“I said ‘yes’, and a month later, I regretted it profoundly.
In the whirl of wedding preparations, a depression crept over me unnoticed, a shadow dimming even the brightest moments. My days blended into late nights at the office, excusing my absence as the demands of my recent promotion to a high-ranking executive position, a role heavy with responsibilities.
Financially, my future husband boasted of a stable job, an apartment he planned to sell for our shared home, painting a picture of a seemingly adequate life. I’ve always prided myself on financial independence, never considering wealth a trait to seek in a man. Yet, I desired a partner matching my independence.
When I first met my ex, we were both students; he later flourished into a successful dentist. His newfound wealth did nothing to alter our dynamic. However, after my experiences, I demanded a partner equally ambitious, accomplished, and financially self-sufficient.
My mother busied herself with the arrangements, handling the dinner and evening events for family and friends. The dress fitting was brief – the first gown I tried, fitting perfectly, became my choice. The salon for my hair was picked on a recommendation. Meanwhile, my mother and fiancé took charge of the rest as I immersed myself in work. Luckily, he shared my taste for rustic furnishings and decorated our apartment tastefully. I would join him to approve his choices and foot the bills.
On the evening of our wedding dinner, I arrived at 10 p.m., the last to show up. Guests puzzled over my late arrival, unaware I was at the office, dreading their company.
On the wedding day, my cousins picked me up from the hairdresser, heading straight to the reception. When asked about my wish, I half-joked about fleeing as far as possible. A sinking feeling, a premonition of sadness, weighed on me.
My mother resents me for hiding my feelings and fears. She would have halted the festivities, saving me from the impending doom. But I said ‘yes’ to a liar, a manipulator, a five-year cohabitation with a parasitic presence. These five years of depression began with a honeymoon in Europe, devoid of intimacy, sensuality, or sexuality. It was like traveling with a buddy, a huge red flag.
Back to routine, the facade began to crumble. I learned I married a man so indebted he had nothing but cigarette money left from his salary. There was no apartment in his name, only a potential inheritance of his parents’ poorly located property. And most disturbingly, he was a premature ejaculator, whom I nicknamed ‘One Minute Man’ – a generous estimate.
A month into the marriage, overwhelmed, I sought a divorce, revealing his lies to my mother (excluding our sexual issues). She supported my decisions, having never truly liked him.
He begged me not to leave, crying profusely, asking for another chance. I gave hundreds of chances over five years. I criticized his disregard for our sexual incompatibility. While I agreed to financially support him, he had to address our nonexistent sex life. I offered to find a sexologist, though my feelings had faded. He no longer attracted me, yet my own desires remained unfulfilled, often resorting to self-satisfaction, sometimes beside his lifeless form in our bed.
Financially, he continued exploiting my generosity, even selling his car to share mine without contributing to its expenses. Circumstances favored him, and we decided to give our failing relationship one last chance by starting afresh in a new country.
And thus began another chapter…”
