It’s impossible to understand the dynamics of a couple without looking at the down and dirty nitty-gritty of their most intimate secrets. So let’s lay it all out on the table, shall we?
We have what appears to be an ongoing argument. A friction point. The place in time and space where — simultaneously — our needs are not met by the other and we each lash out with vicious abandon. Yes, I am ashamed. I’ve never told anyone else about this perpetual disturbance in the force. Well, at least not any normal person, psychologists and mental health counselors not included.
After a decade of going round and round with no clear outcome or advance in communication, I think I’ve finally figured out the pattern. I do something he doesn’t like and in response, he shuts me out and fumes about it. I can tell something’s wrong by his expression, posture, and hostile tone so I immediately ask what’s wrong. His response? “Nothing. / I’m fine. / Just leave me alone.”
Over the years I’ve learned to give him a little more space when I notice something’s up. So instead of grilling him about what the problem is, I try to ignore him, to “leave him alone” as he so desperately pleads. This strategy seems to work for avoiding confrontation, but it doesn’t solve anything in the long-term, and it leaves me feeling suddenly and awkwardly alone in the middle of an otherwise perfect outing.
I start to fume because I can tell he’s lying and I know he’ll continue to fume about it and blow up at the most minute inconvenience or incompetence on the part of any unsuspecting person — including myself or our 3 year old. This has to stop before it gets out of hand, so I try again. “What’s wrong?”
He tries to be evasive by saying he doesn’t want to talk about it, and points out that anything he says will just start and argument because I can’t handle criticism. I counter with my own attack about him not knowing how to soften the blow, and although we might not be officially yelling, we’ve both jumped into the lion’s den with swords and spears at the ready.
As his patience wears thin, he starts feeling cornered and batters me with a litany of complaints and abuses aimed to wound, scar, and terrify me into ultimatums of shaping up or shipping out.
I break down in tears and begin screaming about how much he hates me and blames my very existence for his miserable, wretched life. He says that’s not true and then starts campaigning again against all the things I do that annoy, aggravate and antagonize him.
We go on like this until one of us is too upset to say anything more, or one of us acknowledges that we should move out. The rioting begins to simmer down, leaving both of us emotionally bloodied and torn. Neither one of us has ever actually followed through on our threats to vacate the relationship, but I do give it some serious consideration every now and again.
I am not happy when he’s miserable, that’s for sure. I do not love him when he’s like this. And, well, it’s pretty much all the time. He’s bitchy and miserable first thing in the morning because he never gets good sleep so I try to steer clear of him. He’s bitchy and miserable when he comes home from work in the evening, so… I try to steer clear of him. If he’s feeling companionable, he’ll kiss me on the cheek and say hello with a tiny smile, but then he still disappears into the garage to be alone.
Dinner time is almost always stressful: our daughter refuses to eat anything I make for dinner. Dave scowls if it’s anything other than chicken, pasta, or red meat. Most of the time he eats what I make for dinner, occasionally he won’t because he “just can’t stomach it” for whatever reason (stress, misery, heartburn, digestive problems, etc.). He does, however, always look me in the eye when he sits down at the table and says ”Thank you for making dinner.”
I love him so much when he’s nice to me. I’m crying right now just thinking about it. I’m also very aware that I’m crying because I’m starved for attention and tender loving care. He doesn’t know how to be tender, or romantic, or passionate. He doesn’t know how to have fun or enjoy things. He’s just…miserable.
I love my husband because he is a good provider. I hate him because he is so fucking miserable all the time.
How different would my life be if it were just me and Abagail living by ourselves, where we wanted to be living, in a house we actually liked living in with neighbors and friends we actually liked hanging out with? Seems too good to be true. But then I think about the small fraction of her father’s time she actually gets to spend with him. The nightly bedtime routine: toilet, teeth, and hair, followed by the stories shared and stories read before he tucks her into bed with a kiss, a snuggle, and a hug….
