My Wife Thinks Emotional Support Animals Are Ruining Our Marriage, But What Does She Know? She Sleeps on the Edge Anyway.

You know what’s romantic? Sharing your life—and your bed—with someone you love. You know what’s not romantic? Having that same person tell you there’s “no room for her” because of the army of emotional support stuffed animals I’ve curated over the years.

Listen, some people collect stamps. Some people go to therapy. I, apparently, emotionally bond with inanimate fabric creatures like Sir Snugglesworth (a walrus), Anxiety Carl (a screaming goat), and Mr. Soft Death (don’t ask). These aren’t just plushies—they’re the security council of my mental health.

My wife, bless her, claims it’s getting out of hand. She says things like, “I’m sleeping in six inches of mattress space,” and “Why is there a bat with a knife embroidered on its chest named Harold?” To which I say: You knew who I was when you married me.

She tried to set boundaries. She gave them all “zones.” Sir Snugglesworth was banished to the dresser. Mr. Soft Death was exiled to the closet, which frankly feels a little prejudiced. And Harold? Harold now sleeps between us as a form of passive-aggressive negotiation. He’s Switzerland, but emotionally unstable.

It’s not that I love the plushies more than her. It’s just… they don’t get mad when I eat dry cereal in bed at 1 a.m. They don’t judge my anxiety spirals. They don’t ask me to “please stop narrating our marriage like a crime documentary.” They just get me.

And yeah, maybe we’re one plushie away from a full-blown hoarding intervention. Maybe she’s right and I am emotionally stunted. But in my defense, I’ve never once blamed her throw pillows for “ruining intimacy,” even though there are eight of them and not one serves a medical purpose.

So tonight, like every night, I’ll lie there with my wife on one side, silently calculating how many more years of this she’ll tolerate, and Harold the Knife Bat on the other—watching. Judging. Protecting. Whispering softly: “You don’t need her. You have me.”

And maybe one day I’ll grow up. Maybe I’ll learn to express emotions without the help of a therapy platypus named Greg.

But not tonight.

Tonight, we ride.o

Signed,

Tyler – Professional Spiraler, Amateur Commuter