I’d been on the verge of tears for most of the day already. Adam came out to talk to me while I was washing dishes, which in itself is pretty rare. I usually don’t get much time to talk to them, where they really want to open up, so it’s extremely unusual when they specifically seek me out to talk.
At first, we just talked about our new kitten and how well he seems to be integrating into our household (including with the other cats.)
Then, Adam told me about the fact that they were recently experiencing nightmares. We’ve figured out that it might be due to recently starting with taking melatonin. They also said that one reason they’re not necessarily too excited about leaving home is because it makes them feel safer at night to have someone to talk to when they feel too anxious to sleep. Honestly, that just kinda melted my heart.
Then, they told me about their thoughts on death and burial and why they think that gravestones are meaningless: because nobody really remembers who you are after a few generations anyway—and next thing I knew, we were both crying (and I totally started it.)
Interestingly, Adam said they cry so much more easily since starting estrogen. There’s actually something powerful about estrogen that makes you cry more easily.
But ouch, that burial topic and how much your life matters hit me so close to home. As I explained to them, even if nobody remembers you in several generations, it doesn’t at all minimize the importance of your life while you’re alive. You matter very much to the people who love you.
They weren’t suicidal (I asked and I believe they would tell me if they were, because I’ve made that a safe topic of discussion.) But more importantly, obviously it brought up all my feelings about losing J.
J and I had long talks last night that were honestly super painful for me (and probably were for him as well.) He was understandably upset about my conversations with my friend and I desperately wished I hadn’t told him about them. I mistake the honesty in our relationship for safety and the fact that I can tell him anything with the idea that I should.
I’m not used to having a secret part of my life that he doesn’t know about. My experience with either of us having a secret aspect of our lives was very hurtful and damaging. When he revealed a very big secret part of his life, I was not only very hurt but it also explained a lot of behaviors that definitely had been affecting me, too.
Maybe it’s possible for married people to have completely secret parts of their lives and it never affects anything negatively. I don’t know. I just know that I’ve never experienced such a thing in my marriage.
It’s not that I don’t think married people can have parts of their lives that they keep secret from each other; at least in theory, I think it could be healthy. We don’t own each other’s thoughts, after all. But if the secret part of your life becomes important enough to you, it just seems like the odds of hiding it will be less likely to succeed.
And he brought up some things from very early in our relationship that did not paint me in a good light. (Not that I am disputing the truthfulness of anything he brought up.)
One was that I told him three different stories about how I lost my virginity. He assumed that I was lying—especially because there were other things that I did lie to him about at that time.
The truth is that to this day, I still don’t know which one of the stories I told him about losing my virginity was the truth. I know that sounds weird, not to know. But I honestly don’t.
I think I know which version of events actually happened. The event I wished would have been my first time actually happened a couple of weeks later. (Though this is only a guess; I’m not actually sure about any of this.)
The beginning of my sexuality, even including up until I met him, was a total mess, to say the least. I can’t put it any more bluntly than that. I have blocked out numerous things that have happened to me over the years, including that event. I don’t know why, either.
But my transition to becoming a sexual being was so traumatic in so many ways that I blocked out a lot of it, often rewriting history as it was being made, until I no longer even knew myself what was true and what wasn’t.
I probably need very intensive therapy to figure out what actually happened to me, both before I was conscious and after, when I was an active participant.
None of this is fair to him, of course. I’ve often behaved badly (and apparently still lack the good judgment to know when I’m doing so now, as evidenced by telling him about talking to my friend.) Somehow, I’ve gotten the idea that it’s better to be truthful—especially because of my ancient past history of lying—than to be conscious of how what I’m doing might make him feel (let alone knowing how to stop myself before I make a mistake.)
It’s like I think that I can trust him so completely that I forget about how much potential I still have to hurt him, which is honestly the last thing I want to do.
I love him more than anything else in my whole world but I can’t seem to stop hurting him, usually completely without the intention of doing so.
He deserves so much better than what I’ve been able to give him. I lull myself into thinking things are fine, only to find out that they’re very much not, even still.
I think he had the reasonable expectation that I would be a normal woman, capable of having a normal relationship. But in many ways, I’m not and especially wasn’t earlier in my life. When I was younger, I was pretty good at convincing people—including him— that I was an incredibly self-possessed and sexual woman, when the truth was that I didn’t even know what I liked. No one before him had ever asked me.
By the time that I figured out some of what I liked, it wasn’t necessarily compatible with what he liked.
Even during times when I thought our sex life was really good, he didn’t agree and felt that the things he was doing were in atonement to me. I still don’t know how to wrap my head around that, other than that it’s obviously not a good thing.
I just don’t know what to do now. I don’t know how many years he has left and if we’ll have time to fix this or not. I’m so scared that we won’t and I’ll have to forever live with the fact that our sex life was fucked up because of me, especially because he deserved so much better.