Sometimes I worry you may get the wrong impression about the hubz. Sure he can be an absolute twunt but I’m no angel. I’m incredibly difficult to live with. Seriously, I’m a fecking nightmare. I’m a slattern. I have less libido than roadkill. I refuse to be separated from the kids until they’re several years old. I don’t like going out. Or social stuff. I’m a mental headcase. I’m permanently exhausted due to M.E.
Despite spending every day together we’ve probably not had a date since our wedding. We don’t even share a bed as the four year old is still in the room. Hubz doesn’t do cosleeping. I go to bed when the four year old does. Rather than couple time we each have evenings to ourselves. It works for us.
Though I admit I’m guilty. Guilty of always thinking there’ll be plenty of time for ‘us’ in the future. I probably neglect ‘us’ too much. Motherhood and mental health issues leave very little ‘me’ left to give. To him. And to myself. One day I’ll make it up to him. Because I trust in us to be together long enough for me to make it up. To put him first. To show him how much I do actually love him. Even when I don’t seem to be able to show it.
He puts up with a lot. We both have our faults and our demons. Sure we argue like fuckery.
I complain on here because I have no bff or even just an f to routinely bitch with over coffee or wine or down the telephone line. This is my ranting space. My journal is my only mate.
But he loves me.
And I love him.
We’ve been together 14 years this year, married for ten of those next month. We’ve been through a lot life wise. Yet we stick together. No matter what shit life throws at us. No matter how unconventional we may appear. We’re still together.
We don’t love each other just because of who we are but also in spite of who we are. Warts and all.
Like the northerners we are we’re well ‘ard. And so is our relationship.
Because that’s love. Innit.