My dear sweet funny John; how I adore him.

And how he has taught me so much.  Ironic isn't it?  Here, I had it all figured out in my head that I would be the one instructing or educating him on all things non-academic and non-linear such as common courtesies with people-being cordial, polite and approachable.

Do I hear my audience start to snicker so early in my narrative?  I know I haven't been an exact paragon of these particular virtues. 

I haven't always been consistent in these areas, but at least I know what society expects.  I have a rough idea of how the game is supposed to be played.  Give me credit for at least that rudimentary of an understanding.

Compared to John, I was a polished pro in mixing and mingling with civilization-hobnobbing with the world at large so to speak.

But here is where I place my warning for this story.  This story is not going to be of my usual type.  It's not going to be flip, facetious or farcical.  It's not even going to be about me.  It's about John and his effect on my life.

There are certain things and traits that I want you to know about John.  He's a complex man.  He doesn't give up much, so I'm choosing to shed some light and unveil his mysteries.  Not all of them, of course; certain things are meant to be kept private and I have by no means uncovered even a tenth of the fascinating individual he is.  He is a work in progress after all just like every single one of us.  The incentive for this is that I want you to see him as I do.

I'm choosing my words very carefully.  I've thought long and hard before even putting pen to paper.  I don't want to leave the impression that I'm using this piece to plot out a Henry Higgins/Eliza Doolittle transformation here.  This story is too important for such a candy floss attitude.

How do I begin?  I guess I start by letting you know that there were many things I wanted to help John with, more important than just how to get along with others.  I hoped to work and develop further the strengths that he already possessed, assets that he didn't realize he had, for instance his intuitiveness about people.

He's an observer by nature and also one by the environment he has carefully crafted to surround himself.  His intuition is crude in form and comes to him in flashes.  If you watch closely his eyes, you can see the light click on as he sums you up while you speak to him.  He absorbs not only what you say but how you express it.

You would never think it.  But John's quite good at reading you.  Don't be fooled by his meek and mild demeanor.  John is anything but.  He's sharp as a tack, so don't ever under-estimate him.  His interpretation of your words if he chooses to reveal it will often throw you off your stride.  You'll have to think twice about it.

I say all of this but there's a proviso because the thing here is that you have to get and hold his attention first.  You have to make him raise his eyes and actually look at you.

He's not being rude if he doesn't.  It just means that he's off in his head, distracted by something else...a problem, a situation or he's processing a comment someone might have made to him an hour ago.  His mind is always working.  It never shuts down like yours or mind does.  That's what he needs, a switch to turn it temporarily to the off position.  It can be frustrating as hell to try and capture his whole and undivided concentration at times.

Making sense of John Nash or pegging him down or categorizing in some way is impossible.  He breaks all moulds.  He will always surprise you.

I come right back to my beginning preamble.  Look at what he's done to me, or maybe the correct phrasing should be for me.

By trying to be his unofficial guide, I've become a better person.  I feel softer when I'm with him, more womanly.  He brings something out in me that I never had a clue was inside.  It's not like he's changed my whole personality.  He's just tempered it.  The sarcastic 'in your face' Mr. Hyde side of me is not always prominent anymore.  It does rear its ugly head once in a while but that's okay too cause sometimes he needs to be pushed, prodded, goaded and forced into doing things that are good for him.

He needs me; and that is so good and awesome for my ego.  I hope I'm good for his.

I become nurturing when he's around.  I think less of myself.  I can't help it.  I worry about him constantly.  Is he taking care of himself?  Is he eating properly?  Does he even remember to eat?  Is he working too hard?  Is he taking his medication?

That last one I'm not too sure about.  He manages to dodge and evade the issue every time I bring it up.  When I reminded him that he couldn't, even though he wanted to, donate blood for Cort because surely he had all kinds of chemicals coursing through his veins, his face remained totally impassive.  Either he didn't think of that or he's not on any, knows he should be and doesn't want to let on that he's taking great risks with his health.  I pray to God that's not the case.  If it is, John could be playing a game of Russian roulette.

You see how I got sidetracked there?  I'm off on a tangent as I fret forever and a day about his wellbeing.

What else has John done for me?  He's given me back my laughter and my sense of humor.  He's so like a mischievous naughty little boy at times. 

Take Max's birthday party as a prime example.   First, he winds me up by refusing to wear a costume.  When I moan, nag and whine, he readily gives in but his idea of a costume is no costume at all!  Well you all saw his loincloth.  That one at least covered all his manly bits.  The one he strutted for his personal fashion show to me consisted of a tiny piece of chain mail.  Trust me when I say it would not cover a third of his package.

