Everything I say gets distorted and thrown back at me

My girlfriend is passive-aggressive. We are in a long-distance relationship, and she had a string of horrible relationships before ours, as well as a more than rough childhood. With that in mind, I do not blame her for being as she is. But her comments have so much bite to them, they really hurt. And when I point this out to her she just says, "Oh, I'm just sharing my feelings with you. Isn't that what you want?"

I love her more than anybody I have ever loved in my life. Her children are the most amazing kids I have ever met and I want to be a part of their lives. But she is driving me away and she doesn't even know it. When she's angry, everything I say gets distorted and thrown back at me. Sometimes I slip and point this out to her, which only makes things worse. I can't talk to her about her anger because she always says, "I'm fine." I hate those two words. How do I get her to realise that she's passive-aggressive and seek help?

• If you would like to respond to this week's problem, please post your comment below.

When leaving a message on this page, please be sensitive to the fact that you are responding to a real person in the grip of a real-life dilemma, who wrote to Private Lives asking for help, and may well view your comments here. Please consider especially how your words or the tone of your message could be perceived by someone in this situation, and be aware that comments which appear to be disruptive or disrespectful to the individual concerned will be removed.

• If you would like fellow readers to respond to a dilemma of yours, send us an outline of the situation of around 150 words. For advice from Pamela Stephenson Connolly on sexual matters, send us a brief description of your concerns.

• All correspondence should reach us by Wednesday morning. Email: private.lives@guardian.co.uk (please don't send attachments)

There's nothing wrong with you, but you may want to explore some options that work for both of you

I have fantastic sex with a new partner and I have orgasms every time, but he says I make too much noise. He says I sound like I'm being murdered and it's "distracting". He jokingly mentioned that maybe I should have counselling for the problem. I've never thought that my noise in the bedroom was a problem before, but I've never had such great sex in my life. I have been using a pillow over my head, but I find it suffocating. Is there any underlying psychological issue that might affect the level of noise one makes? Previously, I lived a sexless life for 10 years. My new partner is really caring and I wouldn't want to put him off by screaming my head off every time I climax.

I doubt there's anything wrong with you. You're just thoroughly enjoying yourself, and you can let go in a way that would be envied by many others. Given your long period of abstinence, it's particularly understandable that you'd want to savour this opportunity to finally be satisfied. I would caution you to stop using the pillow, because that will restrict your breathing, which could lead to other problems. Many people don't mind a noisy partner, but since he is distracted, might I suggest some lateral thinking, such as earplugs for him and perhaps a darkened room? If he's concerned that others might hear you, try to be creative about soundproofing your environment (you could even seek some wide, open spaces!). It may be that your partner's more attuned to visual, auditory or kinesthetic senses rather than sound, and needs silence to enjoy his particular style of sensuality. Negotiate something that works for both of you.

• Pamela Stephenson Connolly is a clinical psychologist and psychotherapist who specialises in treating sexual disorders.

•Send your problem to private.lives@guardian.co.uk

A mother who works 60 hours a week wonders if going to church could help her cope with the daily frustrations of life. Mariella Frostrup tells her she must find a way to let off steam

The dilemma I feel angry a lot at the moment – I'm taking it out on my husband, and because my two-year-old is inseparable from him I'm worried I'm also hurting him when I head for the front door. I'm so frustrated. I'm the main breadwinner and I work 60 hours a week while my husband and mother-in-law look after our children. It's the best-case scenario, but it drives me mad. My husband constantly whines about how tired he is from his 27-hour working week. When I'm at home I'm in primary care of the children. I would find the sick feminist joke that is my life funny and enjoyable if I was appreciated, but I'm not remotely. I have my character assassinated on a daily basis. Do you think church is the answer? I don't believe in God, but all that singing and being grateful has to help, surely?

Mariella replies It surely has. Who'd have thought that at this point in the 21st century, in an increasingly secular society, we'd need God's house more than ever? The unfairness of your situation is writ large for all to see so I'll refrain from my customary feminist rant. Where should those in need turn? Facebook? Mumsnet? The songs and solace offered by the church have taken on a compelling new allure. Led by kindly, cuddly, old-world characters like Rowan Williams who you suspect, given 10 minutes audience, would really understand your problems, the church is far more appealing in a crisis than social services, not least because you don't need to go through a complex automated phone service to reach a human being.

