We got the task of reading the five love languages.
Our marriage therapist, a young woman who had a new master’s degree like ink on her diploma, believed that our marital conflict would be found in the pages of the book.
You told us at the end of another session, after which I ever felt despair: “Your home duty for the next week is to know what the language of your love is.”
At that point, there were fifteen years of marriage, which looked like a movie playing in front of me, as if I were not part of it.
Characters:
Processor: A beautiful woman in her thirties with the voice of a kindergarten teacher; She listens to the wife to live through her feelings; He tends to the husband while magic comes out of his pores.
Husband: The narcissist who can be deceived by any therapist will soon be released without experience in personality disorders; Especially a woman.
Wife: A woman in her mid-forties who gives her face to exhaust her; He has no idea about gaseous lighting, silent treatment, or a victim of narcissistic abuse.
But it was not a movie. There was no way out to call! It would save me from what would have come.
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Therefore, trying to save my marriage with the belief that I was largely responsible for our problems, I did as I was told. I finished my duties.
The excitement coming from my husband on our mission was clear before we left the processor’s office. In just two days, he finished the book and came to me with the results.
“The language of my love is a physical touch,” I declared a tone that looked like a request.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I communicate and touch? Did he hit his arm? Hug him?
I was not affectionate with him for a long time. I couldn’t. Not after his constant situation, the way he stood with a smile on his face whenever he begged him to stop me.
Not to mention the young girls who were taken care of (old enough not falling in prison, but it is small enough to buy alcohol).
I retreated between fear and disgust at any time you looked at me. Now I was supposed to address it?
In addition, communication with affection was dangerous, such as trying a snake. I didn’t know when it would strike.
I didn’t want to touch it. Especially when I already had to.
Like when he woke me in the middle of the night to have sex – even if he ignored me for several days. Even if we fought earlier. Even if I begged him, please let me sleep. Nothing stopped him.
Or when he put his hands on a reminder of his ownership of my body. Like when he suddenly shortened my nipples, the pain was overwhelming, and then he said, “These are mine, unforgettable.”
do not touch me! I wanted to shout.
My skin crawled from the idea of having to touch it more.
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“Have you discovered the language of your love so far?” He asked me a few days before the next counseling session.
I shook my head. I did not tell him that I hadn’t started reading yet.
Something scares me about what was in this book.
But I was accustomed to being afraid – from the truth, from the strange in the mirror that I confirmed.
So, I read it.
I discovered the language of my love.
At our next session, the therapist asked if we had done our homework in the voice of her teacher in kindergarten.
Then I felt as if I went back to this movie.
The husband: “I have read the entire book! I immediately knew that the language of my love was a physical touch. I am Latin, so I am personally a very affectionate person. I am very excited.”
Wife: Stress directly forward. Frying teeth when thinking about touching her husband there then.
Therapist: (shy) “I am very proud of you! You know what? You deserve a golden star!”
Wife: Certainly speaks metaphorically…
Therapist: (Outing an office staircase) “Here! I won it!”
When the golden star’s poster received it, he realized that this was not a movie after all.
This is a nightmare.
I watch the little poster, and their fingers touch, then put it on his shirt, over his heart.
Both the therapist and I look at it. He looks at her. I watch his profile while he continues to speak – and lie – about what is going on in our home and marriage.
Oh man, it’s good. Although I am the person who lives behind closed doors with him, I can only start feeling sorry for the man because he had to live with me.
I look like a real piece of work.
The therapist was arrested from the angle of my eyes, who is backing from his interest – and compassion – through the hunting line.
