I am around a week before my period..and feel so detached an


I am around a week before my period..and feel so detached and depressed..I want to be left alone...my husband is very supportive but I feel like not talking at all...I just want to have me time only...don't want to talk to husband but he is there constantly supporting me and it's annoying...

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Rdan's picture
6 hours ago

I'm a male so you rightfully can ignore anything I say. That being said- my first thought was as men we can be okay with working around many different circumstances but it's the lack of communication that can get to us. A dilemma in itself since obviously you don't feel like talking. On top of it it seems like you may be an introvert. Introverts generate energy from their own thoughts within. Extroverts generate energy speaking with others and when I interact with an extrovert I am left feeling drained and depleted; unless that extrovert is a very close friend of mine. Then I'm just happy - in spite of the hugs and high emotions. I have many "tools" in my marriage "tool box". But this calls foe a specific "tool". What do you think about a post it(s) or a notebook where you can write how you feel. The love is always there but the fluctuating emotions should be expressed because he's on this roller coaster with you. Well - there I said it. Maybe I can make it up to you.

Rdan's picture
6 hours ago

My apology offering: The SHMILY Story
By Laura Hammond
Married for over half a century, my grandparents played their own special game from the time they met each other. The game was to secretly write the word "SHMILY" in a surprise place for the other to later find. They took turns leaving "SHMILY" in unexpected places around the house. As soon it was discovered by one of them, it was then their turn to hide it once more.

They traced "SHMILY" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They painted it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm, homemade pudding. "SHMILY" was imprinted in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would magically reappear bath after bath. At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "SHMILY" on the very last sheet.

There was no end to the unusual places "SHMILY" would pop up. Little notes with "SHMILY" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "SHMILY" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace.

This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture. It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate their game. Skepticism had kept me from believing in true love – one that is pure and enduring. However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way of life.

The relationship of my grandparents was based on a devotion and passionate affection which very few are lucky enough to experience. Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble. My grandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how handsome an old man he had grown to be. She claimed that she really "knew how to pick 'em." And before every meal, they bowed heads to give thanks and marvel at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and each other.

But a dark cloud eventually crept into my grandparents' life: my grandmother got breast cancer. The disease had first appeared 10 years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, which he painted that color so she could always be surrounded by sunshine. He stayed with her when she was too sick to go outside. He was thrilled to rejoice with her when the cancer was later declared in remission.

Now the cancer was once again attacking her body. With the help of a sturdy cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they still went to church faithfully every Sunday morning. But my grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife.

Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone.


It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet.

As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins, and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby of endless love and gratitude.

Trembling with my own sorrow, I will never forget that magical moment. For I knew then that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been incredibly privileged to witness its unmatched beauty. And I will always carry with me the secret code word which playfully graced all of their many years together. S-H-M-I-L-Y: See How Much I Love You.

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1 hour ago

This is such an inspirational and powerful story...thankyou... It's not that I don't talk to him at all..he gives me massages for my cramps...he is that sweet..but my mood swings are too random...sometimes it's that I always need him and some time I just want to close the door and be alone in a room all day...


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