Embracing religion is one of the few guaranteed ways of joining a real- life community, carving out a blame-free 90 minutes a week for yourself against the backdrop of Mass, and experiencing a cathartic blast of exuberance during hymn singing. I'm more naturally tilted towards Richard Dawkins and the late Christopher Hitchens's atheism, but surely even they would appreciate that desperate times lead to inexplicable choices?

Nobody understands what you are going through better than the many millions of other women going through exactly the same thing. Your letter offers further proof of the extent to which we're all struggling to marry post-feminist expectations with our primitive instincts in an era where work is no longer a choice but a necessity for all but the supremely privileged or utterly selfless. Only a truly desperate creature would contemplate embracing a religion they don't believe in just to get some respite from their daily life.

Netball clubs, zumba classes and book clubs are a less philosophically taxing but nicely diverting option. Joining female contemporaries in any group activity on a regular basis is a surefire way to stop my head exploding, and it sounds like you too need to release some of that pent-up pressure. Steam disposal is a survival secret men have pursued for centuries – hence the endless array of essential extracurricular activities they have to indulge in, from football matches to DIY, cycling to engine assembly.

Rather than joining the masses dashing from one megastore to the next, spending money they don't have on things they don't need, where better to spend leisure time than in the house of the Lord? Mother-in-law and partner will be banished to the back of your brain as you belt out "Jerusalem" and count your blessings. Let's bring back poetry clubs and knitting circles, village bakes and children's Sunday clubs, too. I'd nod in acquiescence to a mythical life in the hereafter in return for some peace and quiet in the here and now. It's either that or join the WI.

The Thatcher fantasy has become our reality. Community is a thing of the past, social networks are increasingly in cyberspace, not outside your front door, and we're all being worn down by the death throes of our once-great civilisation. The good news is that though work adds an extra eight hours to your already packed day, it also gives you an opportunity to talk to people who aren't asking where they've left their socks and what's for supper. In the bosom of the working world you probably thought your husband would wait on you hand and foot in gratitude for your efforts. Was that a derisive snort I just heard from the entire female population? Any word that prefixes "holidays", unless it's "working", creates an oxymoron for hard-pressed mothers. I wish I had a magic answer, mainly selfishly, because my own life would be so vastly improved. But I don't. Church seems as good a place as any to start your search for salvation!

If you have a dilemma, send a brief email to mariella.frostrup@observer.co.uk. To have your say on this week's column, go to guardian.co.uk/dearmariella. Follow Mariella on Twitter @mariellaf1

A chilly realisation that the boiler has died

I have a theory that you're not really an adult until you've experienced boiler bereavement. There's denial ("It'll just be the pilot light, I just need to press this button a few times"), anger (as the landlord screens your frantic calls), bargaining (with a succession of plumbers you find in the Yellow Pages whose names all begin with AAAA), depression (no one will come out until next week) and finally acceptance (of call-out charges hovering around £200 per half hour or part thereof). Most importantly, there's the realisation that your home isn't the impregnable fortress you had complacently assumed it was.

My boiler died this week. It isn't my first broken boiler, but it's the first one I'm solely responsible for. I've been half expecting it – there's been some worrying business with the thermostat – but it hits me hard ... waking up to a suspicious chill, running the hot tap in vain, hoping I'm wrong. I try not to panic: first, I go down to the basement to stare at it, hoping for a miracle.

The boiler is gigantic and off-putting, with five enormous pipes emerging from its squat grey body at improbable angles. I open the front door, experimentally, and look for a pilot light button to press, but there's nothing, just a sort of rusty screw, and a butch-looking gauge. I'm lost. The thermostat, with its yellowing card of oblique instructions in my landlady's spiky handwriting, is bad enough. It whirrs and clicks ominously in the evenings. I give up and ring my landlady.

"What have you done to it?" she says, instantly on the offensive.

"Nothing!" I protest. "It just stopped working overnight, honestly."

There's a chilly pause. She has a knack of making me feel guilty when I haven't done anything wrong, which must be useful in her occupation. "Have you touched the thermostat?"

"No!" I lie, palms slightly sweaty.

