The Silence Next to Me: Loving Him While I Disappear

I love my husband. That is the first thing I need to say, because it is the anchor that keeps me here. I love him with a depth that surprises even me. But lately, that love feels less like an anchor and more like a weight that is dragging me under.

As a gay man, I fought hard to find partnership. I fought to find a space where I could be myself, loved and held. But the reality of my marriage right now is a stark, lonely contrast to that dream. The partnership feels hollow, tilted entirely in one direction. I am pouring everything I have into a cup that has no bottom. My depression, which has always been a shadow in the corner of the room, is getting worse. It’s no longer in the corner; it’s sitting on my chest. It whispers to me that I am unworthy. It tells me that I am ugly. And the hardest part is that my marriage, which should be my safe harbor, is inadvertently confirming those lies.

The Nights are the Hardest Sleep has become a stranger to me. I lay there in the dark, night after night, staring at the ceiling while he sleeps soundly beside me. His breathing is steady, peaceful—a rhythm I can’t seem to match. In those quiet hours, the isolation is deafening. I am physically next to the person I love most in the world, yet I feel lightyears away. My mind races with every insecurity, every rejection, every moment I felt invisible that day. The exhaustion is bone-deep, but my brain won't shut off. It’s just another reminder of how out of sync we are: he rests, and I wrestle with demons he doesn't even know exist.

The War with the Mirror And then there is the battle with my own body. I’m starting to realize that my relationship with food has twisted into something dangerous. I think I have an eating disorder, born out of this desperate need to be "good enough."

I look in the mirror and I don't see a person; I see flaws that need to be fixed. I catch myself thinking that maybe if I were thinner, or more toned, or just different, he would look at me with that spark again. Maybe he wouldn't just want me for what I can do for him, but for me. So I punish myself. I restrict, I obsess, and then I spiral. It’s a vicious cycle of trying to control something—anything—because I feel so out of control in my own marriage. I feel ugly, inside and out, and the silence from him just makes the voice in my head louder.

Transactional Intimacy It’s a painful, humiliating realization to admit that I only feel "needed" when he wants something physical. It’s not even intimacy anymore; it feels transactional. I feel like I only exist to him when he wants a massage or oral sex. In those moments, I am useful. In those moments, I am seen. But the second it is over, the silence returns. I go back to being furniture. I go back to being invisible.

There is no "How are you?" There is no "I see you’re struggling." There is just the crushing weight of my own unworthiness and his indifference to it. I am tired of feeling like an appliance that is only taken off the shelf for specific uses. I am tired of feeling like my value is tied strictly to what I can do for his body, while my own mind and soul are withering away. I am sad. I am deeply, profoundly sad. And for the first time in a long time, I am admitting that I cannot carry this alone anymore. I need help. I need to be seen, not just as a husband or a provider of pleasure, but as a human being who is hurting.