This is the confession you will never hear. This is the truth I can never tell you.
It’s not just about the sex. The sex is not great, sure, and even less frequent now that you’re having, well, trouble getting your soldier to stand to attention. And there are things I enjoy and I’ve tried to tell you – I have told you, once or twice, but you don’t remember and you don’t do them and it’s not the kind of stuff that’s easy to say over and over. So yeah. It’s a bit about the sex.
It’s not just about money. I mean, I certainly didn’t anticipate being the sole breadwinner for this long and I wish you would actually try to get a job instead of waiting for one to fall into your lap, or waiting for your book to make you famous, or waiting for me to sort something out for you, like I have to do all the time. And if I was the one not working, I don’t think I could justify spending as much on beer and wine as you do. And I buy all my clothes from the op shop, and I rarely get haircuts and I can’t see how we will ever be able to save up enough to go on a decent holiday. So yeah. It’s a bit about the money.
It’s not just about all the little things. I mean, I don’t quite understand how it can be so difficult to put the damn lid back on the toothpaste tube, and put it back in the holder. I don’t get why you think that putting the dishes into a sink full of water and then leaving them there is in any way helpful. I don’t know why you need to have the TV so loud when the kids’ room is right next to the lounge, and why you don’t turn it down when the ads are on. I don’t understand how you can’t use just one towel and put it back on the rail to dry, instead of dumping it in a crumpled heap on the floor or folding it neatly and leaving it sitting on top of the washing machine, I mean hello, it’s a wet towel, how is that going to help? And all the towels end up smelling like your armpits because clearly you don’t wash properly and then you dry your still-smelly armpits on every towel in the house. So, yeah. It’s a bit about the little things.
It’s not just that you make me be the ‘bad cop’ all the time, or that you always want to talk when I’m reading, or that you go off and have a nap on weekend afternoons when I’ve been at work all week or that you never want to come to birthday parties or playdates, or that your immediate reaction to anything new or unexpected is to get cross or whinge, or that when I’m cross at you for a good reason you get cross with me for being cross and make me feel like crap, or that you drive like a nana and clutch the seat when I drive even though I’m only driving at the actual speed limit, or that when you take a crap and it sticks to the back of the toilet bowl you don’t clean it off, or that you never remember that I hate pepper or that you berate me for the fact that I’ve changed without even trying to support any of my choices. But it’s a bit about all those things.
But then, I know that I’ve never really been into sex, with anyone. In fact I ended most of my relationships because of it (and I think I probably prefer women). So I can’t blame you for that.
And I do see the benefit in having you home with the kids, and you do more of the housework than I do, and you’re great at DIY.
And the little things aren’t really important and I know I have plenty of my own.
And there are lots of things about you that I love.
The truth is, you’re my best friend, and I love you, but I’m not in love with you any more. I’m not in love with anyone. I’m not really sure if I’ve ever been in love. It’s probably not about you, it’s probably about me.
And then, I can’t bear the thought of shared custody, child support, lonely weekends. I can’t bear the thought of selling the house, dividing up the assets, deciding who gets the dog. I can’t bear the thought of finding a way to leave you.
Sometimes I wish you’d cheat.
Sometimes I wish you’d hit me.
Sometimes I wish you’d die.
If you live a lie for long enough, does it become a kind of truth?