The reoccurring question

I get asked the same question often by people who learn of my previous marriage and my current relationship. The question is always the same, solicited with hushed tenderness- would you want to be married again?

It’s a fair question. The curious parties come from various marital statuses. Some are betrothed, some divorced. Others have never been near the orbit of any sort of serious relationship. Yet, the curiosity remains-the same soft intensity for which they wait for an answer. I think I surprise them every time.

The answer now is unequivocally, yes. It has been a journey to get here. Mostly, to admit to myself that I do, in fact, wish for that again one day. After the abrupt end to my previous marriage, I proclaimed marriage wasn’t for me. I had no desire for it. I would fill my days with frivolous delights and have nary a wonder what a true partnership could look like.

The reality- I was terrified.

Not of the emotional contract itself, but of my worthiness. My ability. I felt as if I was the opposite of Midas- for the things I touched didn’t turn to gold, they tarnished and decayed. In addition to my innate brokenness as an emotional being, I was also now a single mother. Free time was constrained, to say the least. Who wanted to take on my emotional baggage as well as the physical that perched upon my hip? Not to mention the ex that would forever be part of the tapestry of my life. I was damaged goods. An adventure more akin to a cautionary hike on the edges of a cliff than a fairy tale. So, I shut down hope. I disallowed dreams. I told myself I didn’t want it.

Time, and therapy, has changed many things over the last six years. For one thing, some days it blows my mind the amount of time and experience that has passed. Most days, I feel like an entirely different human. Few, I feel achingly familiar to that broken woman who hid in the hallway to cry after my son fell asleep- grief and guilt wracking me. But the biggest things I learned, were about me. About admitting to myself what I want. Allowing myself to dream.

Marriage, even to the wrong person, is not something I regret. I made some decisions from trauma. From an inability to believe I deserved more. But I loved. I gave of myself without it becoming transactional. I endeavored to better my communication skills; realizing that far better understanding comes from vulnerability than the armor of anger. Admittedly, I still struggle with the loud protection of anger being more comfortable than allowing my hurt pieces to see the light. I loved so much, that I was willing to reevaluate long standing ideals- such as never having a child. I thank God for that level of love, for it bore the human embodiment of my heart.

I didn’t get the love I gave in return. It wasn’t selfless. It didn’t want to learn and grow. And ultimately, it didn’t want me.

Sixteen years ago, I thought the coupling of matrimony would fill in the cracks of my trauma. It would heal all wounds. Allow me to see my own worth. I placed a heavy burden on the hope of espousal. One that could never be fulfilled. My self hate remained. It festered in the shadows of a disproportionate devotion. I read somewhere that criticizing children doesn’t make them hate you, it makes them hate themselves. It seems, that isn’t applicable solely to children.

The common thread through it all- I loved being married. I found a joyful comfort in sharing a home with someone I loved. The ease at which we could chat about future plans. The answer I give people, when they are a bit taken aback by my desire to marry again- if I loved being married to the wrong person, imagine how wonderful it would be to the right one.

I internalize a lot of failure from my divorce. I still feel shame when people find out I have a child and am no longer with his father. Which, when looking at it logically, is utter bullshit. I wasn’t the one that left. I wasn’t the one that stated I didn’t want to try anymore. Yet, I carry the hinderance of shame. Even now, securely loved, my insecurities rise. My fear that perhaps I deserved the decisions made. Deserved abandonment. Isolation. The difference- this person assuages said inner demons- without reluctance. The love is no longer existing on uneven scales. Hope, dreaming no longer feels like the risk it used to.

****

I began the previous composition months ago, following an amazing dinner with my cousins- both of them leaning expectantly over their drinks, waiting for my answer to their sumptuous question. It wasn’t surprising, as they were asking about my relationship. The frenzy in their eyes unconcealed when they realized we had created our own little homestead months prior. The query of marriage being the next logical step. They practically squealed with delight when I responded with a confident “yes”.

Over the last three and a half years, I haven’t made monumental declarations of our relationship publicly. Neither of us have. Him, mostly because he is private to a fault. If your familiar with the character Ron Swanson, you know E. My reasons are less straight forward. For a while, it was fear. Fear of judgement. Ashamed of – well, now that I type it, it reads as ridiculous- but I was ashamed of dating again. I dated *gasp* more than one man post divorce. I was clawing my way back to being a whole person. Learning how to navigate single motherhood. Struggling to find what I actually enjoyed. Determining what I wanted from my life. Relearning what I desired in a partner with the new perspective of adulthood. I feared people would determine I was incapable of being alone. A fear unlocked by someone jokingly saying just that after I excitedly chatted about a recent date I had been on. Me, being the human I am, fixated on that joke for weeks. Investigated the notion of being incapable of being alone. Pondered if a date every few weeks and a handful of phone calls meant I wasn’t alone. The reality was, I was inescapably alone. Companionship made the times my son was away from my care bearable. A salve to my fractured heart until my son’s return to my arms. But the nights my child wouldn’t sleep and therefor neither did I, when I had to allow him to cry alone for agonizing minutes before rushing to his rescue, the evenings I was the sole disciplinarian, potty training him- I did it alone. A date didn’t alter those circumstances. Regardless, I carried the dread of that conviction.

The longer E and I dated, the less traction that particular fear garnered. Others took it’s place- ones that relegated themselves to my worth- not of outside speculation of our pairing. Little by little, we built a history. Memories. Jokes. Heartbreak. Excitement. Joy. Even on the worst of days- you know the ones that you can’t seem to say anything right- there wasn’t anyone else we’d rather argue with. And I realized, there wasn’t a reason for public declarations. They didn’t validate our reality. They wouldn’t modify our happiness or solidify our connection. They were superfluous to what we have.

It’s funny, my brain still cannot fathom what we have some days. Part of me-though the voice is losing it’s conviction- still waits to receive a new letter telling me life with me is unbearable. The delegate that documents every misstep I make. Archives every time I poorly communicate.

Recently, the internal damnation was resolute. Determining that I had no redeemable qualities. Weaving a tale that I was lucky- lucky that it had taken twelve years for my ex husband to become exasperated with an existence with me- for his love of me should have extinguished far sooner. Divulging the assessment that I was a fraud. Unspooling the narrative that I hadn’t bettered my communication. I hadn’t learned anything.

Though the chorus of judgement born of anxiety is mean, to say the least, in this instance there was a kernel of truth. I am garbage at discussing my feelings. I would much rather stuff them down and hide in a closet to cry in insolation. I began sitting in the discomfort of calm discussion over a decade ago. I would sit on the stairs of our townhouse, controlling my voice to stay even, stumbling over the words. The confinement of the tight space bringing me a modicum of relief. What I had learned was how to analyze my emotions to a point of digestible packaging. Intellectualizing my feelings until I could present them unobtrusively. I learned how to adapt a fear response. To make my discomfort as palatable for others as possible.

Over the last ten months, I have been challenged to halt internalizing my emotions- to discuss things as they occur. An unfortunate side effect- my masking ability has declined. I often feel as if I am an unlovable shrew. One who says too much. Hurt too easily. And yet, I am loved through it all.

I no longer long for a fairy tale. A happily ever after. Nor do I silently yearn for my relationship to be different. To feel loved, not just told that I am. I think before E, I never had a partner. Someone that saw me for exactly who I was. Not who they wanted me to be. I’m still learning to trust his love. To forgive myself when I am less than stellar. I’m not sure if that will be a lifelong lesson or if one day I will wake up and know, unshakably, that he has chosen me. Loves me. I am looking forward to that experiment. Relishing the daily reminders that this is truly something different. Something lovely shared between two flawed humans, making it that much more extraordinary.