Joyless.

I think I became grateful for the forced moments of joy quite early on. I would sense a black, rut-like cloud around him, but doubted my own very reasonable senses, because he was telling me that he was happy. Although actually, he never did use that word; instead, he opted for "content." 

This should have told me all I needed to know really. I was always waiting for this gift-wrapped moment of elation from him, but it never really came. He would tell me he was happy, but his facial expression has rarely been in sync, the tone of his voice, his body language not quite aligned. But again, I told myself that Peter was a good person and that if he said he was happy, then he was. 

Peter's colour is grey, if I had to choose one. He doesn't like to stand out, likes to blend in, he's your average colour scheme, he rarely smiles. Grey was stable and secure though, which isn't something I had been used to so I found grey lightly alluring somehow. 

When our children were born, in the delivery suite he was very hands on- practicals are his strong point and I'd been wise enough to give him the instructions beforehand. But when we finally got to see their beautiful faces, there were no tears of joy, no smiles, no gazing into their eyes. Just a very pragmatic reaction of "oh she's here, what would you like me to do for you next?" He wanted to help me and do things for me, afterall what else was there for him to do? Holidays are met with non-chalance, the children's firsts are merely a minor acknowledgement than a moment of delight. But my joy needs company. 

Birthdays are a sore point. 

Practically, he's great. He takes it upon himself to research books I might like, he'll usually get me a surprise gift, something I'd thought of buying and had forgotten about or a sports experience that I'd mentioned a few times, but once the gifts are handed over, it's back to business. Many women tell me how lucky I am that he's so mindful when it comes to gift buying and he has a very pedantic mother to thank tor that. 

There have been years where his special interests have taken priority over special occasions and he's ignored these precious occasions like they don't exist, to suit him and his own pursuits. I've been asked to celebrate my birthday at other times that are more convenient for him; I've been met with sulking and resentment for saying no. I've been left with a screaming, refluxy, breastfeeding newborn and a three year old on my birthday justified by him buying me an extra gift that year. That's the day I realised I couldn't love him anymore. 

He ticks the practical birthday boxes, but there's no joy, no special time, no meaningful conversation, no fun. There are birthday meals which should be romantic, where I should be seen, but deep down, I know the conversation is no different to one he could be having with his sister.

Sometimes he'll try to "act" out joy. He'll do a "happy dance" like the children do, but his body is tense, his face is serious and he resembles a deranged animal as he moves stoically and forcefully around the room. I force a smile, force a bit of joy in return for his, but I don't feel it. Peter really tries sometimes and I think that makes it difficult, because even though there is no joy, he tries for it. Every practical act he does, every time he does a bit more than his share to please me, everytime he cleans the loo, he's trying to bring a bit more joy, a bit more love. 

But stuff, mopping floors, cups of tea, silent romantic meals don't bring joy- only passion can do that. You can't learn passion, they have to feel it, don't they? Sometimes, I see a spark, a squeak of passion when he's absorbed in his special interests, but it's not joy- more an infatuation, an intense focus. I think this is the culprit for the droplets of supposed joy I saw in the beginning- I was a mere special interest, a focus. And when we're no longer a focus, well, what do we become? 

A resource? 

And there's no joy in that.