I swear to God he would have brazenly worn it if I hadn't sent him back like an errant schoolboy to change.  He would have no scruples for me either if I had worn my cute little female gladiator outfit with its very transparent top without the necessary bra.

Yes, I can have a good chuckle over this because he's unconventional and uninhibited, but where is his head here?  He has to know that this kind of behavior is unorthodox and unseemingly.  Does he just not care what anyone thinks?  I don't think it's that.  I think he's just very comfortable in his own skin and with the naked body in general. 

He doesn't see it as a big deal prancing bare assed at home.  I'm not complaining as I just sit back on his couch and enjoy the show, fully clothed myself with all my inhibitions intact.  John, John, John...the things you do to me.

He's given me back my self-esteem that I had buried underneath so much baggage and thought I had lost for good.  That's the most powerful and singularly most beautiful gift anyone has ever unwrapped for me.

John will say very complimentary things, and there's not a breath of flattery in them.  He means them.

This may sound strange or foolish but I write them down in his exact phrasing.  I keep them in a little journal.  Often throughout the day, I'll look at them and remember when he said them and how.

There was the time he said, "Something in you puts me at ease".  I was putting wallpaper up in his living room, you know the little border strips that are fairly easy to apply.  I had told him he needed color as the walls were painted a blah beige tone.  He stood there watching me measure, cut and press it down.  He then just stated those words.  I nearly toppled off the stool I was on.  Of course, I had to be an idiot and totally spoil the moment by asking him why he said it.  We hadn't even been talking.

He looked at me as if to say his remark was enough and didn't need any explanation or additional commentary, and indeed he didn't provide any.  So I just got right back on that stool with my mind reeling.

Once we were in bed preparing to just settle down for the night when he thanked me for being his friend.  Well he actually didn't use the word "friend" but I knew that's what he meant.  His words were, "No one ever made me quite so aware of my actions and their consequences.  No one ever took the time.  The amount of time you've spent on me is memorable."

"Memorable" not "considerable" or even "remarkable".  What did that mean?  I just told him I thought he was a worthwhile investment.  Then he rolled over and went to sleep leaving me tossing and turning in the wee small hours trying to unscramble and decode his secret message.

I have at least fifty more of these entries written down.

In the daily routine of our lives, before and after work, at meals and in the evenings, I try to soak up like a sponge the platitudes I've been rhyming off by rote to him so I can incorporate them into my own life and benefit from their wisdom.

As I think about them, I'm reminded of that old Barry Manilow song, "Can't Smile Without You" where he sings "into the new, leaving the old behind me."  In many ways, I feel like I'm shedding my old tough skin.  I'm a lot more emotional these days prone to occasional fits of weeping when I'm alone or even just finding myself beaming brightly at the simple joy of watching a gorgeous sunset.

I remember one day at breakfast telling John that when you believe in yourself, you go beyond survival and mere existence.  I wonder now when I turned a blind eye to that metamorphosis occurring in me.  When did it happen?  How did I neglect to mark the momentous event?  All I recall is how my words reflected for him.

John has abundant confidence when it comes to his work and filling his head with wondrous esoteric numbers, formulas and equations.  However, he needs a little hand when it comes to dealing with tangible living souls.  That's when he drags his feet, stumbles and doubts himself.

I think again of the whole situation with Cort.  When I first heard about his tragic shooting, I acted instinctively without thinking it through.  I just threw clothes at John as we had been about to have sex and told him to get dressed fast as we needed to get to the pub pronto.

I took charge and didn't think about how John would feel.  Yes, as friends, we should be there to support Cort, Bou and all the others.  But John has never formed close attachments to everyone at the pub.  He was uneasy at the best of times.  In a highly charged, dramatic affair such as this was, I should have taken into consideration the emotional snake pit I was casting him into. 

Not until he told me that he didn't do well in these types of situations was I made aware of how in over his head he was.  I had to remember that he's wired differently from most people because of his illness. 

I hurriedly gave him a few standard pat words of encouragement and basically abandoned him.  He came through with flying colors and thanked me again for supporting him as he really did want to do the right thing by being there.  John does care.

Never have I felt prouder of someone than I did that day.  Never have I felt more rewarded for my efforts.

Some of our best conversations have occurred at the pub with him drinking a beer and me tossing down mineral water.  Quite a switch of libations for me I know but I wanted to wean off all toxic substances.