Grudgingly, she agrees to try to arrange an engineer, but not today, and probably not tomorrow. I hang up feeling furiously impotent and cast around for a solution. I could call my neighbour. He's quite handy – he's fixed my Wi-Fi and put up shelves for me in the past – but he's also a total chancer. There will be some outlandish reason why I need to lend him a hundred quid and if I'm really unlucky, he'll show me his awful drawings of cars again.

Or maybe I should try to get it fixed myself? The thought fills me with gloom (they'll lie to me and take all my money, and my landlady will never pay me back), but at least I'll be taking charge of my own heating destiny. I text a friend to ask if she knows a reliable plumber. "Would you like John to come and have a look?" she texts back. John is her husband. "He's pretty good at that kind of thing."

"Thank you!" I text back, filled with relief. "That would be wonderful."

X is pretty good at this kind of thing too. One of the first things he ever did for me was fix my television and then, as now, I was filled with admiration for his nonchalant techno-brilliance. How do people know this stuff? He called earlier about a forgotten video game, and hearing the edge in my voice, asked what was wrong.

"The boiler's dead."

"Oh no, I'm sorry."

I could feel my composure slipping.

"And my landlady is being evil."

"If you need me ..."

"Thanks." I can't though, can I? It's up to me now.

Actually, it's up to John, who comes round a few hours later with his toolbox, and disappears downstairs, refusing cups of tea. After 20 anxious minutes, he shouts up to tell me to feel the radiator and, sure enough, it's warming, slowly. He comes back upstairs, wiping his hands on a piece of kitchen roll. "Oh, thank you so much, John – you're a lifesaver."

"No problem. I don't know how long it'll last though."

Which is exactly what I expected to hear.

Will it be a love match in Wimbledon for head of public affairs Rob Tolan, 30, and confectionery buyer Sean Barnes, 34?

Rob on Sean

Before the date, what were you hoping for? A good feed and free-flowing conversation.

First impressions? Well-dressed, good-looking and gracious at my being a wee bit tardy. In my defence, I had been sitting in the wrong restaurant – the Dog And Fox and not the Fox And Grapes.

What did you talk about? Family, politics, theatre, the fringe benefits of his work (an endless supply of chocolate), my riot-related injury (I live in Tottenham). Oh, and ex-boyfriends.

Any awkward moments? Nope.

Good table manners? Stunning.

Best thing about him? Really good company. He is also charming.

Would introduce him to your friends? Absolutely.

Could he meet the parents? Yes. They'd find him as affable as I did.

Did you go on somewhere? By the time we finished the meal, it was about half-eleven, and I needed to get back to north London.

And... did you kiss? I kissed him on the cheek.

If you could change one thing about the evening, what would it be? Nothing.

Marks out of 10? 8.

Would you meet again? I could see us getting on splendidly as mates, but he's not really my type.

Sean on Rob

Before the date, what were you hoping for? Just to meet someone lovely.

First impressions? Dapper and a rather cute smile.

What did you talk about? A whirlwind of topics; a potted history of our lives; our views on the public sector strikes (similar).

Any awkward moments? None.

Good table manners? Excellent.

Best thing about him? Wonderful story-telling. Oh, and very lovely eyes.

Would you introduce him to your friends? Absolutely.

Could he meet the parents? Most certainly.

Did you go on somewhere? Sadly not... we had trains and tubes to run for.

And... did you kiss? Just a peck on the cheek.

If you could change one thing about the evening what would it be? That it wasn't a school night.

Marks out of 10? A well-deserved 8.5.

Would you meet again? I certainly hope so…

• Rob and Sean ate at the Fox And Grapes, London SW19.

Fancy a blind date? Email blind.date@guardian.co.uk

'I know I'd feel the same way as my partner: if one person is not fully present in the moment, then it's sex with a zombie'

I first suspected my sex life wasn't as normal as it should be when my partner asked me one morning, "So, you really don't remember anything about last night?" I tried to remember, but … nothing. As far as I was concerned, I'd been dead to the world. Then she told me I'd tried to initiate sex while I was fast asleep. I was shocked – after all, you're usually far from sleepy when you're hoping for sex.

