When Wanting Something Made Me “Too Much”

I learned very early in my marriage that if something mattered to me, I couldn’t just say it.

Not plainly. Not directly.

If I needed something, anything really, I had to figure out how to present it in a way that allowed him to arrive at the conclusion himself. As if the idea had originated in his mind, not mine.

At the time, I was vaguely uncomfortable with this. I remember wondering if that made me manipulative. And in a technical sense, yes, it did. I was manipulating outcomes.

But not to control him.

To survive.

My needs were so invisible in that relationship that this became the only way I could have them met. I wasn’t scheming for advantage or power. I was orchestrating just enough space to exist.

It’s important to say that out loud.

This wasn’t about getting my way.

It was about having any way.

The things themselves were never outrageous. They were ordinary. Mundane, even.

A repair that needed to be done in the house.

A couch that was so worn out a leg actually broke off.

A night where I was so exhausted I couldn’t bear to cook one more meal.

Normal requests. Normal life maintenance.

But I couldn’t say, “We need to replace the couch.”

I couldn’t say, “Let’s go out to dinner tonight.”

I couldn’t say, “This needs to be fixed.”

If I did, I would become something else in the room.

Ridiculous.

Wasteful.

Extravagant.

Someone who wanted unnecessary things and spent money irresponsibly.

So I learned to tell stories instead.

To float ideas gently.

To frame needs as conveniences.

To wait.

To plant seeds and hope they took root in his mind so I wouldn’t be the one asking.

And when even that felt too risky, I stopped asking altogether.

It was easier to fix things myself than to talk about them.

Easier to pay for repairs quietly when he wasn’t around than to justify why they were needed.

Easier to handle it alone than to be made wrong for wanting a home that functioned.

So I became very good at fixing things.

I laid hardwood floors in the entire house by myself.

I remodeled kitchens and bathrooms by myself.

I wired outlets by myself.

I landscaped the entire property by myself.

Not because I loved doing those things.

Not because I was trying to prove anything.

Because it was the only way anything ever got done.

If I wanted something nice in the home, this was the path of least resistance. Not asking. Not discussing. Just doing.

At the time, I told myself I was capable. Resourceful. Independent.

And I was.

But I was also deeply alone.

What I didn’t understand then was the cost of living this way.

Every time I anticipated instead of spoke, I moved myself a little further out of the relationship.

Every time I managed instead of asked, I reinforced the idea that my needs were negotiable, optional, or burdensome.

Every time I fixed things myself, I confirmed that partnership was something I couldn’t rely on.

I wasn’t just maintaining a house.

I was maintaining an illusion that everything was fine.

Looking back now, I can see how early this pattern formed. How quickly my voice learned to reroute itself. How thoroughly I trained myself not to need.

And I understand something now that I couldn’t see then.

No one should have to disappear in order to be accommodated.

No one should have to manipulate in order to be met.

No one should have to become hyper-capable just to avoid being dismissed.

At the time, I thought this was just how relationships worked.

Now I know it was how this one worked.

And there’s a difference.