I started in about the importance of having goals and keeping the prize in sight.  He came back with how he had many dreams and followed his own vision.  I didn't ask what his vision was.  That's private, and I respected that.

"Never surrender it," I said, "nor your dreams no matter what.  Keep them somewhere safe and warm."

He seemed a thousand miles away after that and was silent.  I wondered what he was thinking as I so often do.  It's become a pastime.  Just as I was about to change the subject entirely, he murmured, "I'll keep them under your pillow so when you dream, they'll blend with yours and provide a sheltered harbor for both of us."

My eyes filled at the lovely sentiment.

John taught me to play Go which was the chess like game he played at Princeton with his classmates.  I was a hopeless player but he patiently tried to teach me the strategy behind it.  While we were playing it one time, he brought up the topic of conformity.

I must admit that one perturbed me.  John was quite derogatory about "inferiors" and "hacks" at work who didn't have an original thought in their brains.  So why would he suddenly ask me if he should start aping others at the pub trying to be more like them.  I know the reasoning behind it.  He wanted to belong, to fit in.  No one can fault him for that.

Immediately, I shook my head.  "I like you for the man you are John.  All your little quirks make you, you.  Don't start playing the game now at this advance stage."

"But when I say what I mean, people take offense.  I'm not following their code for which I don't have a translation for."

Rubbing my brow, a signal that he's getting the wheels to turn again, I reacted with, "But you told me that you don't want to be artificial, something you're not just for the sake of what other people call social graces.  You were right.  If it isn't natural for you, don't say or do it."

He was really struggling with this.  I didn't know how to make it easier for him.  In the end, he just dropped it but that didn't mean he didn't continue to ruminate on it.

As you can see, there's a lot to divulge about Professor Nash.  I definitely would be remiss however if I didn't touch on how special he makes me feel when we get romantic.

It's not so much that he's starry-eyed or maudlin cause I would be lying if I said he was anything close to that.  He just does little gestures or lets me know in so many ways that I'm on his mind.

We were at the pub one night just after we first started going out.  I can see it clearly in my mind.  We were standing by the jukebox.  I was looking through the selections of songs, and he took the coins out of my hand and he told me to close my eyes.

"Why," I couldn't resist asking.

"Just do it please," was his response.

So I did and heard him drop the coins into the slot.  A few seconds later, a well-loved country tune of mine started playing.  As soon as I heard the music, my eyes flew open and went right to his.

There's a lot of ways of saying
What I want to say to you
There's songs, and poems and promises
And dreams that might come true
But I won't talk of starry skies
Or moonlight on the ground
I'll come right out and tell you
I'd just love to lay you down

My cheeks flamed and I instantly became aroused.

"It's how I feel whenever I'm around you," he whispered.

"How did you know that this is one of my favorite songs?"

He smiled enigmatically.  "It wasn't that difficult to ascertain.  You've played it about a hundred times."

"Yeah but that was before we even got together.  That was even before the hockey game, way back in February."

"I know."

He had been watching me even then and noting love songs I was drawn to.  How amazing is that?  And how amazing is that the opening words of that very same song suited his style so very well.

I can tell you for sure we did exactly what the song said to do, and it was glorious.  It was one of our best times together.

Sometimes when we make love, not often as we usually don't talk a lot, he'll make an observation, inserting it quietly when I'm in a wild frenzy about to release my pleasure.

"Your eyes are like a sea of midnight blue."

It stops me in my tracks.  He has that much power over me with his simple sincerity.

A couple of weeks ago, he brought home a wildflower that he had snatched haphazardly from a field on his way home.  He gave it to me saying, "I hope it's not a weed."

I gave a big sneeze as I inhaled its fragrance and we both laughed.  I pressed it into the pages of a book recalling his next sentence.

"Its color (it was deep purple, indigo blue and forest green) is vibrant like its owner.  Its aroma is subtle, not heavy like your perfume.  It's unpruned by human hands-totally unspoiled and untouched.  That's how I see you."

How can you not adore such a man?  How can he not wriggle into the corners of your heart?

At this juncture of the story, it takes what seems to be an abrupt turn but really is just an accurate progression and extension of what John and I have built together.  I apologize for the disjointness and any confusion that might arise.

This is not a fairy tale.  Happy endings are not always in the near future. You see this is the part that is not so good and not so wonderful.  We're both responsible and must accept our own share of the blame.

