Existential Angst is a Bitch

2011-2014

I was twenty-eight years old when it occurred to me that I was going to die.

My mind wandered as I said my bedtime prayers. I started thinking, Well hey, I have everything, life is grand, thank you God. I’m twenty-eight, and I already have everything I craved as a teenager, aren’t I the luckiest? Twenty-eight. And a half. Almost thirty. My twenties are almost over. Over. I would never be here again. All the moments would pass; in fact, I spend a lot of time wishing moments away, eager to move forward. To the end. Over. 

It was too much to think about. I broke into a cold sweat, and when it became apparent that I would never fall asleep with my heart beating this hard, I snuck out of bed and went downstairs to pace. When my breath was finally steady, I changed into dry pajamas and crawled back into bed, where I fell asleep against Jack’s warm body.

I had hoped, right before I passed out, that I would wake up refreshed and forget about that awful feeling the night before. 

Not so. 

I was always tense and tired. I had so much work to do, but my brain always felt on the verge of shutdown. I realized that nothing really mattered, but I also regretted wishing away so much of my life. I was always counting down to the weekend, to the years when the kids would be easier, to retirement. Was this it?

We moved to the suburbs for more space, to a beautiful lakefront property, with a house that needed work. Now Jack and I bickered about house projects. Then we welcomed another beautiful baby, but we bickered more as we shifted from defense to zone coverage. We bickered about our roles, and money, too. 

We even fought about sex. 

“Don’t you ever want to have sex with me?” Jack would ask. 

I felt a disturbing degree of rebuke towards him when he’d bring up this topic yet again. The nasty, stressed-out part of my subconscious would suddenly get riled up and throw out unhelpful comments. Woe is Jack. Who does he think he is, demanding your body? You’ve got better things to do, like sleep.  The words that came out of my mouth weren’t much better, but he persisted.

“You could give me a hug,” he’d suggest. “We could cuddle and see how it goes.”

“You know you’ll just get horny and frustrated,” I’d retaliate.

It wasn’t really about Jack at all. I didn’t want to have sex with anyone. I struggled against the depression that flared after each baby. I held anxiety at bay by busying myself with shit like landscaping. I was constantly holding, feeding, or cuddling a small child.

You deserve some time to yourself, the voice in my head said. He can take care of his own needs. Don’t worry about him. I hated that voice. It sounded critical, like my mother.

I never stopped loving Jack, but sometimes I’m shocked that he still loved me. Maybe because I told him everything, in time, from the panic at night to the voice. Maybe because I tried, in my pathetic way, to maintain some semblance of a sex life.  

It wasn’t much; about once a week I would let him “do me.” It was similar to our pregnancy sex. I’d lube up and he’d rub my back while I laid on my side, not facing him. Or I’d get on all fours and tell him to “be quick.” I kept my eyes closed and endured his thrusts until he finally came and we could finally go to sleep.

Still, some nights I turned him down completely, and then he’d trudge downstairs to the half bathroom, scour the Internet for adequate porn, and quickly jerk himself off with the volume on low. I was usually annoyed by this situation, but I was at a loss. When Jack wasn’t working or parenting, he just wanted sex. He didn’t give a flying fuck about crown molding. He just wanted me. 

Well. I wanted me, too. I didn’t know where I’d gone or who I was anymore. I envied Jack’s naturally happy disposition, and I hated how I was hurting him. This had to stop.

I knew that I had some work to do. I didn’t want to listen to the nasty voice in my head, so instead I listened to audiobooks like The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. I started to journal again while I pumped breast milk at work. I listed my goals: be a better wife by initiating sex more, be a better librarian by reading more, be a better thinker by writing more. 

Have you ever noticed that writing things down seems to make things happen? 

I talked to Jack about my ideas, and I tried not to take offense when he offered more suggestions for improvement, especially those involving my sex drive. Maybe he was on to something.

I wanted to live in the moment, be present, and enjoy life. But sex felt like a chore, an obligation, a place where I would come up short. I didn’t feel that I could have good sex until I had mastered the daily grind. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that sex could be the answer. 

I didn’t yet see that if I gave it my all during sex, I’d receive an immediate reward of extreme pleasure, with stress-relief like a cherry on top. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that I could celebrate the beauty of life by being raunchy, silly, foolish, gross, over-the-top, and selfish in bed. I didn’t see the point in trying.

The books I read emphasized deep breathing, minimal spending, cultivating friendships, and making time for fun — but they didn’t specifically mention fucking. I’d relied on only talking to my caring, committed husband, instead of breeding connection through sex. I wasn’t meeting Jack’s needs; I was brushing them aside without empathy. Of course there was tension between us.

I was aware that I wanted to be better, but I was still figuring out how. I had an inkling that I needed to be more intentional, and yet more open-minded. I wanted to feel awake, alive. 

I started considering how I was using my time, my energy, and my body. 

I was getting there.

 “What if I stopped taking the Pill?” I asked Jack. I’d read that those progestin-only minipills that I took postpartum could cause mood swings and low libido. I wanted to try “going natural.”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Stop taking it. It makes you bitchy,” he said. He offered to get a vasectomy, adding “I’ll do anything to have more sex with you.”

So we threw out my remaining Pill packs and scheduled Jack’s appointment. Until his procedure was complete, we’d use a fertility calendar to time our use of condoms and pulling out. 

True, the rhythm method had created Holden, but now I was older and wiser. Natural felt better, and if nothing really mattered, why not try everything for a better life?