There, I said it: I don’t have sex with my husband.
In the past three years, the number of times we’ve had sex could probably be counted on two hands…maybe even one.
My therapist says it probably came from a trauma, and while I have no great trauma to speak of, I can pinpoint it to a specific time when I was in a crisis of sorts – emotionally, physically, mentally.
I had just come back from a long trip overseas. I felt lost, wasn’t ready to be back, and I definitely wasn’t ready to move in with my husband (then-boyfriend). Sex was awkward; it was like we didn’t remember how to be together (it had been six months at that point). I was struggling creatively, stressed out and putting a lot of pressure on myself to succeed in a difficult career; I dropped that, too. And all around the same time, I had to go to the hospital with a weird thumb injury and (TMI) got a very uncomfortable yeast infection.
[A word on *too much information*: this blog will be filled with it. You’ve been warned.]
It didn’t happen all at once but eventually sex became uncomfortable. It wasn’t exactly painful, but the friction caused such a discomfort that it may as well have been. I felt awful. I really wanted to have sex with him but it hurt. It was only a matter of time before I wasn’t into it at all. Oral still happened a few times but eventually that, too, was nonexistent.
I started dreading bedtime. I avoided talking about sex, avoided closeness. I felt like a fraud: sex was so good and ample in the beginning, I felt like I had lured him in and then turned off the tap.
I gave him multiple outs – if he wanted to break up, sleep with other women, we could do that. (He didn’t). I hated that I couldn’t show him love in all the ways I wanted. I hated that he felt unloved because of it.
I tried to convince myself it was all in my head. I wanted to believe it was just a habit I had gotten out of, and if I just did it, I’d get ‘used to it’ again. But I could never quite talk myself into it. The times I did, I cried, it was so uncomfortable.
But the truth was, I didn’t even want sex anymore. And I blamed him: his hair, his hobbies, his weight. But I knew those were all excuses: they were never a problem before.
We didn’t fight about it constantly – actually, we rarely talked about it at all – but it was always the elephant in the room, silently underpinning most other issues, until we finally almost broke up. (We didn’t).
We agreed to a fresh start, and got engaged a few months later; nonetheless, the issue remained. I once more gave him an out – we could still call things off – but everything else was perfect…except…this.
It was confusing. He said didn’t need the sex, he just wanted the closeness. But I knew the closeness would inevitably lead to the topic of sex and everything that came with it, so I avoided it all.
He felt rejected, embarrassed. I felt guilty and ashamed. I didn’t want to be in a sexless marriage, and yet here I was, the architect of it.
I turned off that part of myself. I didn’t need sex. I didn’t care for it. The times I did get aroused, I willingly took care of it myself. I didn’t want him to touch me – it had been so long that any touch of his was foreign, uncomfortable.
And I hated that I felt that way. I wanted to want him. I wanted so badly to want to have sex with my husband. I would’ve done anything to just take a pill and make the discomfort STOP. I was sure that if the pain just went away, I could then at least reasonably consider going through the motions.
Going through the motions would’ve been a welcome improvement. That’s what my sex life had become.
[Continued in next post…]