I was never married, though it was something like marriage.
Perhaps I should say that I was married, and he was not. We had documents of our joining and a wedding – it was a joyful one – and I thought it was a good sign. I remember the way that he looked at me: his grin was wide and his eyes were not veiled that evening; the emotion was genuine. But I was a possession, an expedited means to an end which doesn’t preclude the existence of love, or something like love.
Two clergymen from two different faiths presided; they placed my hand in his, blessed the rings on our fingers, gave him permission to take and me, to give. We became a unit: the present sweetened, the future unknown. And we became something I needed, or so I thought. A place of safety.
After the ceremony he flitted from friend to friend and I recall feeling alone and the feeling stabbed at me. But I told myself he’s happy, he’s sociable, so smile – everything is alright.
Then there was a honeymoon in the Aegean and even there I sensed it and set it aside. There was sun and wind and quiet time after the chaos of a wedding, yet it wasn’t what I envisioned. We were together, but already separate. He read, while I walked by myself along sandy beaches, noticing couples braving the hours of heat and wind, chatting and cooing in the autumn air approaching. And we would sit together on our little terrace, and there was making love efficiently enough, and nightly.
Yet that too had changed, and I set it aside.
I focused on other pleasures, memorizing his cheeks as he slept, the symmetrical dipping downward of his brows, the full lips that resembled his mother’s. I was overcome with the beauty of him and told myself everything is alright.
There was silence, an overly generous silence, punctuated with his stories and our laughter. And there was an impenetrable wall and I had no knowledge then of walls except my own, unable to scale my own, unaware of the work required to disassemble them. What I perceived as patience and time to know each other differently was, I realized later, indifference.
Waters churn and waters flatten
I am not made to live at the unruffled surface of calm waters. I am made for the depths and their discoveries, for swimming through reefs and caves, kelp and coral, for the buoyancy of floating and staring up at the blue of the sky, guessing at the forms of each cloud like a child, reaching outward – for a hand. For a beloved.
I am not made for the glassy surface.
I fell in love in the wake of my father’s sudden death, in the storm of it, in the deep pit of a lost self and disconnection, orphaned from any chance at stability, thrust into an empty room where I became the three-legged chair and teetered while the monster’s voice remained: no one will love you, no one will love you, no one will love you.
In the rage of the monster and the god of the monster the child absorbs any prophesy; monsters swallow the air and plunder, and here is my monster’s proof: no one will love you. In the fury of the monster, in the wake of death, you cling to anything like love.
And then there was something like marriage.
Once upon a time
I must have been the woman he wanted once; he likes surface and intelligence, which is an odd combination but he must feel safe there, and in control, and he is all about control. So I bubbled along the surface and at the time was content to remain there, happy to remain there, weary of the depths, of grief and blindness.
So perhaps he fell in love with a woman he thought would live at the surface, and so I take my blame as I feel I should; I must have been the woman he wanted once.
But he is a man who lives at the surface and I was only floating there to heal; he is a man who will not dive or explore; he is a man who perceives friend or enemy and once you cross an unseen line you are the enemy. To the man I loved, I became the enemy, and I couldn’t know that then, on that stark, beautiful, lonely island in a lapis sea. We did what we were supposed to do. We undertook the motions of a marriage.
And I told myself everything is alright.
With the gift of this thing that was something like a marriage came a family, his family, and I adored them. They were everything I no longer had, spilling over with ebullient tales and heated discussions, hours at the long table in a spacious room, in a home simmering with ideas and language, with teasing and parables, with food and drink and laughter and so I concluded: yes, this will work. We will work. Though I glimpsed problems I told myself there will always be problems and as weddings and gatherings and years turned into something like a marriage I pushed away the facts and falsity and after all, the deed was done; there were babies and family events and I said to myself there will always be problems, but everything is alright.
In the morning there should be music
This morning I listened to a half-drunk love song and I realized we had no song; we had moments of song, very early and too few, but I am not sure if they were real or imagined because I needed to imagine they were real.
But I was the only one in a marriage. I was married and he was not, and while I had an experience of marriage it was more like living the framework of a polished thing viewed from the outside or through the fog of my sleeplessness. It was a structure that could not support weight, with no brick and mortar to endure time, and yet we endured, politely, for many years, perhaps because he traveled more and more and was not there and when he was, he was not there for me, though perhaps he would say the same – that I was not there for him.
