Meet me in the shower

When Mike and I first moved in together we would shower together in a tiny little 4×4 stall. Every night. 8pm. And while we were naked and vulnerable, we would talk about all the things. Our hopes and dreams. How our day went. We would listen without judgment. We would laugh. It was so intimate. I reveled in the love and adoration.

This is what I had been looking for, for so long. Someone to compliment my strengths, someone to lean on, someone to enjoy life with. Someone who loved me.

And then our lives turned upside down. We stuck to our path and our plan, getting pregnant and continuing to march forward, one tedious step at a time.

All the while brushing everything else under the rug. If we don’t acknowledge our differences, they’re not there.

I’ve written a few posts in the past couple of weeks… All that have been vetoed by Mike. They were too mean, too one-sided. Thinly veiled daggers declaring why I was more right.

Mike doesn’t want to label specifics, for our audience or each other. I think we adequately explained the state of our failing marriage. I still felt like I had more to say. One more opportunity to defend my side. This is one of our differences. I have to have the last word.

He prefers to go outside and hide from my confrontations. As though he’s thinking, If I can’t hear you, I’m not wrong.

I, on the other hand, will gleefully pull out a notebook and cite specific transgressions backed up with dates and times and photographic evidence.

It’s not that I need to be right… Exactly. I need to be heard. But at what cost?

Part of my past is struggling for air and clawing to the surface. To escape. Take my toys and go home.

Marriage is meant to be a one and done deal. ‘Til death do us part. In sickness and in health. Mental health? The death of a child? Combining households? Co-parenting children you did not bring into this world? Are those things meant to be in there? For how long? For ever?

My first marriage shattered because of unfaithfulness. I was broken because of it. I remember laying on my kitchen floor, pouring out uncontrollable, gut-wrenching sobs until I was so achingly empty. I can still feel the edges of that pain, and the scars that grew over and calloused bits of my heart.

And I was the one that built myself back up. I met my own needs. And I totally kicked ass at it. I am woman, hear me roar. All that jazz.

My second divorce, honestly, could’ve been avoided with some mediocre counseling and a shred of compromise. Instead, I pulled the trigger. My desire for independence and autonomy rang. “I don’t need no man!” With the encouragement of friends, I ended a marriage on a disagreement. And there wasn’t much to repair. I wasn’t hurt. I was singularly focused on my own happiness. Damn anyone that got in the way of my pursuit.

When Mike and I were dating, I joked that the first divorce was painful. After that, meh.

A tedious pile of paperwork.

The first cut is the deepest.

But after that, what do you choose to settle for?

How much are you willing to put up with?

Mike and I have been very frank with each other. If we had known this would be our path, our story, we would’ve politely opted out. Next, please.

We tried counseling when I was swollen with pregnancy and emotions, and Mike was still reeling from the loss of his source of light in this world, his daughter whom he chose and adopted and loved.

Twice, Mike stormed out of our sessions because I couldn’t stop pointing fingers. In his mind, he was coming to counseling for me, to save our marriage. I felt let down. I couldn’t use that as a platform to verbalize unmet expectations, to give a voice to my pain.

Wash, rinse, repeat. We are seemingly forever in competition. Who is more mad, who is more tired, who is angrier at the other person’s child(ren).

So, where’s the line? When does our individual happiness take precedence over half-assed attempts at maintaining a home, tenderly avoiding differences, raising children with different backgrounds and expectations, talents, and faults?

Several times a day I wonder which moment, which unmet expectation, will be the straw that will break it for me. I cling to each, comforting myself that I’m justified in keeping my walls up.

Mike frequently scoffs at my quest for independence. “Marriage and family requires a team,” he says. Who gets to lead? You? Me?

We’ve been through so much in the short time we’ve known each other. We’ve hurt each other while protecting ourselves. We’ve suffered silently, turning our backs to each other even in sleep, careful not to accidentally touch. Our sides are solid. You’ve wronged me.

Statistically speaking, people who divorce are more likely to divorce again. And again. I like to throw that fact out there often, as an excuse to my knee-jerk reaction to pack up and run.

I lost myself once in a marriage that was ripped out from under me. If I’m being honest, with you and with myself, I don’t know if I could survive another.

And this is one of the walls I use to cautiously protect myself, all the while holding on to reasons why I shouldn’t let Mike lead. How do you know which way I want to go?

I’ve come to the realization I am slowly killing our marriage.

I can confidently tell you the grass is not greener on the other side. I’ve indignantly left relationships in pursuit of something better. And I’ve exchanged, quite literally, one set of problems for another.

I’ve learned that while you can hope for someone more compatible, more accepting, less offensive, what makes relationships work is, well, work. Hard work. Hard conversations. Compromise. Acceptance. Forgiveness.

I’m not hurting Mike by indignantly clinging to all the ways I’ve been offended. Nor is he hurting me by silently cursing me. We’re just weighing ourselves down.

Two years ago, Mike and I built a new bedroom to make room for our growing family, complete with a larger shower to have years’ worth of open conversation and private moments. A space to continue to love and grow in.

I don’t remember the last time we showered together. Happily. Openly. Bare. Exposed.

I don’t know how to find what we had before. Some days I wonder if it existed at all.

I do know, and this is new from my last post, that I don’t want to give up.

Maybe, just maybe, I don’t need my perceived injustices to be acknowledged. This has been a struggle of mine for a long time, and it’s cost me loads of happiness to carry grudges. I need to move forward with my husband. I need to choose joy over my pursuit of righteousness.

Marriage is fucking hard.

But it can be worth it. I will cling to that. I will try harder to show Mike grace, forgiveness, and acceptance. I will try to listen more and judge less.

I want to shower together again. I want us to be happy again. I’m not looking for our new-to-us infatuation. I want to carry our dents and scars and growing pains proudly. I want to grow old with him, each of us carrying our memories and history we built together.

I want to be able to say we made it. Not just to check a box, but because I loved this man. I love him fiercely today and tomorrow, even with all of our differences.

I don’t want our story to end.

I don’t want to give up.