There would be times when N would get resentful about us not having sex, at these times he would feel as if we never had sex. He would forget how great it was when we did.
He would not be able to link the fact that he had been angry/disliking/distant/resentful of me, which would be why we weren't having sex.
This problem was solved when his medication was at the 'right' level. A level which seemed to enable him to appreciate other things in life in addition to the 'high' that sex would give. When the level was wrong, it was as if the only thing that would make the bad feelings go away was sex. Sex is a place to escape, when the level was wrong it was his only escape.
At the level headed times, he was able to understand that when he was cold/distant etc, I had no desire for him, that having sex would have been..... felt nasty, not loving, or exciting, or intense or fun or delicious, it would have just felt like being used and using. When the level was right he understood this.
Just before the end, he changed his medication, for one less 'numbing' coincidentally at the same time, the old argument of me 'witholding' sex came up again. Oblivious that he had been angry with me continuously for about 6 weeks, suddenly all he could think was that I wasn't having sex with him.
The more I write, the more I remember, the more I see how our life was filled with his illness. It left no room, for love. If I say I left my husband because of his illness, I feel misrepresented. I married him knowing about the illness and believing that a mental illness, like any other illness was just something you would support someone with. I left him because he was living with the illness, I was living with the illness, but only I was prepared to recognise and manage the consequences.
It still doesn't feel 100% right that I say he has a mental illness, or better call it a condition, and maybe most of the behaviour could just be described as 'men being men' . I think the reason, and maybe the only real reason I call it an illness, is that he just couldn't see what was happening, afterwards, although he would rarely apologise, he would not know why he had behaved in such a way. It could take weeks...maybe that is still 'men being men' . He would say he would die for me, would want to do anything for me, his heart wanted to give me love, it really did, his mind just wouldn't let him. It was as if there was a constant saboteur on his shoulder, telling him to feel resentful or victimised regardless of the situation, and it would so often win.
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