I hoped it was a one-off – and so did my partner. The last thing she wanted, understandably, were advances from someone who wasn't aware of who she was, let alone what he was doing.

I was amazed to discover I could be that uninhibited while being fast asleep. What else was I capable of? Would I start talking and say something insane?

It soon became clear that this strange nocturnal habit wasn't going away. That was eight years ago, and I'm still at it. Sometimes, apparently, I'll be quite the romantic, getting things going by kissing and stroking my partner. Other times, I'll cut to the chase and just try to climb on top of her.

My only comfort is that it has never got too out of hand and seems to follow a pattern. Of course she objects – sometimes physically, pushing me off or trying to wake me up. But we have developed strategies and learned to adapt. If I start to get frisky while asleep, my partner just says, "Get off" and I'm told I give a little chuckle and roll off. I'm so glad that I don't object or keep trying – if I did, I would seek treatment because I would never want to upset her.

In the morning, I have no recollection – it's only when I catch sight of my partner's unimpressed expression that I'll realise it's happened again. I now accept it as part of my make-up, but it is weird not to be in control of it.

At first she thought I was awake – my eyes were open – and if she was in the mood, she would sometimes be happy to continue. Apparently my performance doesn't differ that much whether asleep or awake. But she came to recognise my glazed expression and now rarely goes along with it. I know I'd feel the same way: if one partner is not fully present in the moment, then it's sex with a zombie.

But as she grew wise to me, my sleeping brain learned crafty tactics. If she asks whether I'm awake, I'm told I now somehow manage to mumble, "Yes" in order to continue, despite being deeply asleep. Sometimes I return to full consciousness in the middle of sex, which is a very strange sensation indeed – rising up through layers of sleep towards wakefulness, only to find I'm on top of my partner.

I knew I was unusual, but didn't realise there was a name for my condition – sex-somnia, or sleep sex – until someone told me about it. Sex-somnia is a version of parasomnia, which includes sleepwalking and talking, and occurs during the "deep sleep" stage in the first few hours of the night. Neurologists say the condition is on the rise due to our more stressful lifestyles. This chimes with my experience, because I've found that if I am in the intense period of training before the season starts – I'm a professional rugby player – I am totally exhausted at night and seem more likely to have sleep sex. Then several months can go by without a problem, if my daytime world is less demanding.

Another trigger is abstinence – the arrival of our young family has meant an increase in sleep sex. I've had my testosterone level tested by a sports scientist and discovered that it is abnormally high, so I'm sure it's connected.

I don't mind my close friends knowing about it, and there is a predictable amount of teasing, but I take it with good humour. Fortunately, I have never tried it on with anyone but my partner, so my team-mates are safe.

I know some people would be upset by this behaviour, but my partner is very understanding, partly because we've talked about it a lot. It hasn't affected our waking sex life – but she refuses any action after lights out, just in case. Strangely, if there are times when I wake up normally in the night, I never feel like sex and wouldn't dream of initiating it. I just go straight back to sleep, and who knows what I'll get up to then.

• As told to Emily Cunningham
Got an experience to share? Email experience@guardian.co.uk

Older people are living longer and in better health than ever – so of course they're continuing to have sex. Why is it so hard to talk about, asks the editor of Gransnet

Ten years ago in New York, I interviewed Helen Gurley-Brown, the kittenish but formidable creator of Cosmopolitan, who was then 80. Without preamble, she launched into enthusiastic endorsement of a lubricant called Astroglide: "You be sure," she said severely, "that you're all goopy before you get into bed." At the time, I was taken aback. Now I am older, it seems less funny.

Young people are often surprised that older women have sex at all. On Gransnet, the social networking site for grandparents that I edit, one poster described celebrating her 55th birthday at work and being asked by a much younger colleague at what age she had given up sex. She replied that she'd let her know when it happened; the other woman, she said, "looked horrified".

In fact, people over 60 are now the fastest-growing group contracting sexually transmitted diseases, according to government agency figures. Since 2002, syphilis has tripled in the over-65s in the UK, and HIV is up by 60%. Even allowing for the fact that we're starting from a low base, this is clearly not post-menopausal purdah.

