ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: The Writer, His Wife, and their Afterlife

Book One, Part Two, Chapter 158: Hurt

Ernie would sometimes walk into the living room, where I was, extend his arms, and say just one word: hurt.

He’d repeat it. Hurt. Hurt.

I’d go to him, put my arms around him, and we’d hug.

I didn’t think it odd or wonder why he said this or did this. It was just something he said and did every now and then in the last year or so of our marriage. It was an Ernie-ism.

Now, I’m dizzy with the reality of our life. What a waste, that I didn’t know him in the way I want to know him now. Or want him to know me. I’ll never know what could have been. I just know what could have been, wasn’t, and this is what haunts me, hurts me.

Sometimes I want to shrivel up like a dead leaf and be bundled away. I’ve been so stupid, and now I feel too lifeless to live. I know this is sick thinking. I have to forgive myself for my behavior and forgive Ernie for accepting unacceptable behavior.

I wish he’d thrown me out. Maybe then I would have awakened to the loss of him when he was still alive. Maybe then I would have changed. Maybe then we could have —

But I can’t blame him. Blaming is not mature thinking. Ultimately, I alone am responsible for who I am. No one else. Not my parents. Not my husband. I have to hold myself accountable. Become acceptable to myself. I have to work to change myself.

I’m sleeping too much. I’m like a baby. I’m trying to escape this hurt. If I don’t help myself get better I will hurt myself physically, as Ernie did by keeping his hurts bottled up.

I don’t want to hurt myself, do I?

Or do I?