you've caused but rest easy, she doesn't hate you. She doesn't comprehend my blind dedication to you and works it out in that clever mind the only way she knows how; I'm insane. I have to be, right? I mentioned she's brilliant, didn't I?

So. He has to decide this time, or I will. One week, he agreed. And we'll come together again and lay out a plan. Now I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid. There's no decision to be made on his part. He is who and what he is and cannot change. I know this. I've always known this. Next Thursday I'll listen as he promises to stop having internet affairs and afterwards I'm supposed to say I'll stay with him.

Can I just say goodbye this time? Would everything really be ok? Can I do this on my own? Can someone, anyone, say it would be easier than the last nineteen years have been?

Please, God, tell me I can do something right. Even if it's leaving.