It’s a hot and humid August in Northern Virginia. I still haven’t showered since my morning trail run.
I’m wearing the uniform of a housewife. Oversized Marine sweats, T-shirt, Crocs flip-flops, and ponytail. I feel safe when I wear this uniform. Since it does not wrap around any part of the body, it can hide body imperfections.
Wearing this uniform allows you to pretend that you are acceptable and acceptable.
It says I did something today, I tried something. This look, combined with a toilet scrubbed to a shine, says, “I’m not a lazy pig, I’m worth something. Please protect me.”
This uniform is enough to make up for my lack of lipstick and style. It walks the line between disgusting and acceptable.
So far it’s enough for my husband to try to initiate sex with me once a month. Things like sex you do because you need to feel worthy. The type that lets him know you need him. I’m not fulfilled, but I have a purpose.
It’s dinner time, so I’m busy in the kitchen cutting tomatoes and onions on the cutting board designated for use with the expensive Shun knife I received as a Christmas present.
He came from the deck with a plate of piping hot hamburgers. My gut told me something was wrong.
I chased after him because I was the pursuer. I went up to him, gave him a hug, put my hand on his shoulder, stepped back, looked into his eyes and said, OK?
I know the answer. I always know the answer. However, I didn’t know what would happen this time.
Is this acceptable? Can I apply the patch again? It’s like a tire that slowly leaks. Filling it with air will make it last longer than you expect, so you can keep running.
But eventually your tire will go flat and you won’t be able to take your car to a repair shop. This, we, cannot get to a place of resolution.
“I told myself I would tell them if they asked me.”
No, no, please.
“There is a woman who is a classmate of mine. We met again during a family trip to San Diego. I thought she would ignore me again. We started talking. She made me feel alive. I’ll give it to you.”
I felt panic wrack my body. I hate this place. I feel very embarrassed. I know I would do anything. I always do everything.
“Is it serious? Please don’t do this. We can fix it. It will work. What can I do? How can I make it better? Please let me make it better.”
please. I have no pride. I know that. He knows me too.
This is who I really am: a desperate woman. It’s a burden.
I’m embarrassed. I was scared. It’s embarrassing. I’m angry that I allowed this to happen. This is what I do. This was created by me. I could be better, but I’m not. I’m a loser pretending to be a winner.
Our marriage was built on fear and flourished for the next 20 years.
When he proposed, he knew that this would ensure that he would fulfill his dying mother’s last wish: to experience becoming a grandmother while she was still alive. He could avoid the fear of disappointing the perfect woman he named a saint.
And when I accepted his proposal, our binding contract ensured that I would no longer give away the baby like I did 6 years ago. This will be mine. When my father left me, my mother, and our family without a word, I was going to start the family I had dreamed of for nearly 15 years.
Marrying a Marine offers an exciting nomadic life surrounded by tight government-backed security.
Now, almost 20 years later, I wear my marriage and family as a badge of honor around my neck. It’s heavy and shiny. It’s no good to flaunt your victories, so I tuck it into my shirt, but whenever the opportunity arises, I quickly, often smugly, pull out that medal and shine.
But I know the truth about my medal. Every time I pull my shirt out, the gold plating on my shirt peels off bit by bit, leaving my neck green from the cheap metal underneath. My entire marriage is made of cheap metal.
I keep begging. He remains angry and disgusted.
I’m worried about the plate of hamburgers on the counter getting cold.
This wasn’t the plan. We were going to have hamburgers–hamburgers that required a bun, which I asked him to buy on the way home from work. I bought the manju with deep resentment, wishing I didn’t have to do this.
The bread he placed on the counter was full of anger. Because he earns all the money, and now he has to do everything at home?
Up until now, I have pretended that I had no anger or resentment. I happily swallowed the burger, helping my self-loathing.
The plate is still there. Can I just eat a burger and get back to posing?
we don’t eat hamburgers.
My winnings have stopped.
My shirt was off and all my friends, family, and children saw my tattered medal and green-stained neck.
The author has been a military spouse for over 20 years. She becomes the wife of an active duty Marine, fully embraces her military life, and shares her unique journey over the past 20 years.
This article was originally published at: Moderate. Reprinted with permission from the author.