Emotional Labor, Overfunctioning and Resentment

It started with a science article. How they have neurons in their arms. How their intelligence is decentralized. How they process information through touch. She found it stunning: something about the distributed mind, the wildness of it. It reminded her of how people adapt under pressure, how intelligence isn’t always linear. She thought he might find it interesting too. They like that kind of thing: creatures, brains, systems.

So she shared it.

He scoffed. “God, not another article about octopuses. Why would you waste my time with this?”

At first, she froze. Then frustration flared.

It wasn’t the comment. It was the tone. The edge. The way it shut down the moment. The way it made her offering feel absurd. She hadn’t expected a debate or applause. Just a moment of shared curiosity. Instead, it landed with a slam.

And she knew immediately: this isn’t about the article.

She could feel it: the misalignment, the displaced irritation. Something was off inside him. And now it was leaking out onto her. She was tired of it. Tired of absorbing reactions that weren’t hers. Tired of decoding his moods. Tired of being the one to track what was actually happening beneath the moment.

She told him: “You’re being an asshole.” And then she left the bed.

He followed her a few minutes later, not with an apology, not with curiosity, but with a body full of discomfort. “Come back to bed,” he said. “I don’t feel well. I have diarrhea.”

And that was it. Not: “You’re right, I was off.” Not: “That landed badly, I’m sorry.” Not even a simple: “I didn’t mean to snap.” Just a plea for closeness without ownership. Like he knew he was supposed to come after her, but had nothing to offer.

She didn’t go back to bed. Instead, she lay on the mosquito-bitten couch replaying the moment. Not the comment, but the now-familiar aftertaste of it: the way she had once again become the processor, the one who had to make sense of someone else’s reaction. And once again, he got to forget.

The part that hurt wasn’t the lack of apology. It was the lack of awareness. The absence of any internal reckoning on his part that might have said, “That wasn’t kind,” or even, “That didn’t come out right.” And it wasn’t about this one moment. It was about the system they had built. The invisible economy where she carried the emotional overhead. Where she made meaning, adjusted and repaired. And where he, while loving, involved, generous in so many ways, didn’t track.

There’s a particular fatigue that comes from being the one who notices. From being the first to name a problem. From remembering what was said, what was promised, what was unfinished.  From planning the logistics and managing the tone around the logistics. From organizing the kids’ day and everyone’s feelings about the day.

And beneath that fatigue, for her, there was something sharper: a quiet but steady sense of moral high ground. The subtle belief that her clarity, her effort, her emotional insight gave her the right to hold a little more power in the relationship. Not in any overt way. But in the way that says, I see what’s happening here better than you do. I know better. I am somehow superior. She would never acknowledge this.

That position was never declared. It was inherited. Built over years of being the one who could hold more. Of learning how to reflect and communicate. Of doing the work.

But now it was a trap. Because from that position, she couldn’t receive anything from him. Not if it came late. Not if it came in the wrong form. Not if it didn’t rise to the level of care she believed she had earned.

This was the stuck point. Not just that he didn’t repair. But that even when he tried: when he shifted plans,  offered sweetness, or reached for her body, she couldn’t fully let it in. Because it didn’t come wrapped in emotional fluency. Because she was still holding the rulebook.

And he was stuck too. Because from his side, it probably felt like there was no winning. That whatever he did was either too little, too late, or just wrong in tone. That trying to repair meant entering her terrain: where the story had already been written, the evidence already collected.

So instead of entering, he stayed away, got defensive, or said nothing.

They were stuck in a system: created and maintained by both of them.

Her part was overfunctioning, righteousness, subtle contempt. His was avoidance, defensiveness, passivity.

She needed him to show up differently. He needed her to let go of control.
But neither one could move first.

She didn’t see it as power. She saw it as survival. Someone had to carry the relational thread so it didn’t unravel.

And she was good at it. She knew the chronology of their conflicts. The texture of his tones. The exact phrase he used. The requests she made and the way they were dismissed, delayed, or forgotten.

He didn’t remember these things. Which meant her version became the version. Her memory became the map. His was patchy. So he had to defer to hers. And that made her the emotional authority in the room.

And there’s a thin line between remembering and keeping score. She had crossed it.

Not because she was petty. Because it was the only thing that gave her leverage. The only thing that protected her from the rawer truth: she needed things from him. And needing him made her feel exposed.

So instead, she tallied. Because tracking harm gave her power. And power felt safer than asking.

There’s a kind of contempt that isn’t loud. It doesn’t roll its eyes. It doesn’t shame outright. It lives in pauses. In corrections. In the soft tone that says: That’s not how it happened.

She told herself he wasn’t meeting her. But the truth is: she wasn’t letting herself be met. Because the more she took over, the less space there was for him to enter. And when he did, it felt like trespassing. She told herself she wanted him to lead. But she hadn’t left any room for him to figure out how. Because part of her didn’t trust that he would. And part of her didn’t want to let go of being the one who always knew.

That’s the blind spot:

Not just that she was doing too much.

But that she was using her over-functioning to preserve her superiority.

And that superiority made it impossible to be met.

Are you looking for help with your relationship? Do you feel that a relationship coach could help you working on your couples skills? Is communication an issue? Have you ever considered couples therapy or counseling? As a psychotherapist and relationship coach, I am uniquely positioned to help you through these moments of disconnect and conflict.

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