The Caretaker’s Lament

More about The Caretaker’s Lament

[Intro]

[Verse]
He’s now my job; he was once my joy.
Somewhere along the way, love became duty,
and the life we built together became a slow and cruel progression until the final breath.
There’s nothing left to look forward to now. Each day begins with dread.
I spend my days trying desperately to hold together.
My life has changed—and not for the better.
I wake each morning with a heaviness in my chest,
before my feet even touch the floor,
wondering what misery this new day will bring.
Will today be peaceful,
or will I spend another day walking on eggshells?
Will there be anger? Confusion? Accusations?
Will I have to explain, once again,
that I am not the enemy?
I cry every day.
Sometimes quietly, behind a closed bathroom door, and in the shower
where no one can see or hear the sobbing and tears
or hear the woman I used to be
breaking beneath the weight of everything.
He was once kind.
He was the man who made me laugh,
the man whose hand I reached for without thinking,
the man I loved—not because I had to,
but because loving him was the easiest thing in the world.
Now he can be cruel.
Words that would once have been unthinkable
come from the mouth of the man I remember.
Anger replaces tenderness.
Suspicion replaces trust.
And sometimes I look into his eyes
searching for the man I married,
wondering if he is still somewhere inside.
Horrible awful things flow from his mouth. I cannot Un-hear them.
They haunt my waking hours and my dreams.
I know this is not his fault.
I know there are things happening inside his mind
that neither of us asked for.
But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.
It doesn’t make the loneliness disappear.
It doesn’t make the exhaustion disappear.
It doesn’t stop me from grieving
for someone who is still sitting right beside me.
That is the cruelest part.
He is here.
And yet, I miss him.
I miss the man who used to see me.
The man who knew my heart.
The man who would have been horrified
to know how much I cry now.
Sometimes I feel guilty for wanting a life of my own.
Guilty for being tired.
Guilty for wishing for one quiet morning
when nobody needs anything from me.
But I am tired.
So very tired.
I am his caretaker now,
but I am still a woman with a heart
that needs tenderness, too.
I am still a person—not just a pair of hands
to cook, clean, remind, protect,
and endure.
And somewhere beneath the exhaustion,
beneath the grief and anger and guilt,
there is still a small piece of me
whispering:
Because I can love someone
and still admit that this is breaking me.
I can understand why he changed
and still mourn the man he was.
And perhaps someday
I will wake up without asking,
“What misery will this new day bring?”