The years of my marriage are broadly marked as a six year patch of blackness, a distinct flavor of blackness, in line with, but distinct, from the blackness of my childhood. (A two-year window of brightness separates the two, the time when I was in the army).
Certain songs summarize my experiences during that time. Music has a way of anchoring emotions. I’ve heard it described as painting with time.
Like the whimsical notes of Fireflies by Owl City, capturing the childhood wonder of my first week of marriage. Starry eyed and hopeful.
Or the weight of intensity of the entire Bastille album, Bad Blood. Although I am not a man of lyrics, the ones from that album hit like a punch in the gut.
How were we to know that these are the days that bind you together, forever
And these little things define you forever, forever
All this bad blood here won’t you let it dry?
What did we know? From dating, from marriage, from parenting, from making a living, from paying bills, from writing checks, from having a bank account, from having to have sex the first 24 hours we could touch?
I was left to my own devices
Many days fell away with nothing to show
And the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love
Grey clouds roll over the hills, bringing darkness from above
There is a fear I am used to, of a tightness in my stomach. A sort of impending doom. This is the fear from my childhood.
The fear from my years of marriage is different, it’s a dropping away, like when the roller coaster goes over the hill. My stomach is gone. It is the feeling of nobody being there for me, with the weight of the world on my shoulders.
And I am not proud of how I dealt with that weight.
And I remember wandering the streets of French Hill, pasting signs on bus stops, trying to organize support groups for people like me, because none existed.
And I was not a mental health professional, and no one responded, and when someone finally did, sounding haunted in a way that I related to far too deeply, I did not have the resources to do anything but tell him that it was no longer relevant.
Things we lost to the flames
Things we’ll never see again
All that we have amassed
Sits before us, shattered into ash
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire, fire, fire
AishYeshiva Aish Hatorah, also known as Aish, is a cult educatio... More. The fire of Torah. Full of balanced individuals who sold their souls to God. Whose relationship advice came from a man who pretended to still be married to his wife for the optics.
Men who smiled and said “I see your point” and “I used to feel that way too” and “you need to have intellectual honesty” and “you need to admit your biases”.
Women who explained that it was their spiritual duty to be in the home, because the home was the holiest place, a miniature temple (that was somehow still ruled by the man?).
What is this sanctuary you speak of. Can I get a moment of peace.
I’ll see you in the future when we’re older
And we are full of stories to be told
Cross my heart and hope to die
I’ll see you with your laughter lines
We have the shared pain. I suppose we have that.