I wonder now if I was there at all, in my pain and sleeplessness that he dismissed which made the gulf between us grow and the acceptance of distance inevitable. I wonder if I was there at all in the woman he must have seen when he came home, the woman who did not laugh, the woman who did not live on the surface like the one he fell in love with if indeed he ever fell in love, or something like love.
Yet we offered a pretty structure of rooms and the appearance of being furnished, though only the boys’ rooms were filled with sufficiency and it was I who furnished them and of that I am certain.
When they were babies, he would hold them and sleep. I’d pass a bottle, exhausted, but he would sleep. I’d place a son on his chest, his body would settle in around the infant and cradle him in what I know was love, and yet he would sleep. And I, sleepless, would dream of sleep, dream of something more than the perpetual haze.
When they were no longer babies he was already gone – he traveled and was gone, he was in town and was gone, he puttered around the house and always in another room and was gone. He was in the back yard, tinkering or building or clearing part of the woods, and he was there but he was gone. The boys would chase around nearby and delight in him – so big – and he carried them on his shoulders, and he must have been for them – for a time – a sort of god.
And I loved him still, and told myself it is enough.
But in the morning, there should be music.
Everything is not alright
Everything emptied. And there was little and there was much to empty. Every history is full, swelling to capacity. Perhaps it is the vessel that is too small.
For my sons, there were images I captured in photograph, placing them tenderly in albums so I could tend to my illusions and make them stick: the big man with children on his shoulders, the big man building swings, the big man at the kitchen table, though once the little boys were tucked in bed there was silence and the big man was gone. And everything emptied. I told myself, in a slow awakening: everything is not alright.
He was good-natured unless you crossed him, so I didn’t cross him.
He was thoughtless, but I excused it as absent-mindedness.
He wasn’t there unless he was, but still he was not.
When he came home to the white kitchen and the boys eating at the table, messy and busy, it felt like a life even as I listened to him describe his trips and his accomplishments and I was grateful for his smile and the way he made the boys laugh on those occasions. Often, I was angry; he would try to discipline them in ways so different from mine and after all, he wasn’t there and I was, and he simply said You must support me and I was at a loss, unaware that the warfare had already begun. And he talked of warfare even then – how methodically he could take down those at work who were in his way. I was appalled, and yet I marveled; my corporate life was nothing like that and I was bewildered that tasks in a job for him were maneuvers in battle. He was about winning and at times, destroying. And still I loved him, and I told myself – I am wrong, we have these beautiful children, everything is alright.
Missing
I know the silence of the bed, the vast ocean of the bed, the separate continents of his side and my side, of his sleep and my wakefulness, wandering the house and wondering what I could do differently. And yet when he was there, I could not reach across the cold between us, and I blamed myself.
There was the spark of a new life as we were coming to our final close, the third son who visited my dreams and never had his chance at breath perhaps because I was alone in hearing his voice beyond the breakers. And I was alone in my grieving.
It is a simple thing, if a puzzle. So I float in the dark and remember his sleeping and my sleeplessness, something like marriage and something like love. It must have been love at least for a time; our sons are magnificent so surely they were conceived of it, and I tell myself: everything is alright.
Your write, “It felt like a life,” and then “something like marriage, and something like love.” It is remarkable what we can convince ourselves is acceptable, allowable, tolerable. There is tremendous courage, I believe, in demanding the actual things – life, marriage, love – and not their approximations.
Thank you for another luminous post.
Some people treat life like a never ending series of battles. They plot, execute and repeat, and that’s their life. Then they wonder why people get suspicious of them. I know a few people who have clear agendas in life that has nothing to do with me. When they ask me for things or even talk to me, all my alarm bells start going off, and I retreat. Unfortunately, there are also times that these people, when not fully revealed, can do quite a bit of damage to the unwary. Sounds like you know more than most about it.
Yes.
Wolfie. This is, by far, your most brave and daring post ever. And for the very first time, I think I know you underneath the words. The you that is there. More completely. And I am honored. Because I know it’s not easy. A life that was something like a life that you somehow wanted to believe somehow could exist.
