In November, I got your letter
A few days ago, I had this strange feeling of disconnect that I couldn't quite place. I wondered whether I was entering the next newlywed phase -- maybe the excitement was wearing off a little for me to start feeling homesick for my old life, or to feel doubt about whether we're properly navigating this marriage thing, or to sober up over the idea that this is forever. Now I think the feeling came from the fact that the season is changing, and I don't have any memories in this place to anchor me. Usually, the changing of each season serves as a good time for me to reflect upon my life, for me to remember where I've been when those first cold days have started in years past. This year, the arrival of autumn isn't calling up memories of autumns past -- I think maybe because I haven't totally integrated my new life with everything that came before it yet. There's still a bit of a dividing line old life/new life that I think will eventually blur together into just, my life. It reminds me of when I first left Duluth, and I was almost too shocked to really miss it, even though I was dreaming about endless bodies of water all the time. It took me a good six months to really start to miss it. The marriage is on five months now. By next autumn, I'll have memories of being here -- but this year, I may have to feel this sense of being adrift with each changing season.
I'm not sure I can wrap my head around the idea of marriage any more now than I could before the wedding, even though I've entered into it. There are still times when forever seems so overwhelming that I have to take a step back and remember that forever is built just one day at a time. Most days it's much easier than I dreamed it would be; adjusting to living with Ivan was remarkably easy. And I think that's part of what's made it hard for me to really comprehend the idea of marriage. Instead, I feel as though I've simply started living with the man I love. "Oh, look, you're here again! And again! And tomorrow, too!" It doesn't feel like there's some official document somewhere that keeps us together, that we've entered into something that will be very painful and difficult to ever extract ourselves from, that what's going on here is somehow of interest to all of society and not just the two of us. And for the most part, I think that's a good thing -- to feel like we're doing this because it's really a lovely thing to do and not because something external keeps us together.
Back when I was engaged, I read a lot of pre-marital and marital self-help books. One of them was I Do But I Don't: Why the Way We Marry Matters by Kamy Wicoff. It was a feminist examination of our culture's wedding rituals, interpreting the rollercoaster of emotions brides often feel as a result of them coming up across hardcore societal pressure to act a certain way "as a bride" and thus subvert their individuality. It was fascinating stuff. Through the course of the book, Kamy finds a way to make peace with it -- although I do remember thinking at the end that she didn't offer much in the way of solutions or coping methods for the future, something women could do to make that transition in a less tortuous way. I do remember that the last chapter was called, "The Rest of My Life is Never Long Enough," which was, as you can imagine, her ultimately deciding that everything was worth it for her to be with her beloved, Andrew.
The book was published four years into their marriage. Four years later, they got divorced. Turns out forever was too long after all. Turns out even eight years was too long. Kamy writes about the divorce here, painting a very different picture of Andrew than the one we see in the book.
This devastated me far more than the divorce of someone I didn't know should have. I had to talk it through with Ivan. Then I talked it through with Katrina, who also read the book. I know part of why it shook me up so badly is that I had identified with Kamy in a lot of ways; and if she could make peace of it all and everything turned out okay, then it could for me, too. Except, it didn't turn out okay. And that's not the kind of ending I want for my story. And I'm so much in the shallows of wedded bliss right now that I can't even wrap my head around being with someone for eight years. So it's back to one day at a time.
I think the hardest part has been learning what the appropriate level of together time vs. apart time is. Ivan needs more social time with friends than I do; I need more alone time than he does. In theory this works out, because he can go hang with friends while I take the time to be alone. And there have been some times when it really does play out this way -- he does his thing with his buds, I do my thing alone, and we both feel a little rejuvenated and more ready to be together after it all. The tension comes in the insecurities -- my thoughts insinuating that he would rather be with his friends than me, that he needs his friends as an "escape" from me. Although he's never said as much, it would be easy for him to have similar insecurities -- why would I rather be alone than with the love of my life? Why would I want him to "go away"? (Well, so I have time and peace and quiet to write an entry like this one, for example). I have to learn to let go of whatever Ivan is doing when he's not with me. There's got to be a certain level of privacy and space in a marriage; I think that's what's made my parents' marriage work so well. And I'm a person who needs my independence, and Ivan is too, so there's this pull between our needs for autonomy and our commitment to building a unified life. Marriage is as much a lesson in letting go as in holding on.
I'm not sure I can wrap my head around the idea of marriage any more now than I could before the wedding, even though I've entered into it. There are still times when forever seems so overwhelming that I have to take a step back and remember that forever is built just one day at a time. Most days it's much easier than I dreamed it would be; adjusting to living with Ivan was remarkably easy. And I think that's part of what's made it hard for me to really comprehend the idea of marriage. Instead, I feel as though I've simply started living with the man I love. "Oh, look, you're here again! And again! And tomorrow, too!" It doesn't feel like there's some official document somewhere that keeps us together, that we've entered into something that will be very painful and difficult to ever extract ourselves from, that what's going on here is somehow of interest to all of society and not just the two of us. And for the most part, I think that's a good thing -- to feel like we're doing this because it's really a lovely thing to do and not because something external keeps us together.
Back when I was engaged, I read a lot of pre-marital and marital self-help books. One of them was I Do But I Don't: Why the Way We Marry Matters by Kamy Wicoff. It was a feminist examination of our culture's wedding rituals, interpreting the rollercoaster of emotions brides often feel as a result of them coming up across hardcore societal pressure to act a certain way "as a bride" and thus subvert their individuality. It was fascinating stuff. Through the course of the book, Kamy finds a way to make peace with it -- although I do remember thinking at the end that she didn't offer much in the way of solutions or coping methods for the future, something women could do to make that transition in a less tortuous way. I do remember that the last chapter was called, "The Rest of My Life is Never Long Enough," which was, as you can imagine, her ultimately deciding that everything was worth it for her to be with her beloved, Andrew.
The book was published four years into their marriage. Four years later, they got divorced. Turns out forever was too long after all. Turns out even eight years was too long. Kamy writes about the divorce here, painting a very different picture of Andrew than the one we see in the book.
This devastated me far more than the divorce of someone I didn't know should have. I had to talk it through with Ivan. Then I talked it through with Katrina, who also read the book. I know part of why it shook me up so badly is that I had identified with Kamy in a lot of ways; and if she could make peace of it all and everything turned out okay, then it could for me, too. Except, it didn't turn out okay. And that's not the kind of ending I want for my story. And I'm so much in the shallows of wedded bliss right now that I can't even wrap my head around being with someone for eight years. So it's back to one day at a time.
I think the hardest part has been learning what the appropriate level of together time vs. apart time is. Ivan needs more social time with friends than I do; I need more alone time than he does. In theory this works out, because he can go hang with friends while I take the time to be alone. And there have been some times when it really does play out this way -- he does his thing with his buds, I do my thing alone, and we both feel a little rejuvenated and more ready to be together after it all. The tension comes in the insecurities -- my thoughts insinuating that he would rather be with his friends than me, that he needs his friends as an "escape" from me. Although he's never said as much, it would be easy for him to have similar insecurities -- why would I rather be alone than with the love of my life? Why would I want him to "go away"? (Well, so I have time and peace and quiet to write an entry like this one, for example). I have to learn to let go of whatever Ivan is doing when he's not with me. There's got to be a certain level of privacy and space in a marriage; I think that's what's made my parents' marriage work so well. And I'm a person who needs my independence, and Ivan is too, so there's this pull between our needs for autonomy and our commitment to building a unified life. Marriage is as much a lesson in letting go as in holding on.