Do you know how many years it took me to realize that? Eight. Eight years to break the narratives I’d been raised to believe about my body, and about a man’s right to it in marriage. Nearly three thousand days of my life I spent listening to all the reasons why I should give him my body when he wanted it. That it was his right, that I was the problem, that there was something wrong with me and that his needs were valid. Four and a half million minutes of my life were spent listening to where his footsteps were in the house, trying to persuade my body to enjoy it, shielding my children from the sounds I would make so that it would end sooner, trying to think up new reasons to get out of it.

And even now, my heart is running away 100 beats per minute while I sit here thinking about it. Thinking about the sound of his feet coming up the stairs. The scream festering inside of me, the negging voice telling me I was caving again. He didn’t care that I didn’t want it. It was so easy for him to just jump right in there. Complaining that I was always pulling away from his touch or that my head was hitting his when he tried to kiss my neck.

As always, as he came to expect, I gave in. The deal my mind made up to convince my beautiful body it was the only way to end it. Her voice was always stronger than mine. She rebelled, she cringed, she dripped disgust and disdain at his touch. But it’s a moment of peace I told her, just try. It will buy us some time. So she counted the minutes, the seconds, the hours, the days, until she would have to do it again.