Nearly a decade of marriage hadn’t resulted in any amount of closeness, and I struggled over the years to come to terms with that. As newlyweds, I assumed there was something terribly wrong with me when my bids for connection were met with a sort of confused pity. I craved some level of intimacy, and I perceived that Anthony thought that was odd. I still remember the first time I told him that I felt lonely and wanted to spend more intentional time with each other; I wanted to work on cultivating a bond. He told me, with a perplexed but sympathetic look on his face, that he was sorry but that he was content just as things were, and that this would be something that I’d need to work out myself. I felt defective, and he seemed repulsed. I left the room to cry; he went back to his video games.

It’s difficult to explain (or even conceive of, at this point) how depressed I was, especially in those first years. Even though I wasn’t doing much, I lacked the energy to do anything at all, like go to the store, pour myself some cereal, brush my teeth…. I felt so exhausted all of the time. I’m not sure why but I couldn’t get to the place where I could just snap out of it. I chose to enter into this marriage, and I was choosing to stay in it–but I felt oddly trapped by something outside of myself, and the result seemed to be inner paralysis. I felt like a light fixture or something…immobile…just there to be switched on for light and switched off for dark, but mostly to be forgotten about until one of the bulbs went out and the whole thing stopped acting right.

Here’s a story that pertains. Less than a year after being married, I took Anthony’s car (because it was the least likely of our two vehicles to break down) on a road trip to see our families. On the way there, I got caught up in a tornado. Baseball-sized hail came shooting down out of nowhere before anyone knew what was happening. Those of us on that part of the highway slammed on our brakes and tried to wait it out. The forceful wind rocked my car to one side, and the updraft was so strong that it started to lift off the ground. As the hail bombs continued to shoot from every angle, I watched as cracks overtook the windshield. It wouldn’t be long before the whole thing shattered and crashed in on me. I held myself and rocked forward and backward, chant-praying frantically, believing that I was going to die in this moment. After what seemed like an eternity, everything suddenly stopped. My car rocked back to its upright position. The darkness lifted and the sun came out. The highway was covered with ice, and my shaky legs pulled me outside to survey the damage. I saw that although my hubcaps were shot off and the whole car was beaten to hell, my tires and windshield were in tact, and I was somehow able to just drive away. As soon as I arrived to a gas station, I called Anthony and spilled it all out right away. “OhmygodhunIjustwentthroughatornado!!!! I really thought I was going to die! I’m ok, but your car is not…it’s all beaten up….”

You know what? His (only) concern was for his car. He was pissed.

Early on, I had the sense that if something happened to me–if my actual life had ceased to exist–it would register very low on the Anthony scale of caring. I’d give it a 2. When the laundry started piling up, then maybe a 4. And I can imagine that this sounds melodramatic, but that’s not my style, and trust me…I looked for plenty of signs to the contrary. I never missed them. I gobbled them right up, those morsels of evidence of him having treasured me, even if they were miniscule. This tornado incident was an early heartbreak (a big, painful one) that was surrounded on both sides by lots of smaller ones. They all added up to the unfortunate impression that the person I committed my life to didn’t value me – that I was nothing special at all.

At that point, I still had shame around what that meant about me. It was not about blaming Anthony. With all of my feelings of unworthiness, I wondered how not special a person had to be for her own spouse to not be interested in her safety, well-being or emotions.

Then, I began noticing that it wasn’t just me. He didn’t have any close friendships and seemed to avoid talking about anything of depth at all. His approval rating for people was based upon their ability keep problems to themselves. At that stage, my despair turned to anger and resentment…contempt for his outright refusal to face any emotions and for leaving me in this relationship all alone.

Well, life went on and sped up. We moved six times in one decade. After the arrival of our daughter Leetl (who came to us through adoption), I kept busy with her all day while Anthony worked. There was a huge house to maintain and errands to run. I tried to be a good wife and mom, doing the things that would make our lives comfortable and generally happy. There were holidays…meals to prepare, decorations to hang, presents to buy…. I got into soap-making and dabbled in other crafty things. We went to church every Sunday and I volunteered in the church community. I had plenty of friends to spend time with. I bought a million cute outfits and accessories for our daughter. There was a lot to focus on, and at least I felt relevant for contributing those things. It was enough, for a long time, to keep me distracted from the underlying grief of having a husband not emotionally there with me.

Despite my grief, Anthony was a good husband. He provided for our family financially, always took out the trash, mowed the lawn, brought us little treats from work, offered to watch our child so I could have some personal time, opened the door for me…every. single. time. Those were the ways he showed that he loved me, and I didn’t appreciate them enough at the time because I had expectations. What I really wanted (instead of what he was able to give) was intimacy. And there, he had always held me at arm’s length.

When I wrapped my arms around him or went in for a kiss, he did this thing. He would put his hands on my hips and push outward. Even when he hugged me, he was pushing away. I literally couldn’t get close. I teased him about this so many times but it never went away. He did the same in conversation. I couldn’t talk to him for more than a few seconds. His mind (and sometimes his body) left the vicinity immediately. If the topic was too serious, he usually made some off-the-wall comment and then playfully slapped my forehead (which he knew that I hated) while walking out of the room and evading any exchange. I eventually learned to say as few words as possible to get my important points across–and I learned to drop the rest. I learned to give him a lot of space.

At least there was sex. We didn’t have it every night…sometimes not even every week…but for being married this long, we did alright. Sex was, in my mind, the only thing that made our relationship a marriage rather than just a coparenting roommate situation…sex is what reassured me in a simple way that what we had was sacred and special because we shared it only with each other. And, from an emotional standpoint, it was nice to see any desire coming from him in my direction, even if it was mostly a mirage.

Anthony was the only person I had ever had sex with–beginning on our wedding night. I wasn’t as pristine as a “good Christian girl” should be–not even close, really– but this wasn’t religious to me anyway. It was spiritual. I wanted sex to be something I shared with only one person–my spouse–for a lifetime. To me, sex was a sacred bond, and I had saved this ritual for him. I grieved that he hadn’t saved it for me also but it made a lot of sense. For him, sex was just sex; for me, it was much more. Which is why I became overwhelmed with panic at the thought of him with another woman…in his past, in his future, in his fantasy…. In this way, after we met, I only had eyes for Anthony until…Superbloom.

In a moment of confession, I told Anthony about my delusional thinking and related infatuation with Superbloom, a week or two after it started. His cavalier response to my experience was: “I think it would be hot if you were with someone else, male or female.” It had always been a fantasy of his. (Granted, my news wasn’t as bold a confession as it would have been had he not known about my past attraction to, and experimentation with, a woman. That, he had been interested in hearing all about.)

I felt a little dagger in my chest. I tried explaining that it might not be as “hot” as he imagined, because I didn’t want to (and didn’t think it was right to) have sex with someone other than him. And if I was ever so tempted that I did sleep with someone else, I would have to be in love with the person, and that might not be so “hot” for him. It would be complicated. He quickly dismissed that notion. It would still be hot.

I was heartbroken for the last time before fully realizing the truth. I wanted to be faithful to him, and he didn’t care about that. I wanted desperately to share a bond with him – one that he would easily give away.

This was a painful truth but it was necessary in order to prepare me for the last stage: Acceptance.

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