I want to preface this by saying I adore my husband. He's not perfect, but he makes me feel loved and valued everyday, especially when it's hard for me to love myself.

However... I am rapidly approaching a sexless relationship, and it is absolutely destroying my mental health. I have a number of congenital and acquired disabilities (tarsal carpal coalition syndrome, scoliosis, sciatica, bone spurs, spinal stenosis, arthritis... And that's just from the belly button-down).

Unfortunately, this means I am never not in pain to some degree or another. This has gradually caused our sex life to deteriorate over the course of our relationship. After I sprained my back ~18 months ago, our sex life has gone down to virtually zero. We're in our early 30s, and I'm not ready to stop having sex. But my body is failing me on an absurd level.

We've had a lot of discussions pertaining to this, but it all boils down to preservation. Even if I'm begging he will turn down my advances 85% of the time, and we'll have maybe a bit of a kiss and a cuddle. It kills me that he's always able to point out a good reason why we shouldn't ("It's hard to get turned on when you cry out in pain", "I'm afraid of hurting you", "You literally can't turn your back/neck right now and I'm not going to make it worse", etc.). I know he's right, but I hate it.

I know it comes from a place of caring. I understand he's denying me because he doesn't want to hurt me/exacerbate an obvious flare. He's inadvertently done so before and has felt horrible about it. Kisses and cuddles are nice, but it makes me feel so worthless when he turns me down. I feel unattractive, unlovable, inadequate. I'm a failure as a wife.

To be blunt, I miss regular sex. I want to be fxcked. But I don't know what can be done to better facilitate intimacy. Does anyone else deal with these issues or have any helpful input? If you've read this far, thanks for listening. This is... Kind of a lot.

Probable throwaway. Tonight, I wallow in existential dread before having to choke it back down and paint on a happy face. I'm supposed to be excited to start my new job tomorrow, I should be buckling down on my current freelance project tonight, but all I feel is dread. All I can focus on are my failures, both past and present. My brain is filled with static. (Sorry man, please don't hate me too much?)

It's funny... I take great pride in my freelance work, but when I sit down and start typing for my creative projects, like the username states, I delete more than I add. I agonize over every word, every meaning. Each scene must be beautifully crafted. If it's anything less than perfection, I've failed. Due to this, I'm on my fourth freelance project in under two years while my projects are in figurative Starter Town.

I feel it's prudent to mention that I engaged in self-harm from middle school all the way through a misguided attempt at higher education. I've survived seven suicide attempts. Though I have a "better handle" on my mental health issues (despite picking up a few more along the way), the feelings never truly go away. Most nights I struggle to fall asleep, instead obsessing over hypothetical scenarios that would give me permission to indulge in self-destructive behaviors or finally end it.

Tonight the suicidal ideation is very real. I can't focus on my creative projects, I'm constantly falling behind with the housework, and I'm not living up to the promises I've made to others. Despite trying my damnedest, it's still not enough -- it's never enough -- and I feel like I'm failing everyone, in every capacity. Yet I need to do more, be more. Take on the weight of the world.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I've been curating this message over a three-hour period because I need to make a point. I feel a need to be understood. (I've got nothing; what am I doing?)

I want to wake up in a reality where my dad's not dying. I want to wake up and surprise my husband with our completed trilogy, complete with digital, paperback, and audiobook deals. I want to wake up without tweaking my spine just by existing. I want to wake up and be able to think clearly, and act with conviction because my head doesn't feel like it's full of bees anymore.

Had anyone informed me that I would rapidly be approaching a sexless marriage at age 33 because my husband is scared of exacerbating my disabilities, I would have begged my younger self to cut deeper. Jump. Not flush the bottle. Find a proper load-bearing beam. Why did I have to be terrified of firearms? Anything but this. Please. Everything hurts.

I can't ask for help. Hell, I couldn't tell you what help looks like. All I know is that I don't want this. I never did. But if there's any fixing to be done, I know I'm alone in this. I have to do it myself. The only problem is, I can't find the right set of tools, and the instructions may as well be written in Swahili. I can't read Swahili.

Four hours now. If you've come this far, thanks, and my apologies. I'm not sure what the point of all this was, and I'm sorry for wasting your time. Soon I will sleep, and tonight I will don my suit and swallow the bile at the back of my throat. And continue.