Maybe You Should Talk to Someon - Lori Gottlieb Page 0,87
less than sociopathic.
“And you know what else she’s going to tell her idiot therapist?” John continued. “She’s going to tell him that her fucking husband can’t fucking have sex with her, because when I got in bed at the same time she did instead of finishing up my emails—another thing I’m doing to make her happy, by the way—I was so pissed off that I wouldn’t have sex with her. She approached me but I told her I was tired and didn’t feel well. Like a housewife in the fifties with a headache. Jesus Christ, right?”
“Sometimes our emotional states can really affect our bodies,” I said, trying to normalize this for John.
“Can we keep my penis out of this? That’s not the point of the story.”
Sex comes up with almost every patient I see, the same way that love does. Earlier on, I’d asked John about his sex life with Margo, given the difficulties in their relationship. It’s a common belief that people’s sex lives reflect their relationships, that a good relationship equals a good sex life and vice versa. But that’s only true sometimes. Just as often, there are people who have extremely problematic relationships and fantastic sex, and there are people who are deeply in love but who don’t click with the same intensity in the bedroom.
John had told me then that their sex life was “okay.” When I’d asked what “okay” meant, he said that he was attracted to Margo and enjoyed sex with her but that they went to bed at different times so it was less frequent than in the past. But often he contradicted himself. At one point he said that he tended to initiate sex but Margo didn’t want it; another time he said that she often initiated “but only if I do what she wants during the day.” Once he said that they’d talked about their sexual desires and needs; another time he said, “We’ve been having sex with each other for over a decade. What’s there to talk about? We know what the other person wants.” Now I got the sense that John was having trouble getting an erection and that he felt humiliated.
“The point of the story,” John went on, “is that there’s a double standard in our house. If Margo’s too tired to have sex one night, I let it go. I don’t corner her with a toothbrush in her mouth the next morning and say”—here he did the Oprah impression again—“‘I’m sorry you weren’t feeling well last night. Maybe we can find some time to connect tonight.’”
John looked up at the ceiling and shook his head.
“Men don’t talk like that. They don’t dissect every little thing and think it has ‘meaning.’” He made air quotes when he said the word meaning.
“It feels like picking a scab instead of letting it be.”
“Exactly!” John nodded. “And now I’m the bad guy unless she gets to make all the decisions! If I have an opinion, I’m not ‘seeing’”—more air quotes—“what Margo’s ‘needs’ are. So then Grace gets into this and says that I’m being unreasonable, that ‘everyone’ has a phone, and that it’s two to one, girls win! She actually said that: ‘Girls win.’”
He lowered his arms now that he was done with the air quotes. “And that’s when I realize that part of what’s driving me nuts and making it hard to sleep is that there’s too much estrogen in the house and nobody understands my perspective! Ruby’s starting elementary school next year but already acts like her older sister. And Gabe’s getting so emotional, like a teenager. I’m outnumbered in my own home and everyone wants something from me every minute and nobody understands that I might need something too—like peace and quiet and some say in what goes on!”
“Gabe?”
John sat up. “What?”
“You said Gabe was getting so emotional. Did you mean Grace?” I did a quick memory check: his four-year-old’s name was Ruby and his older daughter was Grace. Didn’t he just say Grace wanted a phone for her birthday? Or did I have that wrong? Was it Gabriella? Gabby shortened to Gabe, the way some girls named Charlotte are called Charlie nowadays? I’d once confused Ruby with Rosie, their dog, but I was pretty sure I had Grace’s name right.
“I did?” He seemed flustered but recovered quickly. “Well, I meant Grace. Obviously I’m sleep-deprived. Like I told you.”
“But you know a Gabe?” Something about John’s reaction made me suspect that this wasn’t just about insomnia. I wondered