Oh, have you not heard that one yet? It’s my husband’s creation (clearly). It’s usually used in a positive setting, but occasionally he’ll whip it out to end a little tussle. Essentially, it’s a two-word catchphrase that he uses like a trump card, it gets the entire family on board with whatever the said plan is, and it’s the final word on any given discussion. Often it’s for exciting things, like if we’re going to a theme park and it’ll be what he uses as a battle cry to get the kids all excited. Same page, and all that jazz.
It gets animmediateresponse. The two older boys roll their eyes at the family motto, still grumbling near-silently over their argument that was cut short before it could get too nasty, but both put their fists out to meet their father’s in the little huddle that always follows said catchphrase.
Preston runs over to join the fray enthusiastically, throwing his fist in the mix, and Lea reaches her little arm out from her place at the table to be included, too. “Come on,mija,” I tell her, lifting her from her seat, and we go throw all the estrogen we have to offer into the dogpile of (admittedly stinky) boys.
Shower time, indeed.
* * *
Many hours—andtwo showers and one bath—later, it’s happening. What I’ve been dreading for weeks. Maybe months now, if I’m honest with myself.
My husband has me trapped, for all intents and purposes, and I can tell he’s not letting me out of this conversation without answers.
But he wants answers that I’m not willing to give.
I’m not sure I’m even capable of stringing the words together in my head, much less vocalizing them.
My own thoughts on the matter have been so vitriolic, I can’t let them out of my head. No matter how much I want him to hurt like I have been, they’retoobitter. Too dark. Too awful to let loose on him.
Thisthingthat’s been burning a path through my gut, eroding my insides and trying to set flame to what’s left of our marriage… it’s not messing around. If I let it out of me, I know the damage it will cause. And I’m not ready to face those consequences.
So I stand in silence, arms folded over my chest, additional armor to help me not prematurely send a nuke into enemy territory when we’re just on a recon mission.
“You’re obviously upset with me.” His deep blue eyes penetrate my gaze, searching for my truth. “Tell me what it is and let’s talk about it.” His tone is somewhere between pleading and commanding, and still I don’t give in.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I caught him. That I saw him getting off to the image and the thought of another woman. But, truthfully, that’s not the crux of our problems. Our issues didn’t start that night. They startedyearsbefore that. And he’s right. Iamupset with him. I have been for a while.
How could he let our marriage dissolve into…this?
How could he view me differently after four pregnancies, four births, and raising four children together? How does that make me less worthy of his love? Of sex, and romance? From where I’m standing, that should make me worth more than ever before in his eyes.
We’re facing off, standing on our tiny, screened-in patio overlooking the backyard. The kids are asleep, the dog is laying in the grass, chewing on a toy, the new fish is probably already dead, and we’re out here, underneath the shitty, noisy, rickety ceiling fan that’s spinning endlessly, next to the even shittier outdoor furniture set (the best we could afford when we got the house ten years ago and sorely overdue for replacing but somehow never that high on the list of priorities when there’s always another doctor visit, some sports league dues, or vet appointment to pay for), and we’re finally tackling the elephant in the room.
The sound of the AC running loudly on this side of the house gives us a little privacy from any nosy neighbors, but I’m not sure I’ve got anything to say, anyhow.
Chance looks calm; his diplomatic, mediator face already in place, the one that’s cooled hundreds of arguments between our children and closed tens of millions of dollars in sales, while I feel steam about to come out of my ears at the thought of all that’s been plaguing me lately.
“Talk to me, Diana. What on earth went so wrong between us that you can’t even talk to me about anything other than the kids or the house anymore? Why won’t you let me touch you anymore?” He damn near begs me to open up to him, his arms extending in supplication as he does.
“Why do you even fucking call me that? Are you ever going to tell me?” I snap, throwing my arms in the air and avoiding his question.
He gives me a sad smile, and presses me for answers again. “Baby. I am goinginsane. You have to open up to me or I’m going to lose my goddamn mind assuming the worst.”
The dam finally breaks and I just start talking. “I don’t even know where to start. It feels like it’s been some sort of spiral and I have no idea where it even started, but it’s gotten completely out of control.” A huge exhale comes out, and it’s the fuel that keeps my inner turmoil lit, keeps the words coming. “It’s like you’ll do one thing that pisses me off, and suddenly I’m traveling down memory lane, and I remember the two hundred and thirty-seven other things you’ve done that made me want to fucking stab you, and my blood is justboiling, and I can’t even see a future for us anymore. I just see all the things that make me fuckingangryat you.” His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t do anything to discourage me from venting at him.
This next part is especially hard for me to say, and it comes out quieter than the initial outburst. “And… And it makes me wonder if we made the right choice. If we’re on the right path with this marriage. If we’d both be happier…some other way. And I keep going down this dark, dark road with my thoughts, and I don’t know how to stop.” By the end of that outburst, my words are practically a whisper.
His face has fallen and he stares at me in shock and what is, I think, pain. But he’s opened the floodgates now, and I’m not even close to being done unloading on him. My resolve to stay mute is gone, burned up as fuel by this beast within me, andit is on. I look him in the eyes and continue, gesticulating with my arms as I go.
“Like all the times I feel like you don’t want me, it sets me off, makes me wonder why I’m even trying to keep it together for you.” One arm comes down to slap the side of my thigh loudly, . Both my upper arm and the meat on my thigh jiggle from the motion, and I recoil from the tangible reminder that I’m not the woman he fell in love with. That this isn’t the body he wants anymore.
“Why do I try to look good for you? Why bother trying to eat healthy, or lose some of the leftover baby weight?” I glare at him extra hard, and wave my arms around a little more to emphasize my point. “Or why the fuck should I try to fit a workout schedule into my crazy fucking routine when you don’t want me to begin with? Huh? Why would I kill myself and put all this effort in to try to get your attention again, keep shit fresh for you, when it feels like you don’t even care.” That didn’t come out like a question, more like reading the charges against him in court.
He stays silent, allowing me to continue without interrupting me, but I see his throat working, and I know he’s digesting everything I’m throwing at him.
“Like, I have guys hit on me all the fucking time who obviously love the way I look as I am, but my own husband doesn’t? What the fuck is that? They don’t even know me, Chance. I haven’t had their children. They don’t know what’s under all this,” I gesture at my body with one wildly waving hand and keep raving, struggling to keep my voice below a yell, knowing our neighbors are within hearing distance if they’re out back right now. “These men don’t know who I am as a person, what I have to offer. But youdo. You should fucking want me more than anyone else. No one knows me like you do. And it pisses me off that you don’t.”
I run both hands through my hair in frustration, pulling it away from my face and grimacing at the ceiling, that stupid fucking fan spinning away above me that I’m trying not to spew my proverbial shit all over and watch our marriage blow the fuck up when it hits. I guess it’s a little too late for that, though.
