Happy Birthday?

"Don't confront me with my failures, I have not forgotten them" -- Jackson Browne

I should really be working on my taxes now, but events compel me to write. Tonight we had our support group meeting, and I dressed for the second time before a captive audience. The evening wasn't the immense thrill of the first time, but I love these people and I'm always happy to reconnect. They're one leg of my tripod o' support, along with the 360 crowd and my therapist. Couldn't make it without them. All good, but not why I write.

When I left for the meeting, I found a handwritten letter in my front seat from, you guessed it, my wife. I should say that letters have a history with us, going way back. She can, and does, talk circles around me, so I have occasionally written my thoughts, knowing I could never complete them otherwise. A few weeks back, I started a firestorm when I wrote two pages criticizing the "Don't ask, don't tell" and "No surprises" policies as conflicting and unworkable. I received in response a 12-page letter that singed my eyebrows. I swore to myself I wouldn't go the letter route anymore.

So I'm prepped for my monthly fix of happiness, on my birthday no less, and she drops a bomb. Here is the text of her letter:

Redacted

I'm not sure what I feel about this. It's clearly heartfelt and sincere. And she's hurting. Outside of growing out my fingernails for a month, I'm not sure what unpredictable things I've been doing. I cut those tonight post-meeting so she won't have to look at that reminder for awhile.
Though I profess to have the brain of a woman, I'm obviously still thinking like a man now, because I haven't a clue where to go with this. She complains that I'm not making her feel attractive, but when I do, I bring up bad feelings. I suspect I can't win on this one.