The stranger wearing my husband's face

It's been six months since Mike got laid off, and I don't recognize the man living in my house anymore.

My husband used to be the guy who ironed his shirts on Sunday nights, who smelled like that cedar and bergamot cologne I bought him every Christmas. He was the one who'd suggest evening walks after dinner, who never missed leg day at the gym, who actually wanted to go to farmers markets and movie premieres with me.

Now? Now he's a greasy, unwashed creature glued to his gaming chair, screaming at teenagers on the internet about some first-person shooter I couldn't care less about.

The decline happened gradually. First, he canceled our gym membership—"just until I find something new." Then the daily showers became every other day. Then twice a week. Then... I honestly don't want to know.

The citrus-scented man I married has been replaced by someone who smells like old socks and broken promises. I've moved into the guest bedroom because sleeping next to him literally makes me gag.

And housework? Forget it. The man who used to vacuum without being asked, who understood that my job was just as exhausting as his—that man has vanished. Now dirty dishes pile up next to his keyboard. Our Sunday cleaning routine is just my Sunday cleaning routine.

"Babe, I'm in the middle of a raid," he says whenever I ask for help. Every. Single. Time.

At first, he genuinely tried to find work. He polished his resume, networked on LinkedIn, went to interviews. But nothing was ever good enough. The salary was too low. The commute was too long. The role was "beneath him."

"I'm not going to bust my ass for peanuts," he told me. "I deserve something better than what I had before."

In this economy? With those standards?

By the time he lowered his expectations, all the good positions were gone. And anything outside his field? Absolutely not. "I'm not qualified," he says, refusing to even consider learning something new. Meanwhile, I'm working overtime to cover our bills while he's unlocking virtual achievements.

We fight constantly now—or rather, I fight while he stares at his screen with dead eyes. The only thing my anger accomplishes is getting him to shower and shave once a week. That's it. That's my victory.

Last Saturday, I went out with my best friend Sarah. We ended up at this wine bar downtown, talking and laughing until almost midnight. The whole time, I kept checking my phone, expecting Mike to call. To worry. To offer to pick me up like he always used to.

Nothing.

When I walked through the door at 11:45 PM, he was exactly where I'd left him twelve hours earlier—hunched over his keyboard, headset on, completely oblivious to my existence. He didn't even turn around.

I could probably bring another man home, and Mike wouldn't notice unless the guy blocked his view of the monitor.

I've wondered if this is depression. It would explain the withdrawal, the neglect, the complete surrender to a virtual world. I gently suggested he talk to someone—a therapist, a counselor, anyone.

"There's nothing wrong with me," he snapped. "I'm fine."

He's not fine. But you can't force someone to get help. They have to want it.

And I can't keep living like this.

We don't have kids. This house is in his name from before our marriage. Honestly, divorce would be simple. I'd just need to file the paperwork and find an apartment.

Maybe that's what I'll do.

Let Mike keep his high scores and his empty victories. I'm done competing with a screen for my husband's attention—especially when I've already lost.