Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness

He doesn’t even look at me anymore. I always have to be the one to get his attention, try and get him to look me in the eye. It’s really sad. I ask him too many times a night if he’s mad at me. He’s not. He never is. It’s just him, getting further and further away from me.

I stood up from the couch and my robe fell open. I tried to catch his eye but he just stood there, staring down at a kid’s movie that was left on the coffee table, “I used to watch that all the time when I was a kid!” he said, while I’m staring pointedly at him and he’s staring pointedly down at the movie. When he finally looked up and saw me staring at him, devouring him with my eyes, he just looked at me, “what?”

Really? You say, “what?” when your wife is standing there with her tits hanging out of her robe? You just stand there and simply can’t imagine a night where we stray from the television and possibly have sex. It’s not like it lasts long enough to interrupt the shows anyway.

They always say that sex is the first thing to go. I told him not too long ago that if it were up to me, I’d have sex nearly every day. He just shrugged, and returned his attention back to the book he was reading.

I’m really sad and I’m really tired. I kept wondering what I was doing wrong, what it was that I’m doing that would bother him so much. Tonight, I finally realized it’s not me. It has nothing to do with me. It’s him. He’s depressed, filled with anxiety (that I simply cannot understand), he’s the one that is pulling away. He’s reassured me that everything is fine, he’s fine. Everything is just fine and fucking dandy. That’s why when we went to bed tonight he didn’t even ask me if I was coming upstairs. (I was waiting for the laundry to finish.)

When I came upstairs he didn’t even look in my direction. He went into the bathroom to get a drink of water and I looked up, like a hopeful puppy and tears in my eyes, and he didn’t even glance in my direction as he came back to the bed. He took a sip of water, flopped down on the bed, and continued reading. Now, I’ll give credit where credit is due, and he’s reading the third instalment of the Hunger Games, which was an incredible series. But not incredible enough to completely ignore your spouse.

I’ve tried talking to him, but t’s hard to talk to a wall. I ask him to talk to me, put the book down, look at me. He won’t.

I paused one of our shows tonight to ask him what he would do in that character’s situation. There’s so many things going through my head, so many things I’m bursting to say,  about the characters, the situations, the impossibility of it all. “I don’t want to talk right now, just press play.” Fine.

I have thousands of things going through my head all the time, I’m filled with ideas, projects, lives I want to live, or pretend to live, and I can’t say a goddam word about it to him. This man that I’m supposed to be able to share all my secrets with, the man who used to be my best friend but who now seems like a stranger.

Who is this man? He’s definitely not the man I married. He has gone sour with age, instead of becoming bolder.

How many times can I be ignored before I finally say enough is enough?

I have to get this business plan finished. I have to construct my escape from this slow, painful death.

We’re supposed to be a team. We’re supposed to be able to tell each other everything, all of our hopes, all of our dreams. Instead, I’m ignored for the sad, twisted lives of strangers on the television. I could give a fuck if I never watched those shows again (although I enjoy them) if it meant I could spend some real time with my husband.

I feel like I’m a beautiful, rare, sparkling gem that he picked up and said, “wow, look at this pretty rock.” In the right hands, I could be polished and gleam and be appreciated for my rarity. Instead, I sit on the shelf collecting dust.



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