At *least* since early July (and probably for a month or so earlier), I’ve been telling my husband that I’m in a better place emotionally and physically, and I would love for us to start sleeping together again.
It used to be that he was like a hungry dog on a chain, always straining toward me. But these days? Not so much. It’s been at least three months. Probably more like four or five.
I’m not sure if it’s my weight gain, his weight gain (he’s a very proud man), or all the pain that has gone between us over his affair. He has become so hesitant and withdrawn. This feels a lot like the place we were in when his affair began.
Several years ago — either before his affair started or during the years it went on while I was unaware — there was a brief period when he and I went to the same doctor for most of our medical needs. I know that he asked for and received a prescription for Levitra (like Viagra), because we discussed it beforehand, and he came home with the bottle of pills. Around that same time, I went to the doctor. I must have said something about my husband getting the pills from that doc. I don’t recall why I was at his office, or how the conversation started, but I will never forget what the doctor said to me about the medicine:
“You know, the pills work, but they don’t create desire. There has to be desire there in the first place.”
I was stunned and said of course.
He repeated himself. He said it twice.
After the second time, I gave him a hard look and said, “Yes, I heard what you said.”
So WHAT the fuck was he trying to communicate to me? Was he telling me that my husband had confided that he no longer desired me? Or was the doctor projecting his own contempt for my obesity?
I will never know. I should have asked, but I was too mortified, angry and hurt. Now the doctor is retired, and my husband said he’s never stopped desiring me, that I’m still attractive to him.
He lies. Either he has been too angry to be horny (with me, anyway), or he doesn’t want to have sex with his fat wife, or he’s ashamed of his own big stomach. God, maybe it’s all three.
I have got to get over the terrible inertia of my depression and start exercising and dieting. That at least is something I can DO something about. Even if not for him, I want to do it for my own self-respect and self-esteem. I feel unloved and unlovable.
It’s unacceptable for life to feel so bleak, grim and utterly free of sexuality at this age. I’m 54. Not 154.
I will not be fucked with. And I *will* fuck again.