For years, I felt like I was slowly fading away. On the surface, my marriage seemed fine—my husband worked hard, we raised a family together, and our life was stable. But underneath it all, I was going crazy.
Talking to him felt like trying to have a conversation with a brick wall. When I brought up my feelings, he’d get defensive or tell me I was overreacting. If I asked for support, he’d either dismiss my needs or turn the conversation around to how I was “too emotional” or “hard to please.” It hurt, but what hurt more was how invisible I felt, like my feelings didn’t matter to him at all.
I started to doubt myself. I thought, Maybe I’m too needy. Maybe I expect too much. But no matter how small I tried to make my needs, they still went unmet. It was like he couldn’t see me at all. I stopped confiding in friends because I didn’t want to hear their advice—I already knew it wouldn’t help. Try being more patient. Try explaining it differently. I’d tried all that, and nothing ever changed.
Then one day, someone mentioned something about neurodiverse marriages. I didn’t think much of it at first, but later, I started looking into it. And suddenly, everything my marriage started to make sense.
The constant defensiveness, the emotional distance, the way he needed everything to stay the same—it wasn’t about me being too much or him not caring. His brain just worked differently. It explained so much, but that didn’t make me feel better.
For years, I had poured myself into trying to bridge a gap that couldn’t be bridged. I’d spent so much time thinking if I just explained myself better or worked harder, he’d finally get it. Realizing that might never happen was devastating. I was down in the dumps for a while. It wasn’t just the grief of what our marriage had become—it was the grief of what it can never be.
I found an online support group for women in neurodiverse relationships. I was hesitant at first, but as I read their posts, I saw my life reflected back at me. These women understood the exhaustion, the loneliness, and the way you lose yourself in a marriage like this. It was comforting and heartbreaking at the same time.
Talking to them helped. It made me feel less alone. They validated my feelings without trying to sugarcoat things or tell me how to fix my husband. They reminded me that it’s okay to grieve what I’d hoped for while also finding ways to move forward.
These days, I’m learning to let go of some of the expectations I had for my marriage. That doesn’t mean I don’t still want things to be different—I do. But I’m realizing that I can’t keep waiting for him to change. That was making me sick. I’ve started spending more time with friends, letting them into the parts of my life where he can’t seem to join me. It’s not a perfect solution, but it helps a lot.
The truth is, things are still really hard. I still feel lonely. I still catch myself wishing he could just get it, and I have to stop myself from explaining till I’m blue in the face. And there are days when the sadness hits me like a massive wave, and I wonder how I’m going to keep doing this. But there are also moments when I hear a story from someone in the support group, or when I spend time with a friend, and I remember I’m not alone in this.
I don’t even know if this will ever feel like enough. For now, I’m trying to stop fixing and start feeling—just having small moments of relief.
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