I am full of thought. And heart. And gratitude.
This post makes me feel so sad for you–a woman who married a man and instead ended up with a ghost.
I wonder if your husband didn’t have the depth to connect with you; some people honestly are only capable of shallow water.
You deserved better.
WOW. I devoured every word of this…
A beautifully written post. And so familiar.
Whew, that was traumatic and cathartic. I don’t know how you do it, how you come out the other side.
This hits close to home as I fear my brother in law is that man, and my sister in law is trapped telling herself that it’s alright. She knows it’s not, but doesn’t want to move past the surface of it all, but the surface is suffocating her, and him, and their son.
In the short time I’ve been following your blog, you have blown me away with your words. You have gone through more than any of us can imagine, so it seems, and you’ve lived to write about it. That’s strength, and courage.
Wow- really powerful and touching… You are very strong xo
Oh.
That’s what I feel. A heavy, quiet “Oh.”
Once again I don’t feel able to respond to your writing because I need to read it again. And probably again. Because you write to the depths of yourself and of the story and I’m dizzy with the (ugly) beauty of it all. It takes time for your writing to settle in me. Very well done.
The only thing I can possibly say is–wow. “Almost marriage”, “almost love” and “almost music” is too much for one person. This was both beautiful and haunting.
This is really, really lovely. You got right to the heart of it, the fact that he was there, but he was gone. You were the only one married in the marriage. Really amazing work, BLW.
The mix of anguish and love, leading to stark realizations and unfolding, at least in you, is haunting. It makes me also suspect that in the most primitive and unconscious manner, he shared his benthic angst, “communicating” the way a virus does, taking root in the body, bringing ache from deep in the bones.
Horrible as this sort of love that makes us crawl can be, it also evokes the archetypal pattern of shamanic initiation: ritual death and dismemberment. You wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but out if it came poetry and soul which you so generously share.
With every entry that I read in our challenge, I realize that I had better write my own post. And soon. Because so many of the topics that I had at the front of my mind are being touched on by so many others. So many of you. Marriage. It is so difficult to write about, to capture in words. And yet, you capture it. The marriage. The something like marriage. The loss. The hope. The beauty of creating sons. The loss again. And still. I feel you through your words. And I agree with Sarah that this post is daring. Your most yet. And you. And it strikes me at the core. With sadness. And gratefulness for my own Sweetie (even though we are not married). And gratefulness to have found you. And your writing. And your friendship from afar.
Excuse me if this makes no sense at all. I have these kids, you know? And here they are…
Your essay made me so sad for you and I wanted to reach out to hug you. Shallow people are a waste of time but no one ever realizes it until it is too late. You deserved better.
I read this the day you wrote it and could not reply. I still have no words. I understand where you are coming from and will hope and pray “someone” sees the light. Occasionally, it happens.
*breathless*
*wordless*
So familiar. So scarily familiar. Almost…something, but in the end nothing but a dream I had that never truly existed. As was said earlier, I will have to read this again and again and perhaps….again.
Well Wolfie, I don’t even know how to respond. You have reached inside,and grabbed my heart right out of my chest. I have spent the week twirling around in pre-Christmas confusion and never got around to posting, for which I am very, very sorry. I will post still. Your honest, open, brave words along with those of your blogging sisters make me have to.
This was an important post. For me. For you. For all of us reading. Thank you.
gg
I’m crying out here after reading that. You reached right into my pain, pulled it out spilled it on the page and did it so very well and beautifully.
Thank you.
I remember walking down the aisle and thinking “Can’t we just call this whole thing off and think about it for a while?” Ah, the power of sex and manipulation. Live and learn.
Ah, the power of manipulation, more than anything. . . and society’s expectations of the life “we’re supposed to lead.”
Maybe there can be some advantages to getting older…manipulation and social expectations have less power over us. And sex reaches a manageable level. So fortunate with Fran.
This has a very ghost like essence, of being there but not.
It seems as though it is the start of a great novel.
Love is defined many ways. I love him enough, I like her enough.
What is enough. That is answered differently for everyone.
He was not enough, or was it you for him. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
The wall was stronger than the love. The wall won.
Life is perpetual, it heals itself.
The wall that is so strong, once a crack is found, can crumble to the ground.
