every time I felt like nothing more than another duty on his daily goals list, I loved him less. We weren’t making love at all; we were destroying it.
Can I put all the responsibility on him? I have, after all, only tried once to talk to him about it. That was such a disaster, though—can you blame me for not trying again? I might as well have been speaking Portuguese.
I think back to when we were newlyweds. I had thought he would be my shelter, and I would be his sanctuary. I put so much effort into making our home beautiful and clean. I worked hard to make his meals delicious and ready at just the right time. I went out of my way to be welcoming when he came home, to offer him a different world than the world of bonds and futures, to offer him a world where it was safe to let his guard down and relax. He didn’t seem to notice. I offered him this sanctuary, but he didn’t take it. He didn’t treat me like his sanctuary; he treated me like his employee.
After the kids were born, he had a daily goals list for me, too. That was insulting. Here I was raising three kids right in front of him and he still had no clue what it took to do that. He had no idea what it was like to go seven years without sleeping through the night once. No idea how much energy it took just to make sure all three kids were alive at the end of the day. That I accomplished keeping the kids alive and that I cooked, cleaned, did laundry, ironed, mowed the lawn, shopped, and made sure everyone was where they were supposed to be on schedule was something for which I would have liked a little recognition.
I remember a night when we actually hired a babysitter and went to a movie. I don’t remember the movie now, only that when it was over and everyone was filtering out of the theater, Phil bumped into a business associate and his wife. Phil made introductions, and after saying how it was nice to meet me, the business associate asked me if I worked. Before I could answer that yes, I worked very hard raising three kids and keeping a household running smoothly, Phil answered for me: “No, she doesn’t.” He might as well have slapped me across the face. I remember covering up my devastation with a smile and excusing myself. For a few minutes, I felt like the dam was about to burst, unleashing a flood of frustrations and tears I had been holding back for a long time. Then something in me snapped. Instead of getting depressed, I got angry. I left a note on his car that said “Since you don’t think what I do is work, I’m sure you won’t mind covering for me for the weekend.” Then I ran. I ran as far as I could and then called Fiona from a pay phone and asked her to pick me up at a nearby school. On my way, I plowed through the autumn leaves on the sidewalk, exhausted and heartbroken. I entered the schoolyard and sat on a swing. Angry tears fell. I laughed bitterly at myself for all my childhood idealism. I was so wrong about how wonderful it would be to be a mother and homemaker. After a while, Fiona came to pick me up. She took me to her house back in Rapid City, about a fifty-minute drive from our home in Summerville. At Fiona’s, I slept for two days. She woke me from time to time to feed me, and then left me to resume my sleep marathon. On the drive back to Summerville, she gave me the name of a divorce lawyer.
“What was that all about?” Phil asked when I opened the door.
“The next time you tell anyone I don’t work, I’m leaving you for good,” I said, looking him squarely in the eye. If he had chosen to apologize and acknowledge my work, I might still love him today, but he didn’t. As I watched his unapologetic expression, it hit me. I realized what I had committed my life to. It was in that exact moment I stopped loving him and began to find him utterly repulsive.
Now I sleep under the stars. I wish I had begun to do this a long time ago. I could have avoided feeling like there was something wrong with me for rejecting
Can I put all the responsibility on him? I have, after all, only tried once to talk to him about it. That was such a disaster, though—can you blame me for not trying again? I might as well have been speaking Portuguese.
I think back to when we were newlyweds. I had thought he would be my shelter, and I would be his sanctuary. I put so much effort into making our home beautiful and clean. I worked hard to make his meals delicious and ready at just the right time. I went out of my way to be welcoming when he came home, to offer him a different world than the world of bonds and futures, to offer him a world where it was safe to let his guard down and relax. He didn’t seem to notice. I offered him this sanctuary, but he didn’t take it. He didn’t treat me like his sanctuary; he treated me like his employee.
After the kids were born, he had a daily goals list for me, too. That was insulting. Here I was raising three kids right in front of him and he still had no clue what it took to do that. He had no idea what it was like to go seven years without sleeping through the night once. No idea how much energy it took just to make sure all three kids were alive at the end of the day. That I accomplished keeping the kids alive and that I cooked, cleaned, did laundry, ironed, mowed the lawn, shopped, and made sure everyone was where they were supposed to be on schedule was something for which I would have liked a little recognition.
I remember a night when we actually hired a babysitter and went to a movie. I don’t remember the movie now, only that when it was over and everyone was filtering out of the theater, Phil bumped into a business associate and his wife. Phil made introductions, and after saying how it was nice to meet me, the business associate asked me if I worked. Before I could answer that yes, I worked very hard raising three kids and keeping a household running smoothly, Phil answered for me: “No, she doesn’t.” He might as well have slapped me across the face. I remember covering up my devastation with a smile and excusing myself. For a few minutes, I felt like the dam was about to burst, unleashing a flood of frustrations and tears I had been holding back for a long time. Then something in me snapped. Instead of getting depressed, I got angry. I left a note on his car that said “Since you don’t think what I do is work, I’m sure you won’t mind covering for me for the weekend.” Then I ran. I ran as far as I could and then called Fiona from a pay phone and asked her to pick me up at a nearby school. On my way, I plowed through the autumn leaves on the sidewalk, exhausted and heartbroken. I entered the schoolyard and sat on a swing. Angry tears fell. I laughed bitterly at myself for all my childhood idealism. I was so wrong about how wonderful it would be to be a mother and homemaker. After a while, Fiona came to pick me up. She took me to her house back in Rapid City, about a fifty-minute drive from our home in Summerville. At Fiona’s, I slept for two days. She woke me from time to time to feed me, and then left me to resume my sleep marathon. On the drive back to Summerville, she gave me the name of a divorce lawyer.
“What was that all about?” Phil asked when I opened the door.
“The next time you tell anyone I don’t work, I’m leaving you for good,” I said, looking him squarely in the eye. If he had chosen to apologize and acknowledge my work, I might still love him today, but he didn’t. As I watched his unapologetic expression, it hit me. I realized what I had committed my life to. It was in that exact moment I stopped loving him and began to find him utterly repulsive.
Now I sleep under the stars. I wish I had begun to do this a long time ago. I could have avoided feeling like there was something wrong with me for rejecting
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