Monday, 16 April 2018


An Open Letter From Wives of Porn Addiction/Intimacy Anorexia/Asexual Husbands

Dear Husband,

Now that I know, I'm going to keep my request simple: please hold my hand.

During the morning commute, your hands are clean and groomed. You have prepared them for all they will face today by scrubbing off yesterday's grime. They speak of a fresh start.

By lunchtime, your hands are dirty, often stained with grease and other hazards of your job. You treat them to a brisk rinse and then sit down to a hard-earned lunch. Your hands will feed you while checking messages on your phone and responding to walkie-talkie requests. Your hands do not get to join your feet in rest for this brief time.

At day's end, your hands are more tanned and weathered, and sometimes wear battle scars. Of course, it's hard to see and appreciate this ... unless you hold my hand. You see, my hand knows the texture of yours. My moisturized hands can easily feel the difference between the grooves in your skin and the scratches from equipment moving that shouldn't have. My hands know the difference between the solid surface of your muscles and the swelling of some unanticipated injury. I learn about your day when you hold my hand.

You like to wash the dishes every night. I wonder if it's because your hands get to soak for a while, even though they're moving the whole time. Usually, this process removes all the unwanted bits of the day from both your hands and the dishes. When you finish the dish washing and sit on the couch, your hands finally rest for the first time in 10 or more hours. If only you would hold my hand so I could just rest with you!

Bedtime comes, and your hands are the last ones moving. You wait until I am in bed before you kiss my forehead and turn out the lamp. Sometimes you reach for my hand; almost always, it brings tears to my eyes. You wouldn't know in the darkness, but the warmth of your hand has a way of softening my soul. When there is nothing but you and me, I finally get to touch your hand. And somehow, lying completely at rest on the coolness of the blankets, it holds me together.

Please . . . don't stop holding my hand. The heat in your hand is a sign of life. Where there is life, there is hope. We can find our way through everything, if you just hold my hand.


Your Wife

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