You might think I should have put this into another chapter, even another chronicle or simply not have written it at all.  But there's good and bad in real life, and John and I can't get any more real then where we are now.

I'm writing this about a month after the first part.  As I read over what I have recounted, I'm cheered by the happy delightful memories but those memories have become tainted by my sadness.  Some things are starting to change for us or more specifically for me.

Those same things we tend to over-romanticize or what draws us to another at the beginning of an affair can also later repel at the same time despite all of our will and determination to the contrary.

Please keep in mind that I care deeply for John.  I would not wish to disparage him or have him wounded in any way.  I just think the rose-colored shades are dimming a little.  It's unfortunate when that happens.  I think a little bit of you dies when the heady optimism or first bloom starts to fade.

I don't remember the exact moment when I started having doubts and second guessing my motives as well as John's.  I can't even recall a specific incident that set off my misgivings.

I got up one morning, made my coffee as usual in my apartment and a feeling of utter dread gripped me and goose bumps broke out.  It was like someone was walking over my grave.

John and I had a good thing going so why was I suddenly so frightened that my future was starting to backslide?  Everything was going gangbusters...wasn't it?

You know how sometimes you get an image in your head that you can't shake like some dumb song that rolls around and around echoing into your consciousness?  Well it wasn't an image for me.  It was one simple word:  "Caretaker".

The excruciating thought that followed it-have I put myself into caretaking mode to fulfill another man's role of me or the simple desire that I have to be needed?

I feel like stampeding immediately on the trail of this to John's defense.  It's not a conscious concept that he has of me.  I perceive John's devotion to me.  He wants me to lean on him too so that we sustain each other. 

Can I really do that?  What if I'm so busy and worried about him and what he's up to that I'm never able to listen to the other needs that I have that he's not able to meet?  What if his enormous need sublimates my natural wants and aspirations?  Are we really equal in this relationship?

These are some of the questions that have I been fighting with daily the past little while.  I don't like not knowing the answers.

As I write this down, I feel horrible for having these thoughts.  John is a kind man who is often sweet, but he can be selfish at times.

It's no revelation for you to know that he loses himself in his work.  He is a workaholic and frequently brings it home with him.  

I try to show interest even though a lot of it is incomprehensible to me.  He can get pretty patronizing then at having to explain in the most basic terms about what he actually teaches. 

He also does more than teach.  In his movie, back in the 50s, he worked for a company called Rand Corporation.  Occasionally, he would take on decoding assignments.  You all must remember the scene at the Pentagon where he just stupefies everybody by gazing at that big wall of numbers and figuring out that they're map coordinates that can be used in the Cold War fight.

Here, at Patten & Cooper Corporation, he does the same mysterious top-secret kind of stuff.  When I stray into that grey area, he simply shuts down and utters one crisp word, "Classified."  I grew quite sick of hearing its metallic sound, so eventually I didn't ask him any more about his work.

When he did have to mark assignments or do whatever research he was doing, I would be responsible for keeping his coffee mug filled or ordering in for our meals.  That wasn't a big deal.  What was?  Being ignored.

He seemed to like having me at his apartment, by his side.  However, if he wasn't going to talk to me, I might as well have stayed at my own place.  I hate being taken for granted.

On the days he does take off or sets aside for us, we don't do the things I would like to do like day trips into the city to see museums, art galleries, shows or exhibitions.  He hates movies.  He calls them 'trivial tripe'.  How's that for alliteration?

So much of my life has been spent indoors, out of the sun, doing sedentary hobbies like reading, writing or needle work.  This is due to lack of money, lack of companions or just plain lack of opportunities as a single person.  Now I have someone in my life to share all these new activities with, and he's not interested.  That hurts.

John is content to stay home or go to the pub.  I feel like a caged butterfly that has just begun to see what her wings are for.  I suppose I could get off my duff and do these things on my own, but half the joy comes from being with the person you're seeing.  I want to be with John.  I have more ambition though than being a couch potato.

He's still often late when we do plan things.  Oh, he's got much better at it.  I'll give him that.  Yet, when he runs in, he's distracted, mind off elsewhere and he has to ask me to repeat myself.  Out of the million things that are on his mind, can't I rate high enough for him to ask me how my day went?  I don't think he's ever asked me that, not even once.

Does it sound like I'm nit-picking here?  To my ears, sometimes I think I'm making mountains out of molehills.  I go back and forth like this all the time like a hamster on a treadmill.

The one thing that has always remained genuine and beautiful is our love making.  John is very passionate and loves to fondle and caress.  He's a fiery hands-on lover with a tremendous appetite and stamina that frequently outlasts mine.

