I went to drink myself into oblivion because of what it meant for us. You and me.
[The realization that the road to recovery was a lot longer than they'd been willing to admit, much of it an uphill climb. And almost all of it because of him.]
Don't get me wrong, it hurt like hell to see the journal and the picture out of nowhere. But the grief isn't new; I've dealt with it for a long time.
[It's not that he's necessarily found peace with either of his big losses; he's not sure that's really possible. But he was a small boy when his mother died, and he's lived much longer without her than with her. It's not nearly so easy to face Sam's death, but even then it's been more than ten years, and the pain isn't quite so sharp. He doesn't think about it every day.]
But what does it say about us, that this happens and we both go to pieces? I think the worst of you, you think the worst of me. At least you had the real excuse of not knowing what it is you had.
Sure, in space there's no way I could go running off to solve another Francis Drake mystery, assuming one even exists—and it doesn't, as far as I know—but why should you have believed that I wouldn't want to? You didn't trust me, but that's because I never gave you reason to!
[His voice is growing more agitated, his face pinched with distress. How could they have not seen it coming? It was inevitable. If it hadn't been the journal that set them off, it would have been something else. He was a blind idiot when he walked out on their marriage, and in some ways that hasn't changed, even after Yemen.]
We've both been acting like everything's been fixed since we've been here, but it's not. We were kidding ourselves—we never talked about our problems, and this is the result.
no subject
[The realization that the road to recovery was a lot longer than they'd been willing to admit, much of it an uphill climb. And almost all of it because of him.]
Don't get me wrong, it hurt like hell to see the journal and the picture out of nowhere. But the grief isn't new; I've dealt with it for a long time.
[It's not that he's necessarily found peace with either of his big losses; he's not sure that's really possible. But he was a small boy when his mother died, and he's lived much longer without her than with her. It's not nearly so easy to face Sam's death, but even then it's been more than ten years, and the pain isn't quite so sharp. He doesn't think about it every day.]
But what does it say about us, that this happens and we both go to pieces? I think the worst of you, you think the worst of me. At least you had the real excuse of not knowing what it is you had.
Sure, in space there's no way I could go running off to solve another Francis Drake mystery, assuming one even exists—and it doesn't, as far as I know—but why should you have believed that I wouldn't want to? You didn't trust me, but that's because I never gave you reason to!
[His voice is growing more agitated, his face pinched with distress. How could they have not seen it coming? It was inevitable. If it hadn't been the journal that set them off, it would have been something else. He was a blind idiot when he walked out on their marriage, and in some ways that hasn't changed, even after Yemen.]
We've both been acting like everything's been fixed since we've been here, but it's not. We were kidding ourselves—we never talked about our problems, and this is the result.