I Am Not His Anchor—I Am His Life Raft, and I’m Drowning in His Storm.

I don’t remember exactly when it started. There wasn’t a single defining moment where I suddenly realized, "This is it—this is when I disappear."

It happened slowly, quietly, like erosion. Like waves relentlessly crashing against the shore, each surge pulling me further into the depths—cold, overwhelming, and unforgiving—until one day I lifted my head and found myself stranded in open water, miles from anything familiar, desperately searching for something solid to hold onto.

At first, I called it compromise. Isn’t that what marriage is supposed to be? Give and take, teamwork, balance?

But somewhere along the way, the scales tipped. Less give and take. More give, less take. Then all give and no take. Until one day, exhausted, I realized I was the one holding everything together, but no one was holding me.

🔥 When Did I Become the Only One Who Adjusts?

It’s not like he didn’t notice. He saw me slipping, even said it out loud: “You’re doing too much. You need help. You need time for yourself.”

I clung to those words. I thought maybe he’d finally seen me drowning, and he’d be the one to pull me ashore. But the second I asked for that help, the second I reached for that lifeline, suddenly it was too much to ask.

At first, I blamed myself. Thought maybe I was asking wrong. That my timing was off. So I kept trying, kept changing my approach, softening my voice, picking my moments carefully.

But it never mattered, because the truth was, I was the only one trying.

🔥 The Silent War

I think about it all the time. How can two people share a life together yet feel like they're living in entirely different worlds?

It's not just the fights—it's the silence. The creeping distance that forms when things go unsaid, pushing us further apart instead of drawing us closer. There's no trust, no intimacy, no emotional safety. Just endless miscommunications that lead to disappointment, hurt feelings, and battles that never needed to happen.

We’d fought again. Words said, feelings wounded, issues unresolved—again. He moved on like nothing happened, sitting comfortably in the kitchen, absorbed in his video game, while I sat alone in our bedroom, frustration and resentment churning inside me. We didn't even have the closure of a final word; the fight just fizzled out into silence, unresolved as always. He went straight to his game, headset on, tuning everything out, while I returned to what I'd been doing—cleaning, folding laundry, struggling alone to move a massive TV across the room. The weight of his indifference pressed down on me harder than anything I was physically moving.

Because I can't stand feeling alone in our fights. I can't stand being the only one trapped in the aftermath.

But what kills me the most is when he simply checks out completely—locking himself away, sleeping peacefully, leaving me awake, replaying every word, every mistake, every hurtful moment.

So, desperate, I texted him from the next room.

I needed to know he wanted me, not just needed me. I just needed him to choose me, to get up and cross the distance between us. But instead, we spent hours arguing over text, a wall of words, when all he had to do was come to me.

That night, exhausted and broken, I wondered: “How did it come to this? How did I end up begging my husband to show me he wants me? Each plea made me feel even more rejected, more unwanted, and lonelier than before I'd said anything at all. I laid my feelings bare, told him exactly what I needed—clearly, directly, desperately—and yet he brushed it all aside, making it about himself, his feelings, how I don't listen to him. Every ignored message, every moment he refused to simply stand up and choose me, cut deeper. And the more I reached out, the more invisible I became.”

🔥 It’s Like Raising Two Teenagers Instead of One

The weight of this marriage isn't even the hardest part. It's the way he twists things.

I can say something completely neutral, and somehow he takes it as an attack. If I mention something as simple as, "That’s not the sheet I wanted on the bed," it instantly spirals into:

"I can't ever do anything right." "It's always my fault." "I'm such a piece of shit."

And suddenly, instead of addressing the actual issue, I'm forced to soothe his wounded ego, reassure him, and apologize for something I never did—just because it's easier. Because arguing is exhausting when he insists on rewriting reality.

Worse still, it seeps into parenting Jonny. Whenever tensions between me and Jonny finally begin to settle, Chad inevitably throws out some sarcastic remark that reignites the entire conflict. And when I confront him about it, he acts oblivious, like there's nothing wrong with undermining everything we've just resolved.

He acts more like a rebellious teenager than a responsible parent. He tells Jonny one thing, then behaves in the exact opposite way himself, completely unaware—or unwilling to acknowledge—that he's showing Jonny the wrong way to act. He believes his adulthood shields him from consequences, not realizing he's teaching our son that the very behaviors we condemn are acceptable.

No matter how clearly I spell it out, he refuses to see the damage he's causing.I imagined marriage meant having a partner, someone who shared the weight. Instead, I found myself managing him, tiptoeing around his moods, his stress, his anger. If he snapped, I had to fix it. If he withdrew, I had to coax him back.

It's exhausting, constantly mediating Chad's moods, smoothing over tension just to keep the peace. But as difficult as that is, it becomes even harder when I see how those same walls he builds around himself also keep Jonny out.

🔥 Then there’s Jonny.

He’s a teenager—moody, unpredictable, pushing boundaries. But Chad treats him like an adult who should already have it all figured out. And Jonny’s trying. He’s reaching out, trying to reconnect, seeking approval he may never get.

Every rejection from Chad crushes him, dimming the light in his eyes, reinforcing a message he’s already heard too often: "You're not enough."

And I feel helpless.

Because I can see it—the day Jonny stops reaching out, the day he gives up altogether. And I’ll know exactly who to blame.

But I can’t fix this for them. I can’t keep standing in the middle, absorbing blow after blow, feeling myself pulled thinner each day, until eventually, nothing is left.

🔥 I Love Him—But I Need Shelter

I love him. Enough to have twisted myself into someone I barely recognize—biting my tongue when I want to speak up, hiding my tears to avoid another argument, sacrificing pieces of myself just to keep us afloat.

And despite everything, I know I’ll never leave. Because he's my person. Even though we’re lost right now, I believe we'll find each other again.

But I can’t keep living like this. I need him to hold me. To see me. To carry me for once, instead of always expecting me to carry him.

I need my home back. I need to feel safe again.

Because I love him—deeply, desperately. Even now, when things are at their worst, I remember nights spent laughing until we cried, his hand reaching for mine across the table, and the quiet way he always knew how to make me feel safe. Those memories anchor me, reminding me why I'm still fighting for us.

But if he doesn’t realize it soon, if he doesn’t throw me a lifeline—I’ll sink beneath the waves, invisible and forgotten, screaming silently into an ocean of my own making, until there's nothing left of me but the memory of someone who once believed
love could conquer everything.