I don't want to be married anymore.
After months of constant arguing and no spark between us, I realized I had grown increasingly unhappy. The thought of being the one who would blow up a family, especially the eldest child, was unbearable.
I was 35 years old and had been with my husband for 12 years. From when we met at 23, I believed he was a safe choice but there was no passion or electricity between us. While he seemed happy and content with his life, I felt there was something missing.
I wanted more and my heart ached for what could be. I had been with my sister a week ago and she told me how great my husband was but also that he could never blow up the marriage.
It killed me to think that my children would be sad without both parents, especially the eldest. I wished day and night that he would fall out of love or realize he didn't want to do this but I didn't think he would change.
The decision fell on my shoulders. Do I just suck it up and sacrifice my happiness? Have I been married for the sake of my children? Would they be better off without me? I felt my mind was made up but I was staying because I didn't know how to do this.
I was posting online when my family walked in the door. I was spent, exhausted, confused. The kids greeted me like I had been gone for weeks. They hugged me like I’ve been gone for weeks. But it was their job to save me. Marshall looked at me and smiled. I couldn't look at his face for fear they might see through me. Later, I would dry my swollen eyes long enough to read bedtime stories and lay with them a while. I would say "goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite." I’d close the door almost all the way then whisper through the crack, “There’s no bugs.”, and slip out.
The following week, we made a triangle – Marshall, the new therapist, and me. Within seconds, the therapist placed a box of tissues in my lap, and the loneliness spilled out of me. Then the loneliness spilled out of Marshall. We talked about how we got here – two babies, and so many days that were so long they felt like weeks. The losses each of us have experienced, the parts of our souls that had to fall away as we folded ourselves into partners and parents, into new people we weren’t sure we even liked. It was necessary. It was survival.
Maybe we’ll always need adjustments and repairs, like an old car that needs a lot of maintenance. Diligent oil changes, tightening gears. Grease. Maybe this is just what choosing not to give up looks like. Or maybe it’s all so much harder than it should be. Maybe I’d be better off turning off the engine and leaving it by the side of the road, going on foot, carrying my own weight. I have no way of knowing. I’m not sure I’m ready to know.
I steer away from the office, another appointment scheduled. I'm in the driver's seat and when he reaches for my hand, I don't pull away. I let it linger, quietly, until we are home. Tonight, there is fuel in the tank. We are gentle with one another, running smoother. We smile before getting out of the car and closing the garage. At the back door I breathe in all the summer air I can, and turn the key.