Middle-of-the-night thoughts are problematic. I’m not sure if they have ever yielded any real solutions for me but yet, they happen. Last night, 2:14 am stared at me in the face…then 2:23…then 2:41. All the way till 5:30, when the alarm chimed, finally.
The time between 2:14 to 5:30 moved slowly, like “molasses in January”, my gramma would say. One thing after another filed through my mind, playing like an old, silent movie.
As I lay there, I saw scenes of my former marriage. I saw scenes of my present relationship. I feel the literal pangs of nausea in my belly, never letting go, making me think it might be best if I just go sleep in the other room. They might not go away.
As I lay there, I saw patterns of my own behavior that I am not proud of; patterns that caused self-loathing before; patterns that I see potentially causing the same right now.
I saw that I can be pretty awesome at meeting other people’s needs. I saw myself caring for, “doing” for, and being there for my partner(s). I watched and listened, desiring to fill them. I want them to be happy. I really do.
Because as an empath: them happy=me happy.
In my marriage, his needs were impossible to fill once we had children and bought a house. He needed all of the attention. He wanted freedom. He wanted to play. So, the best I could do was make everything else in his life easy.
I took care of the farm, the house, the kids, the meals, the cleaning, the kids’ schooling, the gardens, the money…all of it. All he had to do was go to school or work. And fill in the gaps with what he wanted.
I thought, somehow, that if I filled as many needs as I could of his, somehow, miraculously, my needs would be met as well.
But, living with a narcissist, things are not that cut and dried. There are many reasons my needs were not met. No matter, that was the delusion I lived in for nearly 3 decades.
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My primary love languages are shared time and physical touch. One test I took said that acts of service are up there ahead of physical touch. But, really, I know that if I had a choice between getting chores done and having sex…sex it would be. Hands down. The chores will get done. They always do. (and yes, I know that physical touch is much more than sex)
No matter. The delusion I lived inside created patterns of behavior. The behaviors I felt sick about all night, last night were the appeasing and pleasing patterns. The ones that are informed by:
“If you meet all of his needs, then it is more likely he will be able to meet yours.”
I am there again.
No matter how much I don’t want to think about dinner. I know he values dinner, together. Sometimes we have kids with us. Sometimes we don’t. But I know he likes that. So I do it.
No matter how much homework I have, I try to keep the house neat and tidy. And for me, this is quite a feat. I am a rather messy person — papers and books everywhere. Not filth. But I take time out of my day to see that he has a neat home to walk into in the evenings. Unlike my marriage, he cleans up after himself…so it really is all my kids and my stuff. Fair, right?
I know he likes it when I show up for his after-school activities with his students. He likes to show a united front. I like being there as well. The kids deserve time with stable adults and I can at least fake it for a few hours.:)
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There are a number of choices I make each day…looking ahead to make things simpler tonight, tomorrow morning…whatever. I do them as often as I am able.
I know he is tired at the end of his day, too. And his being tired limits my time and contact with him. So, doing everything I can to make his day easier seems like a great move, right?
But after days and eternal nights of not getting what I need, I’ve thought about deliberately NOT meeting his needs. But I am not made that way.
I don’t want him living on the edge like I am. But I also don’t know how to get all of my needs met, shy of continuing to talk about something that usually brings frustration on his part and feelings of failure.
Meeting his needs does not determine mine being met. Duh.
It’s not because he doesn’t love me and care about me. I know that. It’s not because he doesn’t think about me. He does.
So, when my mind wanders for just a minute, and I think about all of the imaginary men there are out there in the world who would just LOVE a woman who wanted them all of the time, I slip into self-loathing.
I think about all of the ways he does show up. And I feel terrible that this one thing…this one stupid thing…keeps me from feeling settled. I think of his stability, his strength, his smile, and his kisses. I think of his work ethic, lack of whining, and sense of humor — strange as it is. I think of how he makes me laugh or at least tries to. And I hate that it is not enough.
Self-loathing is not anyone’s friend. And mine has always come to the forefront when my needs are not met. I know my libido is not his problem. It is mine.
I’ve not felt like this since I was 13. It lasted — and I was completely on the edge the whole 7 years — until I was 19 and a half and got married. It didn’t cure it, but it helped take off the edge.
I’m not a hormonal teenager anymore. It feels just like it.
Because I was very conservative and religious growing up, there was never going to be sex…not until I got married. There was also no masturbation. It was just me…enjoying the make-out sessions with my boyfriend (which never went too far) and feeling the anxiety and frustration of things never settling down. I felt a little crazy. It was inhumane, truthfully.
Being a 48-year-old with that same drive doesn’t just suck a little. I am grateful my body is working as well as it is. However, this 40-something female libido can go fuck itself. I’m so sick of it.
I leave him alone in my attempt to be kind and give him what he needs…his sleep. I lay in bed, hormones raging, NOT touching him so he can sleep. I want to touch him. I want him to touch me. I want so many things. However, I leave him alone.
He wakes up and the daily pattern begins. I get 15 minutes of snuggles. Not sex. Snuggles. I’m beginning to think it’s actually a bad idea. Because it doesn’t help like I wish it did. And sometimes his touch just makes things harder on me. I feel his arms around me and let myself sink into them. It is a wonderful place to be. I have spent altogether too many mornings of my life without this. I want it to be enough because it is so good.
But this morning too much had built up. The tears squeaked out when he touched me. And I want this? Really? It turns me inside out and I can’t talk without wanting to cry.
And when he leaves, I do cry. I curl up and sob, then get up, fold the laundry, and get busy with my homework.
But the last thing in the world I want is for him to feel bad. Feeling bad is NOT a motivating force for good change. I know that. I want him to feel like the amazing man that he is to me…because he is.
However, my thought patterns around this need to change. My behavior needs to change. If I’m going to get what I need, I’m going to need a new plan.
Thanks to Michelle Jaqua
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism | Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box | The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer | What We Talk About When We Talk About Men |
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Photo credit: Dainis Graveris on Unsplash