I recall hearing in our premarital counselling that there would be times when we'd have to abstain from sex, experience challenges with pregnancy, illness, and perhaps an injury. All of those occurred within the first few years of our marriage. We handled them well, and it didn't seem much of a problem to me.

Then came the change in employment. My husband lost his job and couldn’t find another one in the area where we lived. After six months he found a good paying position four hours away from us. I stayed behind with our little son until we sold our house. Due to the worsening economy, it took seven months, much longer than we expected.
During that time, he would come home occasionally on a weekend or I’d travel with our three-year-old son to where he shared an apartment with a colleague. I noticed he no longer wore his wedding ring. He told me it was hazardous to wear it around the equipment he used on the job. He had been rebuked for wearing it a few times, so he permanently removed it.

When I eventually moved in with him, he introduced me to another co-worker who happened to be shopping at the supermarket the same time we were. He turned to my husband and tapped him on the back. “Man, I thought you were divorced. You've never spoken about your wife, but you always talked about your son.”

Naive as I was, I shook off the strange feeling that hit me. Settling in, finding a house, and securing a job for myself was tough. My work became demanding, as did our growing child. In addition to these, I still had my “motherly” duties of cleaning, cooking, and laundry once I came home. If I could have described my life in one word it would have been “exhausting.” To be honest, by the time I finally laid my head on the pillow around midnight, I was too tired for romance.

He occasionally took care of the cars, but couldn’t help me out with the everyday chores because he worked for long hours into the evenings and often on weekends. When I complained, he often said we needed his income more than mine since he made twice as much.
The few times we were intimate it was boring. He showed no emotion at all. Then the intimacy stopped all together.

We lived this way for ten more years, until he had to find another job, this time six hours away from home. Then the cycle of separation began again, except this time he told me we didn’t have the money for him to travel home. When I joined him four months later, I noticed something different in his attitude. When I asked he just said he was under stress.

Five years later, the cycle began again. This time the new job was in another state. Our son was now old enough to be on his own, so I was alone. When I joined him, I noticed a clear change in him. He began to sleep in the guest room more and more. He became distant and when he was home, he stayed in the study using the computer. In the middle of the night, I’d wake up to see the glow of the computer screen coming from under the closed door. The few times we were intimate it was boring, He showed no emotion at all Then the intimacy stopped all together.

He would avoid receiving a hug from me, or holding my hand when I offer it. Eventually, we had no physical contact whatsoever. He told me he had fibromyalgia (a condition characterised by chronic pain, stiffness, and tenderness of the muscles, tendons, and joints) so it hurt too much when I touched him. When I offered to go with him to the doctor, he claimed seeing the doctor will not help.

A few months later he bought another phone and told me it was for work. One day, I found pornographic pictures on our computer, he told me they were our adult son’s and he’d talk with him the next time he visited.

On our bank statement I noticed large amounts for lunch paid with his debit card. He told me those were times he paid for himself and his colleagues who were short on cash, but they always paid him back within a few days. However, there were no records that the refunds were deposited. By this time, I knew he was deep into pornography because I hear the soft, sexy music coming from our TV in the early hours of the morning. I suspected the large amounts for lunch on his debit card were not payments at restaurants. I discovered the emails he deleted from sex sites.

In a way, his death was a release. I no longer had to live with emotional abuse.

I grew so tired of the lies and stopped confronting him. We lived together for another six years, yet separate like roommates instead of husband and wife. He had his side of the house, I had mine. I watched as he sank deeper into depression and refused to seek help. I found comfort in my faith, my friends, and my work. I refused to allow the darkness that has taken over our home to weigh me down.

He stopped hiding his pornography addiction. In fact, he made sure it was obvious to hurt me the most. He told me I was no longer attractive, compared my cooking and housekeeping to that of other wives. His harsh words were deep stabs to my heart. Yet I decided I wouldn’t let them cut me as deep as they did previously. After a while, they just became surface wounds.

Our physical separation continued for six more years until he died from a heart attack in the bathroom while getting ready for work. His death was a release. I no longer had to live with emotional abuse. Actually, my marriage had expired long before he died.
Several times over the last few years of his life my family asked why I left the marriage. He occasionally shouted at me to leave the marriage. I always replied, “Why don’t you leave?”

Why did I stay in a sexless, loveless marriage? Several reasons. My faith frowned on divorce, though I knew people who got divorced, and married others in court, and seem to live very happy lives. I was raised with the conviction that my word was my bond. I made a vow for better or worse, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer. I figured I had to live with the consequences of my actions. It was my fault I’d chosen the wrong man. Up until the morning he died, I hoped and prayed he’d change.

In a strange way, the distance he created between us made facing his death a lot easier. He indirectly prepared me for widowhood.

Honestly, I was also afraid I couldn’t make it economically on my own. I was dependent on his income. The man made good money, though he often spent most of it. And being a perfectionist, the idea that I had failed in being a wife was not a fact I wanted to face.
They say a frog won’t jump out of a pot of boiling water if you raise the temperature little by little. It adjusts. I guess sometimes humans are the same way. If my husband didn’t die, would I have remained in the marriage until it killed me?

Though I would not wish my experience for anyone else, I can now see the benefits that came out of it. I can truthfully say it made me stronger. I learned to stand up for myself, to not let the opinions of others affect me as much, and to value my self-worth. I also grew deeper in my faith and developed strong, binding relationships with other women, which my husband never allowed me to have when we were more of a couple. He’d always been jealous of how I spent my time and wanted my undivided attention until he decided to pull away. After that, I think he was glad anytime I was out of the house doing volunteer work, attending Bible studies, or meeting friends for dinner. It allowed him to freely indulge in his addiction.

Not having him to lean on made me more independent. In a strange way, the distance he created between us made facing his death a lot easier. He indirectly prepared me for widowhood.

Your circumstance may be similar, and yet different. Perhaps you are hoping, as I did, that things will change. Perhaps you have given up hope they ever will. Each of us has to make our own decisions and be certain they are right. But you don’t have to work it out or process your decisions alone. We have confidential and free mentors who will listen and support you on your journey. If you fill out the form below, you’ll hear from one soon.