Much of the ignorance about sex and the older person stems from resistance to thinking about old people at all, least of all their yucky bodies. There is a profound cultural fear of ageing, which glorifies the young and deprecates anything old: "ageing infrastructure", "sunset industries". This distaste tends to feed a perception of older people as a homogeneous group – which is absurd, because we tend to become more diverse, more assertive about our likes and dislikes, as we age. This is likely to be as true of sex as of anything else. Certainly, the impression that discussions on Gransnet give is that there's a spectrum of activity, from "none and not bothered" to "lots and up for more". Some of it may also be highly inventive, if only out of necessity.

When one Gransnetter asked recently: "If 16 is considered too young for sex, when is too old?" the majority view was summed up as, "when you can't remember what sex is", and "I'll tell you when I get there". There's clearly one big plus to being older, in that intimacy benefits from time and a lack of toddlers and teenagers. "Thank God for HRT and retirement – it's better than ever (aged 58)" says one poster. "I don't care who's programmed to do what or when," says another. "I've been married for nearly 40 years and have no intention of giving up our siestas and weekend lie-ins."

As the HRT reference suggests though, menopause can trigger a crisis. Those who sail on through it may well have to adjust, to make use of Astroglide-type aids or other chemical assistance. But among those who do slow down, it isn't necessarily (or mainly, according to our admittedly self-selecting panel) women who make the decision. "My husband has never tried to have sex since a 'failure' (the first ever) 16 years ago – since then it has never been discussed."

"We haven't bothered since 1999," says another woman. "There was no discussion or decision, it's just never been mentioned since then – on a holiday to Tunisia, to be precise." A combination of reticence and a bland assumption by young GPs that menopause will put paid to sexual desire leaves some people accepting that sex doesn't go on for ever, though not all are reconciled to the idea. Some are left with a sense of mourning: "I miss wanting sex as much as the sex itself."

Menopause may not, of course, be the only or main cause of waning desire, even when it takes the blame. New relationships have a suspicious habit of reviving enthusiasm. "It's much better when you live alone and have 'visits'," says nanachrissy. "When I was married, I think sex was spoiled by underlying resentments and suppressed anger. Now there are no strings and sex is the best ever. Also I have no hangups about my body, because I don't really care what he thinks (although he is very kind!)."

The memoirist Diana Athill writes, in Somewhere Towards the End, of her sadness that making love with her "dear habitual companion" had staled: "Familiarity had made the touch of his hand feel so much like the touch of my own hand that it no longer conveyed a thrill." She assumed this was a question of her age – she was in her late 50s – until she met someone else and experienced what she thinks of as a reprieve: "I found, to my amusement and pleasure, that novelty could restore sex."

Nora Ephron, who has written entertainingly about ageing, maintains that if you're lucky enough to be having sex in your 60s, you won't be having the sex you had in your 20s. This is probably true, although it doesn't have to be worse. Some Gransnetters claim to be having the best time of their lives. The ingenuity of people with dodgy hips should not be underestimated, nor, for those with less than fighter-pilot reactions, should Slow Love.

When Jane Juska was 66 and living in Berkeley, California, she placed an ad in the New York Review of Books: "Before I turn 67, next March," she wrote, "I would like to have a lot of sex with a man I like. If you want to talk first, Trollope works fine."

Her bestseller, A Round-Heeled Woman (and the play adapted from the book, starring Sharon Gless, which finishes a West End run this week) catalogues a sexual odyssey that is by turns alarming, sad, funny and pleasurable.

Menopause, according to Gloria Steinem, can give women a new drive and confidence. "What we lose in those menopausal years is everything we needed to support another person," she argues. "What we keep is everything we need to support ourselves." Former Columbia Journalism Review editor Suzanne Braun Levine takes this as her cue in a new book, How We Love Now, arguing that older women have more satisfying experiences of intimacy because we can shuck off expectations of femininity, niceness and acceptability, to be more honest about desire.

Internet dating sites have made finding someone to suit this new, more assertive state easier. There are some that are specifically (and by some accounts successfully) targeted at people in the second half of life, though one Gransnetter warns, to no one's great surprise: "All the old men of 70 think they are only 40, so that's the age of woman they are looking for."

Sex, for most people, does tail off at some point, though there's little consensus about the timing or rate of decline. For some, it may stop abruptly on an otherwise unremarkable holiday; others have every intention of continuing to the end of their days and will point out that less frequent doesn't always mean less intense.

