Between Silence and Noise
I’m still not entirely sure whether I ever truly had “Cassandra syndrome,” but I do know this: being with him was exhausting, whether we were out in public or sitting at home surrounded by the never-ending mess. The blaring YouTube videos during the day, the booming podcasts at night—those became my background noise. My nightly ritual wasn’t skincare or reading a book; it was putting in earplugs just to get some sleep.
He insisted he couldn’t fall asleep without a podcast playing, and not just quietly—it had to fill the entire room. We negotiated the volume down, but even through earplugs I could still catch the topic of discussion. When the podcast finally ended, his snoring took over, echoing in the same space. Eventually, I gave up on trying to stop the podcasts and accepted that earplugs were my only way to survive the nights.
And yet, it wasn’t all bad. We shared moments of genuine laughter. I know I became stronger during our years together—eight as a couple, six living under the same roof. Even now, I think about him every day. But the cracks began early.
When Silence Became a Weapon
The first red flag came during our arguments: he would shut down completely, refusing to speak to me. Days later, he’d act as if nothing had happened. We never addressed the issues—those moments became taboo, and over time, the list of forbidden topics grew so long that our relationship became painfully narrow.
He was intelligent, sharp, and had an uncanny ability to understand my clumsy English. But he was also stubborn, almost obsessively so. Once he made up his mind, there was no changing it. One night, he demanded that I “show my chest” in the bright living room. I refused. I asked him to at least turn off the lights, but he wouldn’t budge. In the end, he declared, “I’ll never touch your chest again.” It wasn’t as if our sex life was thriving before, but after that, even casual physical affection disappeared.
Life on His Menu
He was an extremely picky eater. Our dining options were limited to pizza, hamburgers, gyoza, yakiniku, pasta, yakitori, or curry. Even within those categories, the list was short—pizza only from Pizza Hut, burgers only from McDonald’s or Burger King, gyoza only from a specific shop. Meals out were either from his approved list or from pricier restaurants he was willing to “risk.”
I grew up on Japanese home cooking—vegetables, tofu, natto, a little fish or meat, and a variety of small dishes, each with its own flavor. To him, those side dishes were nothing but “decorations” with no real nutritional value unless they contained meat.
I believe that even a cheap izakaya can serve as the perfect setting for a good night—because it’s not about the quality of the food, it’s about who you share it with. But he approached meals like a competition. No sharing plates. No lingering over drinks. Every bite was judged: this burger is good, that one is terrible. One wrong move from a restaurant and it was permanently erased from our rotation. Over the years, the list of “acceptable” places dwindled to almost nothing.
By the end, our Saturday night “choices” were reduced to curry only. Pizza and Korean fried chicken had gotten too expensive. I adjusted my weekdays to eat the Japanese food I loved, saving the weekends to match his limited palate.
The Translator
Whenever we went out, I became his interpreter—not just for language, but for his preferences, his quirks, his demands. He would grab the menu first, point at dishes, and ask endless questions despite the English translations being right there. He never placed his own orders, insisting it was more efficient for a Japanese person to do it.
I paid at the register, always with the cash he handed me for his portion. At first, I told myself this was simply a cultural difference. But over time, the weight of being both partner and personal assistant began to wear me down.
He could sense my irritation. When my face betrayed my mood, he got angry. And I, in turn, blamed myself. I didn’t want to be “difficult,” so I medicated myself with Latuda and Lexapro just to keep the peace.
I don’t know if that was Cassandra syndrome. But I do know that, somewhere along the way, I lost myself trying to make it work. And now, piece by piece, I’m taking myself back.