The relationship must go on for the boys. Friendship is a powerful thing.
Yes the Wall won. But it has been 10 years of raising sons virtually alone, and despite everything, I believe they will be good men, knowing full well that without the man I married who is their father, and the years we have lived since divorce, they wouldn’t be the young men they are becoming. And yet it will never feel as though I have given them enough.
How many of us live a ghost-like essence? I wonder sometimes.
Thank you so much for reading and commenting. I hope you will stop by again.
You put my life into words. I spent 25 years in “something” that also included rages and violence. As I celebtate my third year of freedom, I also mourn the fact I will probably never know real love.
Carol, thank you for reading and commenting.
I don’t know how long it has been for you, and I am immeasurably sorry that your “something” included violence. Mine did not, but I know the legacy of rage. There is no formula and it isn’t easy, but it is possible to move beyond it. Personally, I don’t believe we forgive it or forget it (and I don’t believe in doing either). But we learn from it. We allow ourselves whatever time it takes to heal enough to choose compassion over bitterness. Compassion for ourselves that we misjudged. Compassion for others in the challenges they live with.
As for knowing real love – I am not certain that I believe in “forever love,” but I know that I have experienced profound love since my marriage ended. It was a revelation. So different from marriage. I, too, have mourned the fact that any opportunity at a shared, passionate life might be behind me. But there are also days when I am convinced that isn’t the case.
I wish for you some of those days, those good days, and healing.
I just linked through your blog from another site & this post moved me more profoundly than any other has before. I felt as if someone else had put my thoughts to paper. You see, I too feel that my marriage is more “something like a marriage” than an actual one.
There are days I walk in a fog, not quite believing that this is my life, I keep expecting that I will wake up to another life, but it never happens. THIS is my reality & I feel trapped. I’m trapped because I’m too scared to leave…how do you explain that you left because “it wasn’t really a marriage?”
Though I do wonder if my husband would even care if I left, he seems so indifferent to me, to my needs, my wants. I’m not sure what to do, but I thank you for sharing a little bit of your life with us, it was comforting to know I’m not alone. If I am honest with myself, I know what I need to do…I just need to find the strength to do so.
I thank you for what you say about this piece of writing. I understand your feeling of being trapped. But I would suggest – if you will allow – that you gather information before you do anything. The “other side” can be more difficult to reach that we imagine, and with a very high cost.
Please know that you aren’t alone. And feel free to write if you’d like.
Hello BLW,
I stumbled onto this post, and it had me transfixed, although I don’t understand alot of it. My husband behaved the same way, although he did not travel, and we have 3 beautiful sons, 17, and twin 14 yr olds. He always wants to be by himself, and we would go the whole weekend without even talking. And no sex at all. He would cling to his side of the bed, on the edge, that if I were to kick him ever so slightly with my toe, he would fall off. He has since moved out. I am currentlly separated and going through the divorce process with a mediator and collaborative atty’s for each of us. I don’t understand (and am afraid of the words) :
“But I would suggest – if you will allow – that you gather information before you do anything. The “other side” can be more difficult to reach that we imagine, and with a very high cost. ” What is meant by this?
Thank you.
Odile, I’m sorry you have lived some of what I experienced in my marriage. Regarding my response to the other reader, I will simply say that whatever leads spouses into a scenario of separation and divorce, especially when children are involved, it may not be what you imagine. Not the process, and not the aftermath.
It depends on the two of you, on the state in which you are divorcing, and the circumstances that are part of your lives going forward. That you and your husband are working collaboratively indicates that your divorce may be less contentious than mine. I don’t know. Only you can know.
What I meant by “gather information before you do anything,” and my reference to “the other side” is this. Rulings on custody, support, alimony (if any), visitation – and then the enforcement of those agreements – none of it is a given, or necessarily “fair,” and it can be very costly. We spend a good deal of time focused on getting through the divorce itself, and little time talking about the long-term picture of post-divorce life. Return trips to court (and the months of recordkeeping before you do so). Impacts on children (and the TLC required to help them work through their adjustments). What happens when “circumstances” change – either through loss of job, remarriage of one of the spouses, a change in health for one of the spouses, or a relocation out of state.
