Putting on a lace peignoir after a twelve-hour work shift is a special kind of national female extreme, Ukr.Media reports.
She is an immigrant, she is responsible for renting an apartment in a foreign city, raising a child, working from eight to eight. And her husband is waiting at home, who has gone into deep rest mode.
He's 42, he's in the NWCH and quietly sits out reality and TCC in the living room. The first two months after they got together were completely cinematic: sparks, a cool intimacy that made you ignore the sirens outside the window. And then the demo ended abruptly.
Now she has a very specific neighbor. A neighbor who cooks well, whose eyes light up when she fixes a socket or screws a shelf, but whose gaze turns completely glassy when she tries to hug him.
Intimacy once every two weeks at his insistence, no kisses on the lips and endless cold. He says it feels like prison. A very comfortable prison, you must admit. With free food, shelter and a woman who also feels guilty for making the prisoner sad.
And what does a woman do in such a situation?
She doesn't pack his things in bags. She goes to the forum to ask what's wrong with her. She buys new underwear, arranges dances with tambourines, tries to talk about feelings (a total of eight months) and rapidly loses self-esteem. Because how can it be – the figure is beautiful, she takes care of herself, and he doesn't even look away from the laptop screen.
The funniest thing is to read how this situation is being dissected in the comments.
Someone sympathizes, someone screams about betrayal, and someone even diagnoses the hero with depression and hormonal imbalance.
Of course, it's so difficult and primitive to call things by their proper names. It's much more noble to look for deep psychological traumas in a man than to admit the obvious fact: he's just comfortable.
If you look at the details, the picture is painfully familiar.
He doesn't introduce his mother via video call – “we'll move to Kirovograd someday, then.” His ex-wife, of course, is a vixen who doesn't let him see his son (we only believe his version, right?). Classic text from the unwritten manual “How to lie down comfortably on someone else's territory.” Kisses and tenderness require emotional return, and he's not here to give. He's here to wait it out.
For some reason, we are terribly afraid of appearing unempathetic. We are afraid of not understanding, not loving, not saving the person next to us. Especially now, when there is such a horror all around. It seems that if we just endure a little longer, talk again, buy even more transparent underwear, he will remember that you are a living person.
I read this story and think about how much incredible, completely blind strength we have. To work twelve-hour days, to build a home from scratch, to raise a child — and yet have the energy to bang our heads against a blank wall for months, begging for a drop of attention from our husband on our own couch.
One can only imagine the scale of the mountains we could move if we simply stopped pouring this energy into black holes.
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⚡ Readers' Pulse
Is this still holy female empathy or just voluntary slavery under the guise of love?
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🩹 He just broke 👢 Drive in the neck 🤔 I have my own opinion
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🩹 He just broke down 0% 👢 Drive him in the neck 100% 🤔 I have my own opinion 0% 💡
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