Part 7 – Let’s Go to Bed.
Part history, part philosophy, all me.
When I read about marriage, I’m somewhat comforted. After years together – life, jobs, children – a couple isn’t the same as they were when they started dating. It’s no longer all-consuming. Priorities and responsibilities change. The time devoted to only each other shrinks and what’s left of it is often invaded by everything else. And the physical part of the relationship often suffers. It suffers.
We’ve probably all heard the myth that claims men reach their sexual peak at about 18 while for women, the age is closer to 35. And we’ve all been bombarded [from everywhere – movies, television, books, people – everywhere] with the idea that men always want it but women don’t… Not tonight, honey, I have a headache.
I have never uttered those words in my life.
[Besides, everyone knows (or should know) that orgasms cure headaches. For everyone, right? It occurs to me at this very moment that maybe it’s just me. Good thing I can self-treat. But I digress.]
I want sex. I want to be kissed and to kiss. I want to make love and be made love to. I want it sweet and romantic and I want it wild and impetuous. I want it slow and I want it rushed. I want to be cherished and I want to be fucked. I want it all.
And I’m not getting it.
I know stress can really fuck with people’s minds. Oh hell, yes, I know… intimately. But that shouldn’t stand in the way of sex. Hell, sex should help that! But that was never the therapy he was looking for. In reality, he wasn’t looking for any therapy. We drifted and the longer this goes on, the farther we drift. It’s not just him. It’s me, too.
Oh, I still want it all (as noted above). It’s just that I’ve drifted to a path where I don’t want it with him. I’ve lost that lovin’ feeling, if you will… with him. But god knows I haven’t lost it at all otherwise. It’s only grown.
John knows I’m a romantic and he knows he’s not. And I think this makes John believe that I need big romantic gestures. But I don’t. Oh, I might like that – sometimes. (And I do not mean flowers and chocolates and anything you’ve ever seen in a jewelry store commercial.) But other times I just want to fuck, no big romantic gestures required. I want to be interrupted even when I look busy. I want to be grabbed because my man cannot possibly wait to have me. I want my man to ruin dinner.
Of course, none of this is especially realistic with two children. But they do go to sleep at night.
A few times, I tried talking to John about this [when I was still remotely interested in sex with him]. I told him what I wanted [again, back when I still maybe wanted him, but let’s be real… by then, I just wanted someone]. And a few times, it worked… but it never stuck. Kind of like many other conversations we have. He listens and maybe it sinks in… but before long, it’s out of his mind and gone… until the next time I talk to him about said topic.
However, I have discovered that if I ‘give up’ and stop talking about something for a while, eventually he may raise the issue himself. I feel that this is a miraculous revelation. And it’s great because sometimes, I’m done with talking.
I love words… but only if they have meaning.
If the words ‘I love you’ are muttered so often, so automatically, so habitually without thought, they lose meaning. I’ve been guilty of this. It was a reflex with us… like saying goodbye. In fact, it was goodbye. Iloveyoubye. A single word. A word that ended of every phone call. The last word John and I used to say to each other every time one of us left the house without the other. But we don’t even say it anymore. I can’t remember when I stopped, but I stopped first.
[Aside: I tell my children I love them all the time but somehow, it holds meaning with them. And I can’t imagine taking that away because it’s something I didn’t have as a child. My parents loved me – they showed it… they just didn’t say it.]
I have been with John for a long time. We bought a house. We got married. We made babies. We love our children. But I don’t love him. Not the way I should love my husband. Maybe not any way. I don’t know if he loves me. But for reasons that are not at all about love, I cannot see myself leaving him.
Were we ever in love?
I don’t know. Maybe I never knew. I know that I’m not in love now. What I do know is that I am in love with being in love. And that blurs things. It fucks with your head. It fucks with my head.
Most days, all of this gets to me and I feel terrible, lonely, broken.
Other days, I half-way accept that this is just what my life is and try not to let it break me.
Do I want more? Fuck yes. But no matter what anyone claims, we all want more sometimes – more of any of a billion different things, but more nonetheless.
I will even admit that I have thought about having my needs met by another. But it has never gone past thinking. Lots of thinking. I’m no angel but I don’t know that I could go through with it. And it’s not like I’ve got a willing partner waiting for me to abandon my morals anyway. [Although the phrase ‘abandon my morals’ sounds fucking great right now.]
So… John and I carry on. We will talk. Although mostly about kids and finances and other general goings-on. But about us? Not anymore. I was the only one who ever brought us up, and I gave up a long time ago. I don’t even want us anymore. But… we still laugh with each other and at each other because that’s who we are. We will not sleep togteher. We will not have date nights because we both think the idea is ridiculous. [If it works for you, go for it. It’s not for us.] We will co-exist.
And we will take care of each other and our children because that’s who we are, too.
But at the end of the day… something is most definitely missing.
But is this really the final chapter???
©2016 what sandra thinks