We started therapy with our church pastor. This is always a great option, and it helped me realize something that’s essential for newlyweds to grasp: We are stuck with each other forever.
Forever is a long time. Especially when your husband uploads Quicken on your ancient laptop at 1:00 a.m., and it doesn’t go well because it’s technology, so he becomes unhinged. The computer stood up to the yelling with stubborn pride. I, however, found myself filled with rage, and I screamed right back at him. I knew I couldn’t change it. I couldn’t go out there and soothe or yell or show up naked and insist on sex to change it. He was mad at our computer, and himself, and there wasn’t a thing I could do to help.
Later, when I told him about my frustration with all this, he sighed and said, “I am really sorry. I am working on it. And I think the showing up naked thing is an excellent idea. Let’s try it.”
The thing was, all of his anger was directed at himself. Not a bit of it was directed toward me. Not the yelling, the message, or any of it. He simply loathed himself. And then, when he found that darkness welling up inside of him, he loathed himself even more and would collapse under the pressure of needing to be perfect, a big implosion of impossible expectations. And all the while I watched with simmering resentment. I had a loud and easily identifiable reason for my misery, living right here next to me in our Habitrail. The problem was easy to spot: it was the loud, yelling one over there! In the other room! Freaking out about something he had done wrong. And here I was, the quiet one, praying. Faultless. Burdened. Very spiritual, too.
Therapy with our pastor did help; he was brilliant and caring and worked hard with us to find a solution to the outbreaks of anger and to all the communication problems. He had quite a job ahead of him. Brian was a mess. There was tons of work to do—on him. I was just the long-suffering wife.
“Do you think you should leave him?” My pastor asked me. I stared at him, then at Brian, and gulped. Why was this on me? Why couldn’t we establish that this was intolerable, and Brian had to stop it right now? I mean I had done my time. I had waited and waited and then married a man who loved Jesus as much as I did. So, therefore, didn’t that mean somehow everything from here should be a bit easier? Singlehood in my late thirties had been about as fun as a long walk through Chuck E. Cheese’s with someone else’s kid; a lot of squealing and noise, and a couple of balloons—a lot of suffering and counting the clock. I deserved a happy marriage after all that. Brian stared down at his hands. I looked from him to my pastor, and back again. “No . . .” I said. My voice was so small it sounded like the air leaking from a tire. “I am not going to leave him. But . . . I just don’t know how to live like this.” Brian turned to me, his face full of pain, as if to say, “I have always lived like this. I don’t know how not to live like this.”
And then I realized it. This is how I dealt with the world: smooth it all over, like frosting on a cake, and insist on happiness and sprinkles for all. Be very quiet and nice and don’t ever, ever upset anyone. Walk very softly and simmer on low, like a crockpot of resentment.
Brian dealt with things differently. Blow up to let off steam, stomp around, and then proceed. Be loud. Upset people. Get over it.
How charming. I had married the complete opposite of myself. I am sure this has never happened before in the history of marriages.
I would like to clarify that Brian’s anger was totally inappropriate; it was loud and it was a bully. But it was just that—anger. Not violence, physical or mental harm, or threats. Brian’s anger was so self-directed I am surprised he survived it. But since I was in the vicinity and was terrified of things going wrong, people being upset, and anyone ever feeling anything but happy, his anger terrified me. It should have terrified him, but he was used to it by now as a rather effective outlet for his pain. It sure did give me a lot of excuses to start drinking more.
His fault. All his fault. Drink up.
TOP TEN WAYS TO AVOID AN EARLY MARRIAGE ON THE ROCKS
1. Invest the time and commitment in counseling. Take as much time as you would arguing and simmering and divide it by at least five. That should equal about the amount of time you will spend in a counselor’s office talking. And even if the counselor is lousy, it’s at least one hour out of the week or month you will spend not shouting.
2. Understand that marriage is about the hardest thing you will ever do and you have to do it with another person. It’s a group project. If you hated those in school, you might have some trouble here. Go back to the start of this list.
3. Give your counselor at least three visits before you decide that it’s not working and not worth the money, time, long car trip in silence afterward, and so forth. Then go for three more visits. If it still isn’t the right fit, then you can switch to another counselor. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt marriage alone.
4. Waiting for your spouse to change because it’s all his or her fault is like hoping the lines will be shorter the next time you get your driver’s license. Just work on yourself.
5. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not all your spouse’s fault. Work on yourself.
6. Also this: work on yourself.
7. Keep working. Get rid of the crockpot of resentment. Fill it up instead with the soup of self-love. Cheesy, but true.
8. Don’t add mind-altering substances or alcohol to resentment and anger. It only makes the gnat that is buzzing around your ears the size of a stealth bomber. When you find yourself getting out the heavy artillery because your husband bought whole instead of 2 percent milk, you might want to lay off the sauce.
9. Try not to worry about the deposit. Some problems, like neurotic cats with angry bladders, are unavoidable. Also, do not try to train a cat. Do not try to train a spouse. Which leads me to:
10. Work on yourself.
We Go to Paris and Fight the Whole Time We Go to Paris and Fight the Whole Time
I am standing outside of Notre Dame Cathedral. The air is cool and a light gray mist graces my cheeks. The gothic church’s stone and stained glass soars above me in Parisian extravagance, and all I can think is that I need to find a bathroom. And, if my husband ever comes out of that cathedral, I am going to kill him. Right here, I think, in front of all these cool Parisians.
I am pregnant. And I don’t really want to be pregnant. I am scared and stuck and, of course, my husband and I took a romantic vacation to Paris.
Paris does not have any bathrooms. There is one in our hotel room, but trust me, there are no other bathrooms in the entire city. I should know. My husband ambles about and takes pictures, looking at plaques below statues (Who does that?) and commenting on things like history and culture, while I nervously eye some sophisticated Parisian bushes that might offer some cover for my next potty break.
I