My Story
It’s hard for me to go back to the beginning, but I guess that’s where everything really started.
Hi, I’m ME. Nice to meet you.
There are many ways I could start this story, but I’ve chosen to begin after the birth of my third baby. It was one of the most stressful times in my life—actually, in all of our lives. My other two kids felt the pressure too. And yes, I say “pressure” because this blog is about being honest, no sugar-coating.
Having three kids in the U.S. is hard. Both of us were working full-time jobs, and in our case, I had the higher-paying one—the one that also held our immigration status together. That added another layer of stress for a new mother.
As many know, after having a baby, there’s usually a waiting period before being intimate again. A month or two. But two months passed, and nothing happened. Then more months. My husband fell into a deep depression. Still, no intimacy. No kisses. No sex. No physical affection.
I started to feel invisible. I hated my body. I felt ugly, unwanted, and rejected. So, I took matters into my own hands. I started focusing on my health, worked hard to get my body back, and I did it. I was feeling strong again, enjoying my kids, and even got a better job. Things were looking up.
But then night came. And every night, the silence between us returned. Rejection. Again and again. That kind of rejection—from the person you love the most—is a pain I can’t describe. It cuts deep. So eventually, I gave up. I started sleeping on the far edge of the bed, just to avoid even brushing against him.
Even when I felt good about my body, I hid it. I layered myself in lounge clothes—socks, hoodies, long pants—anything to make myself invisible.
It’s been six years since this began, and I still get chills remembering it. The months passed, and I kept holding onto hope. I kept dreaming that he’d come back. We still spoke during the day, about the kids, about life, but I could feel he didn’t see me anymore. Not as a woman. The distance between us grew until one day I realized: it had been two and a half years without any physical connection.
I told no one. I was ashamed. What could I even say? “My husband doesn’t want to touch me”? I still believed he would come back eventually.
But then I hit a breaking point. I was so depressed, I finally said it out loud. I told him: This isn’t a relationship. We haven’t been together in almost three years. Something’s wrong. If we cannot fix this, think I am thinking of getting separate.
He was shocked. He said he knew he’d been depressed and promised to start therapy. Around that same time, his father got very sick—and then passed away. That’s when he finally made the call. He wasn’t even crying for his dad’s death. That’s when he knew something was really wrong.
And that’s when the roller coaster began.
He started therapy—and for me, it was like he had entered a mysterious new world I couldn’t access. We had always been good friends, connected on many levels, but now there was this part of him I knew nothing about. I was desperate to ask him what he talked about in those sessions, what was really going on inside his mind. But I also knew it wasn’t my place. That wasn’t the right thing to do.
I was lost. Utterly lost. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about what was going on—not a friend, not family—so everything just lived inside me, spinning in circles, eating me alive.
You might wonder: what happened with sex? And yes, we did start having sex again. But strangely—and this still haunts me—I don’t remember that first time we reconnected. After nearly three years without intimacy, how could I not remember it? What did I feel? Did it hurt? I hadn’t been with anyone else, so physically I expected it would, and yet I can’t recall a thing. I had masturbated during that time, yes, but always with guilt, like it was some shameful substitute. Something I had to do, not because I desired it, but because I had no other option. In a healthy relationship, sex isn’t supposed to feel like a secret.
So no, it wasn’t some magical, romantic moment. Clearly, it meant less than I wanted it to.
Still, in my naïve, hopeful mind, I believed things were returning to normal. We were having sex again. He was seeing a therapist—even if I didn’t know what he was working through. The kids were growing up. Our jobs were stable. I kept telling myself, we’re okay now… this is normal again.
But of course, it wasn’t.
He changed. Suddenly, he was a man who expected sex when he wanted it. And if I said no—because I had a headache, was on my period, was exhausted, or simply didn’t want to—he’d get mad. Genuinely angry. As if my body now belonged to him just because he’d decided to be present again.
And that’s when the rage began to build in me.
I started stacking those moments in my memory—right next to the years of rejection he had conveniently decided to forget. You’re mad because I don’t want to have sex tonight? Are you fucking serious? You rejected me for almost three years. I would say this to him, and he’d always respond, That was different. I was depressed. That’s in the past. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
But that? That hurt more than his anger.
Because I did want to talk about it. I needed to talk about it. That rejection left a deep, open wound. And every time he refused to acknowledge it, he poured salt into it. I didn’t know it then, but I could feel it—deep in my bones—that wound wasn’t healing. It was festering.
Who the fuck did he think he was, getting angry because I said no once or twice? After everything? After years of silence and rejection?
Yes, I was full of resentment. Yes, I needed help. But I wasn’t ready to ask for it. Not yet.