Guest Blogger Momonthedge chronicles her struggle to stay married.
Slut. Whore. Bitch. Mindless Troll. That's what he shouted at the top of his lungs during our last argument. He had our infant son playing on top of the open dishwasher door and somehow when I asked him to stop it erupted into this fight. Our refrigerator and oven had locks on them. I thought it was obvious that kitchen appliances shouldn't double as toys, especially ones with knives and poisonous detergent inside. My husband strongly disagreed. He grabbed my arms and pushed me out of sight, disgusted.
Two and a half years earlier in Zion National Park, the closest you can come to heaven while still on earth, he said to me on top of a mountain, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You make me a better person." Now, we can't stand to be in the same room.
I didn't understand. How did we get to this point? And how was I a slut? If I were a slut I wouldn't be able to count the number of times I had sex in the past year on one hand, and it would have been with someone other than my husband. Mindless troll. That one was possible. I had a baby, after all. I often wondered if I suffered from momnesia myself. If my brain cells would ever return to full capacity. Just because it could be true didn't mean he was allowed to call me out on it!
It was clear. There was only one thing we could do. Go for couple's counseling. Again.