This Body is Bullshit

Ten Years

Before the last thing he said to me that night, I was lying there feeling genuinely grateful.

Grateful for him, for our life, for the little world we’ve built. Something good had been taking shape because of his hard work, and I was thinking about how I wanted to tell him that in the morning. How much I appreciated him. How excited I was.

And then came a quiet comment. Not loud, not cruel — just a small thing that landed in exactly the wrong place. The kind that finds the crack you didn’t know was there. I took a Xanax because I knew if I didn’t it would eat at me all night. It ate at me anyway.

I’m not going to get into the specifics. That’s not what this is. What I want to try to say is the thing underneath it.

He is a good man. A genuinely good man. He takes care of our dogs like they’re his kids and Grace like she’s his own. He vacuums, mops, does laundry, mows the lawn, picks up after me and the dogs without complaint. I am grateful for that every day. But sometimes it feels like he’s done everything before I even get a chance to, and then — without meaning to — he keeps an invisible scorecard. One where I always come up short.

I do things he doesn’t always see. Quiet things. Emotional things. The invisible labor that keeps the edges of our life from fraying — the kind that doesn’t show up on a list or look like productivity but is always there. And even when I’m exhausted or in pain, I’m still trying. Still holding things together. Still showing up. Sometimes his version of contribution is about quantity. Mine is about quality. We’re not always measuring the same thing.

We’re coming up on ten years of marriage next month. Ten years. I want to feel that connection again — the joy, the laughter, the partnership that made us us. Lately it feels like we’ve drifted into parallel lives. We share a home and a history and a love, but we don’t always share a rhythm.

I love him. And sometimes I wonder if he even likes me.

He gets irritated easily. Shuts down. Scrolls his phone instead of talking to me. I end up feeling invisible in my own living room. I miss when we used to laugh, really laugh. I wish he’d take initiative sometimes — make a plan, be spontaneous, show some excitement about doing something together. I try to snuggle closer and he pulls away a little, and I don’t always know what to do with that.

I’ll be honest about the thing I don’t say out loud much: sometimes I worry he’s not attracted to me anymore. My body has changed so much. The scars, the weight, the medication, everything. I don’t need constant romance. I just need to feel wanted. And sometimes I don’t.

He says no to most of my ideas. I know he doesn’t mean to shut me down — that’s just how he moves through the world, cautiously, slowly. But my excitement seems to wear on him sometimes. My silliness, my energy, the parts of me that used to make him laugh — I can feel when they become too much. I know I’m a lot. I’ve always been a lot. That used to be something he loved.

There’s one more thing I can’t shake, and I’m going to say it even though it’s uncomfortable: he’s never really read this blog. My blog isn’t something I do for fun. It’s how I process everything. It’s my therapy, my truth, the realest version of me trying to make sense of my own life. And the person I share a bed with hasn’t really gone there. Maybe it’s too uncomfortable. Maybe he just doesn’t want to. But it means he doesn’t see the part of me that’s been trying to reach him in the only way I actually know how.

I’m not saying this to guilt him. I’m saying it because feeling unseen by the person who’s supposed to know you best is its own particular kind of lonely.

I don’t want to stop reaching for him. Ten years in, I still want the laughter and the spark and the feeling of being on the same team. I still want us.

Some days that feels possible.

Last night wasn’t one of those days.