This blog is unedited, unfiltered, written by the seat of my pants with minimal forethought and maximum impulse. If you’re looking for a blog to keep things POLITICALLY CORRECT, this is not the blog for you. If you feel the need to equivocate (but men go through xyz!!!) because your little feelings are hurt, this blog is NOT for you. Trust me, I’ve been around the block plenty of times with my own conscience haunting me and guilt-tripping me trying to make sense of reality. I. AM. DONE.
Look, my experiences are with men because THAT’S WHO I AM ATTRACTED TO. I don’t know diddle-squat about what living with a woman is like. All I can do is recount my life for the past three years in all its messiness. Am I perfect? Nope. Truth be told this fucked up marriage has brought out a side in me that I didn’t know existed. Do I blame it all on my husband? Somewhat. Because if you have mobility, autonomy, and independence, making a moral decision is paramount. HOWEVER –
If you are financially reliant on a DEADBEAT who paraded his ass around like he was God’s greenest gift to humanity, your world becomes a lot less Sermon on the Mount and a helluva lot more Game of Thrones-y.
Really you need to think twice about marrying. Or thrice. Quadruple check what your values are. Don’t be afraid to be a little Machiavellian about your demands and boundaries. Because this is literally the most important decision you’ll ever make.
With all this recent data about women aging faster, moving on ust fine when their spouses die, (while husbands tend to fall apart), and getting AUTO-FUCKING-IMMUNE diseases from shitty husbands, you better know that no one can haunt you for having high standards.
Allow me to explain.
I had the perfect marriage. Had. He lifted me up when I was down, supported me after a heinous sexual assault (BIG R WORD), brought me whatever I wanted, took great care of me while I was pregnant with our son.
So what the hell happened? I’d really like to know, too!
At one point in my life, I was happy. Beautiful household. Everyone got along. We lived with his parents in a country I will not name. He supported me while I took time off to recuperate from the RAPE which let me have some time to write, engage in my own hobbies, and just relax. After about ten months of sitting, we decided it was time to bring children. We didn’t know what the future would hold in America, since it was COVID so the visa processing was slow as a granny dick dipped in molasses.
So, I got pregnant. Pregnancy was nice. I was a little princess. Then, I gave birth, and all hell broke loose since then.
Kids fuck everything up. Yes, I mean it. I was illprepared emotionally and so was he. He was all talk honestly. “Oh of course I’ll help you with the kid!”. Yeah sure, he helped with some diapers. Wouldn’t do a single feeding or put him to sleep though. I mean, guess it’s my fault. The fuck you expect from someone who saw the women in their family exist as incubators and chefs? I tried to detect before we got married how he saw women. Nothing was amiss. He didn’t seem to have a problem admiring successful women, or working with women, or applauding their intellect (in an honest, not backhanded kind of way). But goddamn. As a spouse? He was cool with women working, until it was his wife who happened to make more money than him.
There’s things you don’t learn about a person until it’s too late. The reality of turning a man into a husband is one of them. At one point in my life I’d have judged women for choosing shithole men to be fathers. Well, turns out they can be a bunch of LIARS.
So welcome to the “I Love My Husband, But” blog. Come for the rants about my life. Stay for the wild ride.
Buckle up.
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