Some time ago I had a conversation with Molly, and suddenly something struck me: I am content with our situation as it is now. Sometimes only a few words can make me realize things I haven’t seen clearly before.
Let me explain…
I have never been a person to connect the dots, especially not when it’s about myself. I see this in others, people who seem to know themselves so well, who understand their own feelings and know why they feel the way they do. I guess I have grown so accustomed to just survive and put one foot in front of the other, that I never analyze my feelings, or the cause for those feelings.
I have written on this site before that our sex life totally went down the dumps with Master T in constant pain. It takes up all his energy, leaving nothing for any kind of frolics. The only time something happened between us, was when I had ‘moaned’ about not having sex, or told him that I am feeling insecure, feeling unloved because he doesn’t touch me. Saying that to him made me feel SO bad, because I knew he was in pain, I knew how hard the most simple things were for him and there I was: complaining because there was no sex.
Master T was detaching himself from everything, and at times snapped at me, totally out of nature for him. He’s the most easy-going person I know, but the pain had changed him. It left him close to depression. No, he was depressed. I couldn’t get through to him at all. When I talked about my feelings, about missing things, he didn’t tell me I am ridiculous or a nagging bitch, but he sure made me feel like that.
Thank god his psychologist had seen it too, and didn’t only treat him for the panic attacks but also for depression. It has done him a world of good. It gave me my husband back.
But, I know it wasn’t only the psychologist. Master T had to go through a process only other disabled people understand. Even me living with him will never get my head around the process he had to go through, simply because I am an able-bodied person. Master T had to deal with the the growing knowledge that he might never get back to the level of his ability that he had before September 2016. He had and still has to deal with the fact that there is an increasing chance that the instrument maker (who makes his prosthetics) and the doctors tell him that this is the best it will ever get. He already knows that he will never be able to walk without the walking stick again. But he also knows that there’s an increasing chance he will eventually be confined to a wheelchair. Of course he wants to postpone the moment as long as possible, but where he once believed this would be a reality when he’s passed the age of 70, he now has to deal with it at the age of 53. That’s harsh.
So while he was dealing with all this, I moaned and groaned about not having sex, not being touched, and sometimes feeling like he doesn’t love me anymore, knowing I am wrong.
Towards his last appointment with the psychologist, I noticed a change in Master T. He seemed more positive. I kept an eye on this and can now say that there really is a positive change. After the last time we had sex, our connection was back. I don’t know how it happened, don’t know what changed, but Master T is back to his teasing self, and there is no sound more beautiful than hearing him laugh. Despite his pain, despite the medical decisions still looming over his head, I have my husband back.
We have our connection back.
And that is the thing I realized during one of the conversations with Molly (who has been such a support to me when I needed to talk): it’s not the sex I missed the most. It was the connection. Without it I felt adrift, felt rejected. My conscious mind told me it wasn’t true, but I couldn’t shake those thoughts. The moment our strong connection was back, I knew the things my mind had been telling me were all lies. He does still love me. He does still want me. He still thinks I’m sexy. I just need to have patience, and eventually (part of) the sex will come back too.
And if need be, I can live without the sex, but never without the connection. That will kill me.
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© Rebel’s Notes