Finding Forty, Day 50; Harder

Trying is hard.   It's, well, it's trying.

Yesterday, A and I made love.  I suggested it, thinking it might be a way to connect, a way to feel better and release some tension.   I haven't had anything to drink since Sunday, so I was completely sober and as we eased into our foreplay, I realized, I didn't really want to kiss A.   I wanted to want to, but just couldn't get excited about it.

As we got into it a bit more, I realized that he wasn't getting hard.   His touching me felt terrific and I hoped that my writhing and moaning would help, but it was making no impact on him.   He slightly pulled away and said, "I'm sorry.  Sometimes I think of you and S together and it actually gets me hard, but sometimesI get an image and it has the exact opposite effect."

I didn't know what to say.   In light of our recent conversations about my weight gain, I wasn't sure if that was the absolute truth or if my size was turning him off.   Pushing those insecurities out of my head, I worked harder to well, get him harder.   Eventually, things improved and we made love.   It certainly wasn't our best effort, but it was an effort nonetheless.    In the aftermath, we realized that in the past year, the number of times we've had sex while one or both of us was sober (primarily me) have been staggeringly minimal.    There is a marked difference between alcohol enhanced sex for us versus stone cold sober.

It didn't leave a great feeling.

Then, last night A caught me crying.   It was late and I was in bed listening to my iPod.  I must've thought he wasn't coming to bed just yet.   I didn't want him to see me, I wasn't trying to be obvious.

My therapist says to just go with the moment and not try to repress it, which is what I was doing, but as soon as he saw me, what could I do?   

Pulling the buds out of my ears, I stopped the music and began wiping my tears.

"Are you crying?" he asked.  

"Just a little.  It's nothing really," I lied.

And then awkward, painful silence.   What single, solitary word or collective thought could fill that next empty space and make either one of us feel better?

He surely thought I was crying about S.   And for the most part, I was.    For the past few days, I've missed him in a way that physically hurts.  I am yearning for him, as if there is a magnetic beam pinpointing my heart, compelling me to pull towards him.   Constantly I wonder where he is, what he is doing and if he ever thinks of me.

But, I also cry for A, for the love we once had that somehow slipped and cannot find firm footing, no matter where we place our feet.   For the loss of our passion and our ability to hold a normal conversation without constantly second guessing what the other is thinking, inferring, or worrying about.

I cry for our sweet boys; so good, so smart, so innocent to the ways of their mother's Judas heart.

I cry.   

I try to keep my crying contained to my car, as I drive alone or better yet, in the shower, so that the water will drown out the sobs and wash away the tear tracks.   Red eyes there can always be blamed on sudsy shampoo.   But sometimes, I slip up and the tears escape when I realize, all too late, that I'm not totally alone.

No real tears today, but the heart is heavy.    I feel like a failure.
 
This is me trying.  

And trying looks like awkward sex in the early evening, stilted conversations, heads full of doubt, and tears that should know their place and show a little respect.

But, try I must.   Harder and harder.