Outside of the bedroom, the physicality becomes a problem.  Again, this is out of his control and is due mainly to his illness.  I should be more understanding and more compassionate.  You see touching apart from sex is troublesome and onerous for him.

He draws back from the contact.  No, it's more like he withdraws inside.  When we're out walking, I often forget and just reach for his hand.  He tries so hard not to show it but I see for just a split second a curtain of almost but not quite revulsion creep over his features.

John would do nothing so overt like dropping my hand or refusing to let me hold it, he just exerts no pressure.  The odd time, he will squeeze it back if I squeeze his first, but it's rare.

When I first noticed his dilemma with touch, I was so bewildered that I went on to my computer and read everything I could about schizophrenia.  It doesn't affect all victims but some react to touch either with indifference or a flat effect or they go to the extreme and are repulsed by it.

Will I ever get used to that?  Do I want to grow accustomed to it?  Should I have to accept that his reserve even for me will never be fully breached?

That's not even our most contentious battle.  Recently, a lot of arguments seem to be cropping up.

He tends to make jokes about 'being crazy' that I'm not amused by.  Maybe I should just lighten up, but I hate when he does it.    

Only last week, he made a similar reference when he said, "Maybe there's not a method to my madness as the good bard would have us believe."  I don't even remember what we were discussing at the time to make him say it.   

"Don't do that," I told him off.  "Don't make light of it."

His eyes pierced me as he retorted, "Why shouldn't I?  It's part of my life.  I've accepted it.  Maybe it's you who is having trouble with this Karen."

Giving him a quizzical look, I asked him to explain himself.

He walked to the kitchen, came back out and stood with his hands on his hips.  "Sometimes I just sense that you're walking on eggshells around me waiting for the sky to cave in, for me to flip out.  It's like you're petrified of what your reaction might be."

Okay, it wasn't my best moment here.  I got angry because he had just got a little too close.  See what I mean about him reading people?

I didn't want to fess up to just how frightened I was of that happening so I barked out a feeble protest, "Don't analyze me John.  You're not a shrink, and I'm not your patient."

Storming into his bedroom, I slammed the door.  Ten minutes later, I felt guilty for lashing out. 

Between the fear and the guilt, I'm being consumed.  

I don't like the arguments.  Arguments turn into fights, and words are used like weapons and they can never be taken back.

I know I'm not being rational here.  On the one hand, I want to be always understanding, thoughtful and be able to predict and avoid potential conflicts.

On the other hand, all the library books I have read say to treat people who are afflicted with this disease as you would anybody else but temper it by being alert for any signs of relapse and adjust yourself accordingly.  In other words, don't cut John any slack unless he's really sick. 

My instincts war with one another; be tolerant or firm.

The experts say keep him to his regimen.  Make sure he takes care of himself.  But there's the rub.  He doesn't.  I do.

Today was another banner day with a shining example of how tempers are beginning to flare.

The morning got off to a good start.  He remembered he had a class or more like he chose to go to it, told me he would be back in few hours and that he would provide lunch.

I had the brilliant idea that instead of us both eating some dismal, non-nutritious take-out; I would cook him a meal.  Never mind the fact that I had never cooked for a man before.

Knowing I had recipes at home, I zoomed over to my place, grabbed the card that roughly told me how to make tuna casserole darted over to the grocery store for ingredients and dashed back.  I felt good about this, and I hummed and sang while prepping all the food.

Good old Murphy's Law intervened and seriously broke my sense of humor.  I threw too much salt into the mix.  I tasted a sample, made a revolting pucker and spat it back out into the sink.  After I added other stuff to try and make it more palatable, I stuck it in the oven.

I went back into the living room and read a magazine.  Thirty-five minutes later, I wondered why the timer hadn't gone off.  It was here while I was in the kitchen discovering that I had set the clock wrong that John barged into the apartment.

Taking the burnt sodden mess out of the oven, I must have jumped about five feet in the air.  Boy, did I let him have it with both barrels.

I shouted at him, "Can you give me some warning or something before you charge in.  Fuck!"

Then he said something very unwise about my cooking skills.  I saw red.  I threw the stirring spoon at his head after I had knocked off all the hot congealed mess that was supposed to be lunch.

How dare he make sport of my cooking?  At least I was trying here.  I thought I was doing a nice thing.  I thought I was demonstrating my high regard for him.  What had he done for me lately?

