Off the rails

The last few days -- ever since the weekend, it seems -- D's e-mails have been getting shorter and shorter. This usually happens when she is upset about something, and often I respond by trying to dig it out of her right away. For some reason I just haven't felt up to it this week, so I have replied in kind ... shorter and shorter. I was hoping that she would decide this wasn't going anywhere, tell me what was on her mind, and then we could discuss it and get back to normal. When that didn't seem to get anywhere -- and as of this morning it hadn't -- I decided maybe I should say something. I wanted to tell her that we had entered a self-feeding cycle, that I was answering her silences with more silence, and that maybe this wasn't sustainable. And I wanted it to sound like caring, not carping. I wanted it to sound gentle, not critical. So I spent the day at work composing a poem:

Exchange

My love, she speaks me wisdom,
thought with keen-eyed clarity.
My love, she sings me verses
of immortal poetry.
Her kiss bursts into passion
and the flames to heaven leap.
But then she slips to silence,
and cries herself to sleep.

Her wisdom finds me grateful –
such a mind with such a heart!
Her songs I meet with rhyming,
my small baby steps at art.
From her passion I take fire,
as to burn myself away.
But toward her silence I get sullen,
and I cruelly silent stay.

Only I never got a chance to send it. When I got home and logged into my e-mail -- after feeding the boys dinner and getting them to bed -- I found the following note from D:

We are pretty seriously 'off the rails', and have been ever since you blasted me for anxiously inquiring about you when the mail system went down. [That would have been the event that I described here, but which I must confess to having understood in very, very different terms.] During the last couple of weeks, I have been badly managed by you; almost everything you have said seems to have made things worse, and I glumly realize the same may be true for my responses. I hate fighting with you because you are far more skilled than I, and because I fear prompting some response that would truly hurt me and make things worse. I also realize that my nagging doubts have been around since last year, and we need to figure out a better way of dealing with difficult issues than we have right now. I think it might be worthwhile to clear the air before we travel [we have been making plans for a tenth date]; we have very little time together and I'd like it to be loving.

I realize that you might prefer to communicate by e-mail, but that option is off the table; dialog is necessary. I'm sorry to be inflexible here, but an e-mail is not a letter, and what we need is genuine understanding, not an explanation.

Do take care; I have some grueling hours ahead for the next several days as .... [Here she explained some stuff that is going on at work.] My thoughts are always with you, as is my love.

OK, I'm probably being spoiled and petty, but after that I really didn't feel like sending her my poem. In fact, I didn't feel like much of anything except maybe hiding in a corner somewhere. A couple hours ago, I wrote back as follows.

Wow.

I don't know what to say. I know we are off the rails, and I spent the day composing something that I was going to send this evening about just that. But it is pretty obviously wrongheaded and out of place.

I suppose you are right that anywhere is better than here, so we should move somewhere else. But after being pummelled and bruised as badly as I was by reading your invitation immediately below, I'm not sure I have the heart or courage for the main event. Cowardly, I know, but that's always been one of my faults.

I understand from what you say that you are going to be really busy for a while. I am not going to be available afternoons for a couple of days. So I don't know when we can talk. Nor, honestly, can I imagine saying anything. I am at this point far too afraid of getting hit to stick my neck out.

I'd better sign off now. I hope you feel better soon.

As I say, that was only a couple of hours ago, so I have no idea what will come of it. What is it with me and high-maintenance women, anyway? Is it time for a drink yet?