I Don’t Want to Need to Know

I know I’m in the middle of a series right now, but healing doesn’t always wait for structure. Last night stirred something in me, and I want to honor that by sharing this real-time moment. This is the messy middle — where fear lives beside hope, and where love and anxiety breathe in the same room.

I have no eyes.

I cannot see.

I wait all night.

I am not free.

All I have 

is anxiety.

Last night, I realized something: I have no way to see where he is anymore. He sold his car, and I don’t have the new one connected to my phone — and I don’t know that I ever will.

My anxiety is loud.

Part meds I forgot to take.

Part caffeine.

Part history whispering old fears I wish I could unlearn.

I tried checking whether he was at the casino — no activity. So right now, I don’t know where he is, who he’s with, or what he’s doing.

If I choose trust, I tell myself he’s out with the guys.
He hasn’t seen his best friend in a while — it’s possible. Probable, even.

If I choose fear, then my brain goes back to hookah lounges and strip clubs — places where promises dissolved and trust cracked.
I hate feeling blind.

But sometimes I think I hate that I ever knew how to “see.”

If I’m fair, I’ll say this: he’s been showing up more lately.

Yesterday he came home early to cook dinner and spend time with my daughter — his princess. Not biologically his, but unquestionably his in every way that matters.

I joked that he comes home early for her but not for me — but if I’m honest, it warmed my heart. It still does.

If I’m even more honest, he still struggles with communication. I don’t want to control him — I can’t anyway. But I don’t like not knowing where my husband is, especially in a world where people vanish and headlines feel too close to home.

Knowing where your spouse is shouldn’t feel like surveillance — it should feel like safety, partnership, basic courtesy.

He expects the same from me. If I’m not home, I get a call.
I rarely go anywhere without telling him.

And the truth?

Even if he told me where he was… I don’t know that I’d believe it.

Not yet. Not without consistency. Not without trust rebuilt piece by piece.

So I ask myself:
Why bother?
What difference does it make?

I’m not leaving.

I guess I bother because hope hasn’t died yet.

Because part of me still believes we might build something honest one day.

And today — that’s enough to stay.

Hope is a soft thing, but somehow it’s still strong enough to hold me.