All of my worry, all of my concern, all of my edginess came out when I snapped, "Don't be so bloody dense.  I thought you might like a home-cooked meal for a change.  Your eating habits are atrocious.  You eat out all the time.  When's the last time you had a nutritious meal?  Don't fucking answer that!  It was a rhetorical question."

Fed up, I still carried on, "John, you have to take better care of yourself.  What happens if you get sick?  Don't you have to watch things like that?"

These were all valid points.  I wanted to add that I couldn't be there 24-7 to baby sit, but I clamped down and reined it in.

He then made a remark about leaving while my temper cooled making me feel like a three year old who has just thrown a tantrum.

As I was about to run out, he stopped me with his reaction.  "Your behavior is totally illogical.  I did exactly what I said I would.  I did not forget (meaning he remembered to bring lunch).  And you're still angry with me?  Why?  WHY?  Just tell me what I have done wrong.  And if you're worried about my welfare, why are you walking out on me?"

Well, that just did it in for me.  I burst out crying in huge gasping sobs.  All the tension finally caught up to me.  I couldn't believe what I had just done.  I never ever thought I would be violent with John.  I didn't want to be like one of those silly girls from his past who slapped him--women who didn't know anything about the man like I did.

Yet, here, I had almost done the equivalent by hurling something at him.  What had I done?  This was not the woman any more who was nurturing and soft.  Where was my benevolence?  Where was my indulgence?

I cried even louder realizing I wasn't the woman I needed to be for him.  Poor John didn't know what to do other than give me his handkerchief. 

God!  I was making an utter mess of our lives.  I wanted to run into his arms and beg forgiveness.  It didn't matter who was wrong or who was right.  It only mattered that we strove for harmony.

Yet, if he rejected my touch, I knew I would die, just crumble up into a little ball or melt into the floor like a large puddle.

I tried to explain my wrath.  I don't think he got it which bugged me because he so often does get me except of late.

He mumbled, "I don't really understand.  You don't have to apologize to me.  I'm usually the one doing something unacceptable.  No reason why you can't have a turn now and again, is there?  You must understand your reasons, even if no one else does.  That's the thing about what goes on in our heads.  Just because someone else can't see it, doesn't make it not real."

But I needed him to see it.  I stopped the crying jag, but I wanted to let him know that he disappointed me by not putting himself in my shoes for five seconds.

Then he surprised me.  I told you in the very beginning, he's very good at that.  I didn't even have to hint or prime him up.

He said, "Can I hold you?  Perhaps if I did, you'd feel better."

I said, "Make it a good one.  Pretend you're my mother."

John opened up his arms, I went into them.  For the first time, outside of intercourse, he hugged me tight and close.  I reveled in the intimacy.  If only it would have lasted forever.

We went to bed but instead of feeling comforted and content like I usually do, I felt myself breaking away inside.  I was losing a part of me, a very large part.  I was losing John.

Terror welled up in me, and I clung to him for dear life.  He probably still bears the marks of my nails on his back.

The cooking incident has taught me an important lesson.  I can't always be the woman I want to be.  Before, I wrote that losing my edge was a good thing and it is.  I have a very sharp tongue that's quick to cut and it should be curbed.  Nevertheless, I'm beginning to resent that I have to subjugate all the mean bad stuff that's not necessarily evil.  That side of me drives me.  That side of me gets me up in the morning and sends me off to conquer another day.  That side prevents me from being taken advantage of.  It's a balancing act that I have to juggle.

Until now, I've been trying to bury all the dark, and that's why the pressure cooker is building and starting to crack and swell.  Until now, John has had an image of me in his head as an angel, a somewhat tarnished one but still...his savior.  He has had blinders on.

I can't possibly always live up to his ideal.  I don't even want to.  Those wings are pretty big and tough to don every day.  And now as I slip and John sees more of the devil behind my halo, I wonder will he want to put up with me.  Is there a man out there who will ever want to put up with me as I am?

I haven't even mentioned the dreams yet.  I have no intention of revealing their content to John, to you, to anyone.  Just know this.  They twist at my heart, wrap around my head and grapple my soul.  They haunt me.  They are obstacles to our happiness, our security and our growth.

I'm choosing to end this story here as I have done what I set out to do.  I have told you my story about John and our life together, the good and the bad.  Perhaps, I should have done the reverse and ended with the good.  That's how I think of John mostly, as a giving and tender man.  It's only fitting then that I conclude as I began because the words still ring true.

My dear sweet funny John, how I adore him.

Is that enough?