That’s what I mean by gathering information (on your rights in your state, as an example; some states are more favorable to women/mothers; others are not). I am not a divorce counselor or part of the divorce industry (and I believe it is indeed an industry). But there are many helpful resources which can at least offer you the questions you might want to know about.
What I meant by the “other side” is the life of the divorced single mother. It can be weighty in different ways from that of the loneliness in an empty marriage.
All of this is part of why I write for Huff Post Divorce. And why I continue to write about the aspects of my post-divorce experience, as well as hoping to further the discussion on relationships and marriage. My intention is not to make anyone afraid, only to recognize that the “system(s)” in which we marry and divorce are far from fully functional. Availing ourselves of information can only help. And I hope this has – even a little bit.
Truly amazing post. Ghostwalking through life- married life- without the decorative distractions of headstones. I completely related to this feeling of being married but not connected. Not even engaged. I am reminded of new aquaintences politely asking who my husband was and being surprised at who I pointed out- one brave soul even commented on the lack of visible connection as “wow, you must be married for a very long time.” As if that explained it!
You are brave in making ripples and waves. Thank you so much for so articulately describing this ghost walking. I am also going though the divorce gauntlet but I do see and feel the other side waiting for me. It might be like walking on broken shells but at least the feelings will be real.
Thank you, Laura. “…like walking on broken shells but at least the feelings will be real.” Beautifully said.
I hope you stop by and comment again, and let us know how it’s going. All best.
So it’s not just depression? It really is an untenable situation?
This is my life, and has been my life for the last 19 yrs. It’s funny, I was “okay” with things being this way. Until that is, people are starting to ask questions . I don’t think they are trying to pry, they probably have no idea. On the surface our life appears nearly perfect. Below the surface it is not. When asked “Where is your husband?” or “Why didn’t your husband come with you?”. I have my two generic answers. “He is busy” or “It’s not his thing”. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I know this. I’m beginning to feel extremely humiliated about this now. I’m at the point where I just don’t know if I want to live the rest of my life like a business arrangement.
There is nothing simple about these extraordinarily important decisions. In my case, despite the way things were, I did not want the divorce. I wanted a different sort of marriage. But that wasn’t an option, in my situation.
Every relationship differs. Every marriage differs. You don’t know what is “improvable” until you try, and what is hopeless. You don’t know what awaits after the long tunnel of making a change. For some, it is truly better. For others, it is different – and better may not come into it. For some of us, we live with a legacy that impacts our children, our finances, our health, our ability to make a living – none of which we anticipate. But we learn. And if we’re very fortunate, we get our kids through, and ourselves through as well. Different, certainly. But in a way, appreciative of what we do have, and still – at moments – extraordinarily hopeful.
I wish you luck in whatever you decide, NurseJoy. Luck – as well as friends, family, and gathering the information you need to make sure that you will be able to survive.
This piece was thoroughly relatable on every level. The ink has dried on the final judgment but I still feel like I’m barely treading water while watching everyone else execute perfect swan dives. Thanks.
Thank you for reading and commenting, Sherry. Just keep in mind – all those seemingly perfectly executed swan dives? Probably not so perfect, behind closed doors. As for treading water, I understand. Hoping that it won’t last too long for you, and that things begin to improve soon. Know that you aren’t alone.
Wishing you all the best.
I find this all a little disturbing.
I have this suspicion that the divorce came as a terrible shock to hubby. I read this post twice: hubby away on travel (so mom and the kids would have a nice life?), hubby puttering around the house and garden (old-fashioned division of labor, but at least no couch potato), hubby playing with the boys (who worship(ed) him).
So, where’s the beef? The writer was unhappy, but she doesn’t convince me she had reason. He wasn’t “close enough”. She certainly doesn’t give much thought in this post whether she gave much thought to his needs at all. All of her complaining is about her own bereftness, without being really able to explain what was lacking. I can’t really discern whether she was holding up her half or not.
It’s hard to feel for her. It all seems so selfish!
Thank you for reading and joining the conversation. This is one piece of writing among many; you might read a little more, or not – as you choose. And it’s always invaluable to have additional input.
But, never assume.
The “wife” was working 60-hour (corporate) weeks around full-time parenting; hubby had the advantages of her income, her cooking, her staying at home while he traveled, vacationed with buddies, pursued the career of his dreams, his sports adventures. And she said nothing because she wanted him happy. That “she” is me – and many women like me, who want to give in a relationship, and sometimes give too much, or to the wrong person.
