Bittersweet
- 4 years ago
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Bitter free porn video
There is a saying that goes something like, ‘When a woman marries a man, she does so hoping that he will change. When a man marries a woman, he does so hoping that she never will.’ There are few sayings to do with marriage which sum up its beginning and ending so well, so succinctly, and so truthfully.
All of my married, divorced, soon-to-be-divorced, or wish-they-were-divorced women friends all say the same thing. When they married him, they were hoping something would change.
‘I thought he’d change his mind about not wanting kids.’ or ‘I hoped he’d really commit and stop seeing other women.’ or ‘I thought he’d settle down and not party so much.’ or, maybe most tragically, ‘I thought he’d finally open up to me.’
All of my married, divorced, soon-to-be-divorced, or wish-they-were-divorced male friends all say the same thing. When they married her, they were hoping she’d remain the way she was when she was dating.
‘It was like the second she got pregnant she became this monster…’ or ‘She no longer wants to be intimate with me, and when she does it’s like she isn’t even there.’ or ‘She doesn’t seem to care about her appearance anymore.’ or sadly, ‘She lost all ambition. She’s just… stagnated.’
Because of this, as a single woman I vowed to find a man who I could love even if never changed. One I could marry and be happy with forever just exactly the way he was. I knew there was nothing special, powerful, or worthy in me which I could use to demand such change, to make someone willing to change for me. I also promised myself that once I’d become the woman I wanted to be (still having no clue what that was) I’d stay like that forever. I’d always do whatever it took to keep my husband happy, to never give him an excuse to find love or affection elsewhere.
I dedicated myself to becoming someone lovable, someone desirable, someone worth marrying. For every obvious flaw I had physically or in my personality, I came up with some compensation. To compensate for my ugly teeth, I worked on my figure with diet and exercise and employed makeup to bring out my better features. To compensate for my tendency to clinginess in relationships, I tried to also be funny and a good listener.
Since I also had a jealous streak, I refined my sexual technique in every arena. My goal was to be able to please anyone with any fetish or desire. I practiced often, and rarely experienced any pleasure of my own.
Instead of being inwardly motivated and successful professionally, I learned domestic traits such as cooking, cleaning, menu planning, home decorating, and how to look for sales, deals, and clip coupons. Believing (wrongly) that there is no higher calling for a woman than to be a wife and mother, I made becoming an attractive mate my sole focus in life.
When I finally met someone I could love and who deigned to love me back, I immediately dropped everything and married him as soon as I could. All day and all night that same popular saying played in my mind over and over, for years. I tried as best as I could to remain the same girl he’d courted. But it was truly impossible in spite of every effort.
I became depressed, having realized that I could never keep up my exhaustive strain to be cute and funny for all eternity. To always be the object of desire which never received any physical pleasure of her own. To always be pleasant. To never feel lonely, jealous, afraid, or bitter. To always make his lunch. To always make his dinner. To always kiss him goodnight even after he’d already rolled off my prone body and began to snore. To always, always, be.
I visited therapists and even spent some time in a mental hospital, trying to fix myself. Trying to get better for him. To be worthy of him. To be good enough. I took the pills they gave me. I worked on my ‘coping skills’. We even visited a marriage counselor. I promised to be a good wife, to listen to him, to keep giving and never, ever stop.
After childbearing I found the strain even more difficult. Firstly, my beauty was greatly diminished. Not just my body which everyone sees, but my most intimate areas were negatively affected. My perky breasts drooped, staring sadly at the ground. My nipples, which had been small and peony pink, became large and a depressing taupe. My tight, difficult to enter, vagina was loose, fistable even. My labia turned a brown the color of ruined meat, where they had once been a lovely rose pink. Where there had been a flower, a paradise, there was some sort of goblin. By giving my husband the most precious of gifts, I also guaranteed the end of his passion.
Second, I became tired. I could no longer be the giddy and spontaneous flirt. I had to be up with the baby at all hours with no time for him. For nearly a year I smelled of sweat, puke, and a dirty diaper twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Since I rarely had any help with the baby, I was unable to maintain the immaculate hygiene he was used to. That I was used to. I might go an entire month without washing my hair. Our home was disgusting. I lived in fear that Child Protective Services would somehow find out and take my beloved child from me. I cleaned as I could, but I could only do as much as my baby would allow. A load of laundry here, a sink of dishes there was all I could manage. Running the vacuum or scrubbing the toilet would have to wait.
At some point in this madness, and possibly sensing no end to it, my husband told me at last that his love for me was gone entirely. That he was no longer attracted to me. That he felt resentful toward me. That I had changed too much. After a week of constant crying, of self harming for the first time in years, of sleeping on a palette of piled sheets and blankets in the nursery next to my baby’s crib, he came to me. He said he’d been wrong. He said he never meant a word, that he just needed to ‘get it out’. He had needed to see me hurting over him.