Greater longevity and improved health mean that a phase of life never previously seen now exists: an extended middle-age: fit, competent and interested in sex. The novelty of this means that very little is understood about its erotic possibilities – but these are likely to be as varied as for any other group and, probably, more so. "Don't give up hope," one woman posted recently. "I speak as one who met the love of my life (and he really is just that) six years ago after 15 years of (intentional) celibacy. I'm nearly 74 and he's 56." Meanwhile, another poster reported that she knows of one 80-year-old care-home resident who insists on having her vibrator passed to her every night.

gransnet.com

A therapist will teach you both better sexual communication skills, says Pamela Stephenson Connolly

My boyfriend, unlike me, isn't a sexual person. He feels sex isn't proper and that men have to respect women in a way that doesn't allow for sexual intimacy. Sexual contact has always been contrived and quick. It hardly ever happens now because I feel frustrated and humiliated with his lack of response. He seems to regard women as mothers/cousins/friends, not as potential sex partners. He never has spontaneous erections so I often end up masturbating him until he ejaculates, after which he masturbates me. He is embarrassed to touch my breasts, preferring to touch my tummy or other body parts. Blood tests have shown there's no physical reason for his lack of libido.

Seek psychosexual therapy together. Although you have a good understanding of your boyfriend's issues, – and seem very loving and accepting – it would be helpful for you to learn even more about what's influenced his sexual development so far, and to be part of his future progress. And he in turn will benefit from learning about your sexual development. It's one thing to understand intellectually what's going on, but marrying knowledge with feeling in a therapeutic setting can be far more beneficial.

It also might be useful to understand why such a sexually assured person as yourself has chosen to be with someone such as him; I suspect there are some interesting answers to that question. Try to approach therapy in an egalitarian fashion, ie without making him the "identified patient". Follow set exercises you're given because much can be discovered that way, and learn the best way to ask what you really need from him – you should both benefit from acquiring better sexual communication skills. You are right in thinking that getting to the root of the problem is important, but a good therapist should do just that.

• Pamela Stephenson Connolly is a clinical psychologist and psychotherapist who specialises in treating sexual disorders.

•Send your problem to private.lives@guardian.co.uk

He even wanted to show us a porn film after Christmas dinner

We're in an awkward situation with a friend. He's a decent, hardworking family man, but is obsessed with sex. Birthday and Christmas presents from him always include pornography or sex manuals. The final straw for me was when my partner and I were discussing having Christmas dinner with him, his wife and child. He said he had a very funny porn film that he wanted to show us all.

My friend was raised in a repressive, religious family and I think he is reacting to that. He says that sex is a natural human function and anyone who isn't relaxed or curious about it is repressed. How can I help him understand that just because his friends do not wish to constantly display their sexuality, it doesn't mean that we are at fault? We do not expect him to change, but we want him to respect us.

• If you would like to respond to this week's problem, please post your comment below.

When leaving a message on this page, please be sensitive to the fact that you are responding to a real person in the grip of a real-life dilemma, who wrote to Private Lives asking for help, and may well view your comments here. Please consider especially how your words or the tone of your message could be perceived by someone in this situation, and be aware that comments which appear to be disruptive or disrespectful to the individual concerned will be removed.

• If you would like fellow readers to respond to a dilemma of yours, send us an outline of the situation of around 150 words. For advice from Pamela Stephenson Connolly on sexual matters, send us a brief description of your concerns.

• All correspondence should reach us by Wednesday morning. Email: private.lives@guardian.co.uk (please don't send attachments)

Couples who share a profession have a worse work-life balance than those who don't, a study shows. What's your experience?

A study of 650 academics has found that partners in the same professions have a worse work-life balance than those who don't, as they are more likely to work long hours and be more committed to their profession. Boundaries between work and home life were also more likely to be blurred.

Do you and your life partner work in the same field? If so, do you find he or she can empathise with your work issues or do you find yourself feeling competitive? Also, do you manage to keep work and home life separate? If you work in different professions, do you enjoy hearing about each other's job issues, or do you have to fake it?

• Follow Comment is free on Twitter @commentisfree