Tricia Rose Burt

I said, you know, give me a break.

I've been married to the guy for five years, and that's my husband's car.

Where's my husband?

And right at that moment, he rounds the corner with an overnight bag.

And I say, you know, I think we need to talk.

And he says, well, where do you want to talk?

And I say, how about across the street at my apartment?

I live at 304 Beacon Street, and she lives at 309 Beacon Street, which he knows.

He convinces me that it is not a physical affair, but a spiritual one.

And a dear friend says, Tricia, that's worse, plus he's lying to you.

My husband and his girlfriend don't last.

We start going to marriage counseling, and I plunge into a very scary depression.

I'm pacing along the Charles River, crossing the bridges, and walking the same circle over and over again.

I keep looking at my arms because I'm convinced I have sores all over my body.

My throat is so tight, I can only eat mashed potatoes and chicken broth, nothing crunchy.

So I'm incredibly thin, and I look like I should be hospitalized.

The only way I can get out of bed is to figure out how many hours until I can get back in it.

I can concentrate for about five minutes at a time, and my nerves feel the way sunburned skin feels when you open up a really hot oven.

With the help of a bevy of therapists and heavy medications, I'm able to continue working and pay my bills and keep going to art school.

And art school is what gets me through this separation.