I Live In a Sexless Marriage
We spent yesterday morning talking through why this was happening, what we meant to each other, we spoke of needs, of issues, of loneliness, dreams, faults. Our humanity and our love. And we spoke, with hopefulness, of a continued yet radically different, platonic love in the future.
After he had packed up his truck and we'd hugged tightly, then said our goodbyes, it was shockingly painful. A howl from the very deepest place in my soul. It literally shook me. That we couldn't make it work, anymore, after twenty years of doing so. That *I* couldn't make it be enough for me. It was then I realized that in our talk, we'd never spoken of guilt. Sure, it's nobody's fault. You can only give as much as you have, and sometimes people need more. But the guilt I felt for that need...that *more*, was mind-bogglingly heavy duty.
So the sobs started, and didn't let up. I'd get myself under control, trying to distract myself from the sudden deafening silence in the house, the uneasy feeling of him being gone, only to start the gut-wrenching water-works all over again.
The rooms in the house, all slightly empty in various spots where he'd taken some thing or another felt--wrong. The house *feels* empty. Too big. Too quiet. And yet he's still here even after he has left, little pieces, reminding me.
Yesterday also happened to be my brother's birthday. The STBX had given me a nice camera last year for my own birthday, and when he was packing, neither one of us could find it. So, knowing I was going to have to go and be horribly, falsely, happy, I started looking for the camera again, mostly to distract myself from the hot tears.
Perhaps as mistake.
Looking for the camera had me in closets, in boxes, suitcases, and drawers...all filled with little pieces of our life together, filled with pieces of the relationship with the only man I've been with since I was 23 years old.
In looking through the vanity drawers in our bedroom, it was like an archaeological dig through the years of our marriage. The vanity is beautiful and a family antique, but I'd never really used it as a vanity. Instead it has long been a catch-all in our bedroom, where pockets of change would go, or I'd end up stuffing things that just didn't have a home.
The top layers represented recent history...Viagra and Cialias tablets, A Father's Day card to him from me in June, movie stubs from the last one we'd seen. A picture of us in the restaurant that we go to every year on our anniversary because we'd had our first date there. As I dug through all this, all these little moments kept flashing through my head...the Viagra failures, the hand-holding at the movies, our once again sexless anniversary this year-- arguments and good times, all shuffled together.
And the guilt and doubt and fear kept rolling over me like a train.
Then came the ancient past of our relationship...a handful of extra wedding invitations. The guest book. The card I'd stuffed into his tuxedo bag for him to read as he was getting dressed for the big day....the love expressed in that card that I knew would be forever...the dream. And finally, at the bottom, the first picture we'd ever taken together.
I sat on the bed with these relics of our history strewn about around me, and felt completely and utterly broken. A failure. Doubting my courage to go forward, doubting my decision to end it. Missing the comfort and joy and happiness of those feelings with him. Wondering how I was going to make it without the person I've lived with longer than anyone on the planet. But thankfully, there was one more small, almost insignificant layer. Of the time before him. Of my early adulthood. A few pictures from an old friends wedding, a paper I had written in college that had won a prize, a handful of beads my trip to MardiGras when I was 16.
Thankfully there were joyful times before him. And, after I heal, hopefully there will be joy in my future.
Never did find that camera...
After he had packed up his truck and we'd hugged tightly, then said our goodbyes, it was shockingly painful. A howl from the very deepest place in my soul. It literally shook me. That we couldn't make it work, anymore, after twenty years of doing so. That *I* couldn't make it be enough for me. It was then I realized that in our talk, we'd never spoken of guilt. Sure, it's nobody's fault. You can only give as much as you have, and sometimes people need more. But the guilt I felt for that need...that *more*, was mind-bogglingly heavy duty.
So the sobs started, and didn't let up. I'd get myself under control, trying to distract myself from the sudden deafening silence in the house, the uneasy feeling of him being gone, only to start the gut-wrenching water-works all over again.
The rooms in the house, all slightly empty in various spots where he'd taken some thing or another felt--wrong. The house *feels* empty. Too big. Too quiet. And yet he's still here even after he has left, little pieces, reminding me.
Yesterday also happened to be my brother's birthday. The STBX had given me a nice camera last year for my own birthday, and when he was packing, neither one of us could find it. So, knowing I was going to have to go and be horribly, falsely, happy, I started looking for the camera again, mostly to distract myself from the hot tears.
Perhaps as mistake.
Looking for the camera had me in closets, in boxes, suitcases, and drawers...all filled with little pieces of our life together, filled with pieces of the relationship with the only man I've been with since I was 23 years old.
In looking through the vanity drawers in our bedroom, it was like an archaeological dig through the years of our marriage. The vanity is beautiful and a family antique, but I'd never really used it as a vanity. Instead it has long been a catch-all in our bedroom, where pockets of change would go, or I'd end up stuffing things that just didn't have a home.
The top la
And the guilt and doubt and fear kept rolling over me like a train.
Then came the ancient past of our relationship...a handful of extra wedding invitations. The guest book. The card I'd stuffed into his tuxedo bag for him to read as he was getting dressed for the big day....the love expressed in that card that I knew would be forever...the dream. And finally, at the bottom, the first picture we'd ever taken together.
I sat on the bed with these relics of our history strewn about around me, and felt completely and utterly broken. A failure. Doubting my courage to go forward, doubting my decision to end it. Missing the comfort and joy and happiness of those feelings with him. Wondering how I was going to make it without the person I've lived with longer than anyone on the planet. But thankfully, there was one more small, almost insignificant la
Thankfully there were joyful times before him. And, after I heal, hopefully there will be joy in my future.
Never did find that camera...
By:
msdamgoode
Age:
41-45
,
Female
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