Why I Did It
Why did I marry a man who made me feel unsafe, unlovable, unworthy of comfort or acknowledgment? Because it was the kind of love I was raised on. The kind I knew.
I did not love the way he spoke to me, his looks, vibe, clothes, his chest or back hair, his white sneakers with jeans. Mostly, I did not love the way I felt in his presence. He was untraveled, unread, not college educated. He made less than me. He lived in the back of a machine shop. He was not eager to pay for meals or engage in conversation initiated by me. He openly did not like my dog. His best friend was a clownish, kind-hearted addict who had done time in prison and overwhelmed me. His sisters, the two he worshipped, were cold and demeaning.
When I met him, I was thin and fit, playing beach volleyball every weekend and most weeknights. I owned my home. I had good friends, meaningful work, a book club, and a part-time job at Starbucks just for fun. After our first year together, I quit both jobs and volleyball because the constant fighting and crying left me unable to function. I found temp work and slowly parted from friends because I was too mortified to be honest about my situation.
In our marriage, he took off professionally and began making more money and more friends. His life and ego grew while mine shrank, day by day.
I did not legitimately desire marriage to him any more than I wanted the divorce. I just wanted everything to hurt less. When he promised to never change, I filed for divorce. I cried and apologized as I told him my friend’s cousin would serve him papers the next day. I told him we each deserved peace, and that maybe the divorce papers would not make us any more divorced than the marriage certificate had made us married.
After decades of weekend binge drinking, I stopped drinking altogether when we got together, because I realized I was a blackout drinker. In my blackouts, I said the things I worked hard not to admit: that I hated him, that I felt crazy and sad beyond words, that I felt worse when I spoke to him and spent time with him, and that I was terrified he would find out and leave me. And then I would not remember saying any of it. I knew I felt like shit when I was with him. I knew he thought more of himself than me, and I tried mightily to agree so we could be on the same page. It was familiar.
He was different from others I had dated—quieter, less fun, less emotional. I thought this was maturity, but it was emotional vacancy. I hated everything about him except that he appeared to always keep it together, while I have always been emotionally sloppy af. I mistook his contained rage for calm. I thought marrying him might legitimize me within my family, because he was morally and emotionally similar to them. And because I was still immature and broken myself, I did not know what maturity was. I had not witnessed it. His presentation looked calm and mature to me.
We agreed on one thing only: he was an asshole because I was crazy and a bitch. If I could correct myself, we would be golden. I knowingly entered into a loveless marriage because I hated myself, only slightly more than I hated him.
I do not suggest for one second that I was a champ. I was a train wreck. No sane, healthy, mature person with an ounce of self-love would have chosen as I did.
