My Husband can’t say I love you.
And that’s fine. Earlier, it used to bother me A LOT …
Whenever I ask my Husband, “Why do you love me?”, it leaves him tongue-tied. Dumbstruck completely (probably in terror?).
Though we’ve been together for around 6 years now, still this is something he can’t answer. Not then, not now. Not even once.
You’d think that things would change, once we start living with each other, but no. We can talk to each other about everything — that’s one of the beauty of marriage — living in such close proximity makes you feel more relaxed, more comfortable and allows you the space to be seen and heard completely — your partner is wholly a witness to your entire life. Nothing can get more intimate than sharing a home — it’s your refuge, your safe space.
Alas! Just because you live in a perpetual state of societally-approved love (which is something marriage is, amongst a plethora of other things), doesn’t mean you’d want to articulate it. My Husband can’t put words to his feelings, not that he doesn’t have them.
I know that he loves me. But he doesn’t say it — he just can’t find the words.
He can find the feelings though.
I have a hormonal issue — my periods tend to be heavy. One morning, while I was still asleep, he woke up, boiled water, strained it in a hot water bag, and kept it near my belly, while I was tucked inside the blanket. He did it, so that it soothes me, even in my sleep. Here’s the blue bag that beats my bloody blues:
Sometimes, when I cry, he just lets me be. Sits besides me and holds my hand, while I am letting it all out. Then he gives me a warm hug, during which I stain his t-shirt with tears and snot.
I paint. Self-taught. Stress-buster. I think I’m pretty mediocre at it, it’s a hobby — so I don’t aim to excel anyway — I do it for the pure joy of it. But the way he rejoices at my paintings and embroideries and immediately takes them for framing, and hangs them around the house, with a sense of pride and joy beaming in his eyes, makes me kind-a melt.
I read voraciously and go into bouts of wondering and stare into a wall, while processing something from my book. He sits at a distance and just watches me be. Once, he asked what I was thinking of. I told him. Then, he laughed, hugged me and went off.
More than anything, he gives me the space to just be. Who I am. With my quirks, nerdiness, crooked smile, loud, child-like persona, all fused together.
Husband and I are very different people. I write. Because it helps me process and grieve. Words flow naturally to me, not to him. He’s a product manager by profession and instinct— problem-solver with a use-case approach to everything. Words don’t come easily to him, solutions do.
Just because he can’t talk about his love, doesn’t make it any less real. He’s as authentic as they come.