As for what precipitated the actual ending of the marriage – that is yet another story, and one I keep to myself. Again, never assume.
To your point that he was no couch potato – quite true. Nor was I. To your point that the boys adored him, also true. As did I. To your point regarding caring about his needs, when you ask someone their needs in order to make them happier (with no reciprocal interest in your needs), and their response is to provide unquestioning obedience, and that they should be your number one priority, it does make you wonder about the life you find yourself in.
Might I add that I wasn’t the one who wanted the divorce? I wanted a different sort of a marriage. Ironically, I didn’t feel unhappy until the end. I was living in a dream world of my own making. Telling myself it would be alright.
I’m not sure what to say except for thank you. I have been living in an “almost marriage” for 15 years. I similarly think was it always this way? There must have been love. Love of something. I’m just not sure it was each other. I don’t know. All I know is that when I met my husband I wanted safety from a turbulent relationship and he was the calm in the storm. I think he too wanted (and wants) surface and intelligence which he found in me. And it’s interesting, when I am “surface” now, everything is great (for him) and he is happy. But I too, am much more drawn to the depths, just flitting at the surface.
I “woke” up from my dream 2 years ago and no matter how much I want to return, I find that I cannot go to sleep again. I’m getting my “ducks in a row” having no illusions that the “other side” brings different challenges, esp. with kids.
I want you to know how tremendously grateful I am to you for putting my experience into words. It’s eerily familiar. It has validated my experience which has been so hard to explain to even my closest friends and family. The lack of drama, etc. makes it difficult for others to understand my decisions. Not knowing that it is the “lack” that had turned me into a ghost of my former self.
Well written, thank-you, and strikes a too familiar chord with me.
Has anyone considered the possibility that this sort of behavior of distance, surface and ‘almost’ ….but not quite……does fit the classic description of a narcissist?
Does indeed, s.
Oh BLW. I was just reading your post from today and stumbled upon this. I had to stop every couple of sentences to clear the lump forming in my throat. You exposed yourself so completely and I know that takes a lot. But you let us know we are not alone. What troubled me is one of your comments, “What makes you think I’ve come out the other side, chère, chère Tish? I doubt I ever will. I write it out, trying to make sense of it, and still cannot. So. My hope is that my sons will come out the other side. And not make the mistakes that I did.” My sad journey has just begun, against the waves of a separation I am fighting tooth and nail because I don’t think the grass is greener on the other side (although I do like what I am constantly learning about myself and others)…and even in the early stages, I feel as you do. I will muddle through this all my life and try to make sense of it all…but making sense of it may never happen. I will forever have this scar on my heart, for that I am certain. Thank you so much for always opening up your heart.~Joy
Thank you for these lovely words, Joy. Many come out the other “side” and do just fine. And for some of us, it’s a different situation. So much depends upon the circumstances, and contrary to what many believe (and insist), factors that are often beyond our control. That said, focusing on looking ahead is generally helpful, and doing our best for our children, in my estimation, non-negotiable. I might add one thing. Pretending that we’re fine is appropriate in some circumstances, but in others, I believe we give back by telling the truths of our stories, to the extent that we can.
I wish you the best in your journey.
This post, and your responses to the attendant comments, provide a near mirror of my own 27 year experience in something like marriage. I have come out the other side, not unscathed, but far wiser, and deeply appreciative of the reciprocity inherent in my current love-marriage. Like you, my wish is that my children, adults before I left, will learn from my mistake.
Thank you for such honesty. The rest of us are braver for it.
Thank you for your good words, Turtle, and for reading. I’m sorry you lived a similar experience, but happy to know that your current love-marriage is very different. I hope you stop by again, and read and comment.
So true and well said Kristen. A tremendous amount of courage, belief and trust in self, and the realization that it takes work and sacrifice to become who you truly are. Accommodating and settling eventually causes horrible pain, as BLW has shown us here.
What makes you think I’ve come out the other side, chère, chère Tish? I doubt I ever will. I write it out, trying to make sense of it, and still cannot. So. My hope is that my sons will come out the other side. And not make the mistakes that I did.