Diary of a Gaslit Husband

Suburbia. Suspicion. Lasagna.

Holy moly—this is someone’s diary.

The only witness is a dog who’s definitely judging.

Tuesday

She made lasagna. From scratch. With real cheese. Even said I “deserve the world.”

Which is rich, considering last night I was “the most emotionally unavailable man alive” for asking if she was okay the wrong way.

Classic love bomb. I ate two helpings and told her I was still going to poker night Thursday.

Her eye twitched.

Dog stared.

Game on.

Wednesday

She said, “You never support me.”

I said, “I just built you a pottery studio.”

She said, “You only do things so you can hold them over my head.”

Then asked if I thought she looked fat in her new leggings.

I said, “They’re black.”

She said, “So… yes.”

I played dead. Moose sighed.

She closed with, “The wife is always right.”

A phrase now carved in my soul.

Thursday

6:03 AM. She unloaded seven years of grievances before my first coffee. We’ve been married five.

Also: the neighbor hates me, my “attitude,” and my non-Lamborghini.

Then a detour into my mom being “manipulative” for asking our Christmas plans.

Projection level: black belt.

I left for a board meeting.

11 missed calls. 18 messages. 2 emails.

I texted, “Can we talk later?”

She replied, “Wow. No one ever listens to me.”

And then—the guilt missile.

“Moose is always so bored at home.”

He literally sleeps 16 hours a day. I checked.

Friday

Glorious. Icy. Silent treatment.

Watched Die Hard. Folded laundry. Moose finally got uninterrupted belly rubs.

No one accused me of prioritizing the dog over my marriage.

Found my earbuds in the freezer again.

Therapy? Not today.

This was the best Friday in months.

Saturday

She stared at herself in the mirror. “Do my eyes look droopy lately?”

I blinked.

“Why’d you hesitate?”

I didn’t. But apparently blinking now counts as a micro-aggression.

Then: “You spent more on your grandma’s birthday than mine.”

I taped both receipts to her office door.

Later, googly eyes. “There’s this dress. Just $300.”

I handed her my card.

Consider it a sanity tax.

Sunday

Post-shopping apology:

“If I’ve ever made you feel like the bad guy, that wasn’t my intention.”

Then told me I should really open up more… like her friend’s sister’s husband Chad.

(Chad cries during Super Bowl commercials. I’m not Chad.)

She said she was lucky to have me.

Gave me a massage. Brought brownies.

She’s either cheating or wants to redecorate.

Either way—I let her keep rubbing. Moose growled once. He knows.

Monday

Checked the credit cards.

The $300 dress was actually $1,200.

An “in-season” rug arrived: $800. Moose pooped on it immediately. I did not intervene.

She screamed at the dog, then turned to me:

“I’m tired of being the only adult in this house.”

I nodded. “Same.”

Her eye twitched again.

Hopeful for another silent Tuesday.

Golf clubs already in the car.

Endnote:

Yes, we’re in couples therapy.

Yes, she’s triangulating the therapist.

She made a slideshow—with transitions.