I’ve Been Married For 19 Years And I’ve Never Slept With My Husband

We met when we were in our early 40s, both out of difficult marriages. In the wreckage of those unfortunate couplings, we wondered whether we would have enough trust to open our hearts again, and we were grateful and surprised to be falling so deeply in love. Our times together were relaxed, our conversations open. I met him emotionally bruised, and when he held me close, I felt accepted and safe.

Except when I wanted to sleep.

The noise, the thrashing and moving around, the cover-stealing, the mismatched bathroom schedules (that only worsened with time).

I couldn’t relax enough to fall asleep, and if I did, it was short-lived.

It was all bearable until he moved in. I was thrilled when he agreed that packing up every Sunday night to leave for home about 30 minutes south ― actually his parents’ home, where he was living post-divorce and pre-affordable apartment ― made little sense. We didn’t want to say goodbye, and my house had plenty of room for the two of us and my 5-year-old. But I was nervous. Not about whether we’d make a good team, but if I would ever enjoy the benefits of a good night’s sleep again.

We did ― and I did not. I tried timing my bedtime ahead of his, so that I would be solidly asleep before he crept in next to me. I took sleep aids. I meditated. None of it was a match for the snoring, and the drugs only succeeded in leaving me groggy. The day I nearly fell asleep behind the wheel and narrowly missed barreling into a tree, I knew it was time for a talk.

I was weary and desperate, so I was blunt. I told him he snored, loudly and every single night. My work was suffering, and I was fast becoming a menace behind the wheel. I could feel myself getting more annoyed by the day. I told him I’d done research on dental devices, breathing strips and over-the-counter throat sprays ― I wasn’t sleeping anyway ― so could we try to solve this problem together?

At first, he was defensive.

 “Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad,” he said.

“I’ll tape you, if you need proof,” I snapped, but my stone face and the black bags under my eyes made it clear that wouldn’t be necessary.

He agreed to the strips and the sprays but held off on the dental device. They occasionally lessened the depth and duration of the snoring, but most nights I endured full-on window rattling.

And something else was also off: I missed my space. A room with my personal stamp, my personality. A place where I could be completely alone. Something I’d gotten used to, and treasured, during the period between marriages.