We resumed. I began to put forth more effort. I truly believed that more effort on my part was really what was needed.
I tried to lose the baby weight by denying myself rest after a long day of reading Peter Rabbit and Goodnight Moon, of cleaning up thrown food, of endlessly wiping and powdering a little bottom, of choking back my own tears while rocking my crying baby. I denied myself the fleeting pleasure and comfort of food and wine. Instead I tried to put my anger into swimming, running, or weight lifting. I tried to focus or gain peace from pilates, yoga, or barre exercise.
I visited a doctor about my vagina and was told the only answer was kegels, which I did as often as possible. I also bought expensive lightening creams for my nipples, labia, and anus. Nothing worked. My skin remained dark and my vagina remained as slack as ever.
I bought new lingerie for him. I did my nails and makeup. I spent time and money on my hair. I bought some new, more fashionable clothes. I looked at the floor and tried not to cry as he scolded me for the unnecessary expense. I nodded obediently and heard him telling me that I was basically taking food out of our baby’s mouth, or resigning us to poverty in retirement by spending money we didn’t have. Thankfully I still had my receipts and was able to take my things back to the stores.
I lay still for him as he grunted over me until whatever he was trying to get rid of was gone. I let him tell me how much he wanted to fuck my friends, and begged him to tell me more as I put my mouth on him, as I touched him, as I swallowed his semen and my anger in one gulp. I gave. I gave as I never had before.
And no one knew. I never told a single soul how much it destroyed me a little every day. How I felt like I was just biding my time, just waiting to die. How the only thing keeping me from doing it myself was the thought of my beloved little child. The only thing worth living for anymore. The only reciprocal love in my life, and only just, and only for a little while. If I think of what
I might do when my little one grows up and no longer needs a mother, my mind goes a black place, a place of unimaginable pain.
Thing is, once a woman loses whatever she initially brought to the table in a relationship, it’s over. If it was looks and she gets old, the relationship is over. If she was a good listener and now she’s too busy, it’s over. In my marriage I had my looks, my domestic abilities, and my personality.
I’m no longer beautiful, my personality has changed as I am now jaded and bitter, and I have no desire to use my domestic ability to take care of my husband as I once did. Since day after day it’s a new mess to clean up, a new diaper to change, another dish to wash, another shirt to fold. There are no accomplishments. There are no goals met. There is no ladder climbed or glass ceiling broken. It’s just another dirty dish in the sink. It’s another sock in the drawer.
Every compliment I am given on being a wife and mother is received with a blush, downcast eyes, and a sweet thank you. Afterward I always say something along the lines of, ‘I couldn’t do anything without his help.’ or ‘It’s worth it because he is so good to me.’ No one would ever hear a negative word about him from my lips.
Inside, I am bitter. Every ‘thank you’ I receive hits me in the chest like a sledgehammer. Every time someone tells me I am brave or strong I want to vomit on my shoes. I hate being a good woman. I hate being a good wife. I hate that it’s all I can do, that it’s all I know, that it’s all I can ever be.
Every day is another regret. Every night is another fantasy of escape. Each time I leave my house, even if it’s just a visit to the grocery store or coffee shop, I cry at the thought of returning home. Panic takes my body. My heart feels like a bird who beats its wings against its cage. My heavy limbs drag me back, always back. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to drive into the nearest tree, stay on my side of the road, or not go flying off a bridge.
I think the worst is when people tell me that they envy me, or that they wish they had a marriage like mine. I want to shake them, to slap them. I want to tell them what it feels like to be trapped by a room full of toys and a pile of towels on the bed. I want to tell them that marriage is nothing but a Sisiphean task. I want to tell them nothing can keep a man and woman together except for the tiny, shining hope that once the children are out of the house and the mortgage is paid that things will go back to the way they were. Whatever that was.
I am grateful to him for rescuing me from my parents. I am grateful to him for giving me his seed and therefore my child. I am grateful to him for putting a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food in my belly. I am grateful to him that he does not abuse me, and that he loves our child. I am grateful that I am taken care of, that I am generally healthy, and that my medical bills are paid. I see that he takes care of me, and I am grateful.
But our marriage is not based on love. We have no love. We have a bond from having gone through terrible things together, from having mutual interests, and from raising a child together. Our marriage is a tattered but warm blanket that one reaches for during the chilliest nights. It’s ugly, and you don’t know why you keep it until you are sleeping soundly beneath it, and awaken to the cold dawn. You feel it’s softness and remember when it was new, then fold it carefully before placing it back in the closet until you think you will need it again.
Oprah
- 02.11.2020
- 6
- 0
