my metaphor

There was a night this week I couldn't sleep - woke up at 3:15 am and was up all night. Highly unusual for me - I'm a 9 hour a night sleeper, feel ill if I don't get enough sleep. There's just been too much going on. I'm in crisis mode and I don't know how long this can last.

That night was the night before we met with our marriage/grief/loss counselor. Also the night before my father's initial heart procedure.

I spent a lot of time that night thinking, and this is the metaphor I developed -

I have been in a horrible accident. I lay in the fetal position, curled up, broken, battered, bruised. And my husband appears - and I think it's to help, but it's not. Instead of help, he starts kicking me. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. Until there's nothing left. Oblivion.

My husband is not remotely physical. But he has hurt me so deeply this time I can barely function at times. He's being so nice and supportive about my dad. He's cuddling with me every night, and patting me and hugging me at random times. He may very well be trying. But my heart is still breaking.