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My crack stretches up beyond the top of the tiny bikini my husband has just gifted me, and my cheeks peek out from the bottom. The next day he huffs and puffs in the kitchen. He slams the cabinet and offers only one-word answers. This was the story of my life with my husband for the first decade of our marriage. It was a theme across our entire relationship, not just with regard to sex. He made lavish meals and then stared at me while I took my first bite. I found myself over-performing my pleasure with the food to validate him.
We had an implicit agreement that I was responsible for his emotional state, and it was exhausting me. Admitting to myself that our dynamic was toxic was the catalyst I needed to push us both into therapy, where we could unpack and challenge all the nonsense our families of origin had modeled.
I was raised in a Southern conservative family with strict gender roles. I was expected to brush my hair, tuck in my shirt and worship the men around me. As one of four boys, my husband learned to revere female anatomy, but not to understand it. In therapy, we started to see our conditioning more clearly.
We learned we are each responsible for determining and communicating what we want, and for giving the other person the compassion and space to do the same. My husband learned to take everything less personally, and to manage his feelings of rejection with a bit more grace. We still work in therapy to untangle our co-dependent patterns and take responsibility for ourselves. This new perspective allowed me to step into a leadership role in our life and home. I realized I wanted true, equal partnership, so I started to assert myself and worry less about his response.