Exclusive Movies

I'm tired of taking care of my disabled husband, and I have never said that out loud until now. It happened eight years ago, a fall at work that looked minor and wasn't. He went from a man who built our deck by himself to a man who needs help getting out of bed. I learned to do things I never imagined: transfers, medications, the exact angle of a pillow that keeps him from waking in pain. I became his nurse, his driver, his scheduler, and his advocate on the phone with insurance, where I've spent hours on hold listening to the same song. I haven't stopped loving him. That's what makes it so hard to say. He's still the funny, stubborn man I married. He still squeezes my hand when I come into the room. He apologizes too often, and every apology makes me feel worse, because it's never his fault. But I'm exhausted in a way sleep doesn't touch. I gave up my job slowly, then entirely. My friends stopped inviting me because I always said no, and then they stopped asking at all. I can't remember the last time I took a walk without checking my phone. I eat standing up. I haven't had a full night's sleep in years, because even when he's fine, I'm listening. Some days I resent the very things I do out of love. I resent the bed, the schedule, the sound of the wheelchair on the hardwood. And then I hate myself for it, because he didn't ask for this either. People call me a saint. It's meant kindly, but it lands like a locked door. A saint isn't allowed to be tired. A saint doesn't fantasize about a weekend alone in a motel, or cry in the grocery store parking lot over nothing, or feel relief when he's asleep and the house goes quiet. I'm not a saint. I'm a person who is doing something very hard, for a long time, mostly alone. I can love him and be worn out by caring for him, and both are true. I'm done pretending that wanting rest means I've stopped loving him.