Last night was not a stellar night for our relationship. Brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, my husband suddenly wanted to be intimate, and I flatly expressed zero interest. In all these years, his expressing a desire to make love was what I longed for. To be wanted. Not to mention that I was always a sensual person, and so there are literally years of my life when I’d be so physically frustrated, unable to sleep, holding back tears and wondering why and how I was living in such a lonely, painful marriage.
I probably had at least a normal, if not above average, libido. When we were young, and after a typical many weeks of no intimacy, I was arguing with him about why we didn’t have sex, and practically begging him to figure it out so we could, and he accused me of being a nymphomaniac. It almost makes me laugh now. Almost. He could have been one of the most sexually satisfied men on the planet for all those years. I was that wife, the one who would have catered to him.
About a week ago, we did have sex. We were going to bed and he was being sweet, expressing that he wanted it, and I’d had that extra glass of wine, and it happened. As it can be with him when he’s in the right mood, it was great, but I realized the next morning that for me it had been just sex. Really good, but not making love.
Wow. What I would have given for all those years to have just great sex with him. Or just sex. But it was years that were always weeks and months of him withholding sex and affection.
Last night, there was no extra glass of wine. I was tired and relaxed, and wanted to sleep. We’d just watched a movie with our daughters. There was no special touching my arm or neck or sweetness of affection during the movie, or during the day for that matter. Just our normal getting along roommate kind of selves. Now suddenly sex?
I don’t think so. I didn’t last night either, and bluntly said so. Only I said more. I told him that all those years when I’d be wracked with a tortured kind of wondering if he was off taking care of his sexual need (because that meant not even a shred of possibility of my physical longing being satisfied) were over and gone, that I didn’t care anymore. I just didn’t care. I told him that I wasn’t that woman anymore, wasn’t the woman who was interested and longing and available like I was for all those YEARS. Because my physical needs are not as intense or ever present as those years. I told him I was glad that getting older meant I was feeling less physical need. Over three decades of available and affectionate. Now? I told him that he better not get upset about it, since for all those YEARS it worked out for him to withhold sex from me and take care of his own needs when I was practically begging for intimacy. Just carry on. Do whatever you’ve been doing, because I’m not interested.
He said that made him sad. He said he didn’t want to give up. He said he still believed things could be different for us.That’s when I felt angry. Did he say that? Too freaking bad. I don’t feel sad or bad if he actually feels sad. I heard myself saying those words to him last night, and although I was too tired to know that I was angry, I’m pretty sure that there was a dormant volcano of anger there. It surprises me that it surprised me.
When I woke up this morning, I didn’t even think about the conversation from bedtime until I sat down to blog. Even then, I was still only thinking that I should blog about the alarm clock, because it’s a good example of one of those strange little things that passive aggressive men can do to control, sabotage, and frustrate. I was part way into that post before I even remembered the rest.
Okay. I guess I do feel sad. I don’t hate him, and usually do feel like I love him. If God is working a miracle in his heart, then I don’t want to be blind or bitter. I want peace in my heart and life. I’m going to call out for God’s mercy to guide and protect me.