I need...

... A punching bag. A real one. Sturdy, solid, and canvas. The sort of thing that I can hit as hard as I can and scrape my knuckles raw and bloody.

My husband play-fought with me just now, and it was such an extraordinary relief that when I tired I immediately collapsed against him and burst into tears. He let me hit him pretty hard, though I kept my punches to his defensive forearm for the most part. He said he won't be bruised from it tomorrow, but I think I will. I hope I will.

H never lets me play like that. He made me promise a long time ago that I would never take a swing at him again, even in play. Not even in play! But he let me just now. When he left me to go upstairs to bed I thanked him, told him it makes a big difference to me to be able to let loose like that from time to time. I told him it was fun. He gave me a smile full of tolerance and sadness and said, "It's not fun for me."

I wish my knuckles stung more right now.