You and Me, Babe

Beginning of the End

Remembering high school is the equivalent of interpreting a thesis paper in a language you don't speak, write, or read. Irrelevant, counterintuitive, and uncomfortable. Yet here we are. Standing before each other in ruins, thinking only of time spent in our youth. What is it about young love that causes a grown man to hesitate, what is it about the ghost of a laugh that causes the words to die on my tongue? Why, in all this heartbreak—this chaos—are we choosing to endure more? And for what? The memory of half a dozen chocolate roses tucked haphazardly into a school bag?

It takes strength to remember why we're here today, to reiterate the topic at hand. I've never been great at censoring my thoughts or crafting a sentence for the comfort of another, it shows in the way I dance around the subject. My attempt to wrap you in a blanket of warmth borders on desperate; my mind is reeling, carefully chosen words swarming. It's not enough. I know that. No matter how I say what I need to say, you're going to walk away hurting. I can't control that anymore than I can control the circumstances that got us here. But I'm trying. I'm trying to communicate my emotions, my thought process, my desire.

You aren't any better. You're quiet, detached. There's an ache centered in my chest and a pool of anxiety swirling in my gut but I push through. Interestingly enough, my motivation is you. I want to be as clear as possible to avoid any misunderstandings, I want to be articulate, I want you to understand that it's not you as a person that's the problem. It's just us, as an item. We spent the last five years shifting and while I'd love to think we were moving in harmony, these past six months have only proven me wrong. I hate being wrong.

We just had an anniversary. Two years of dating, two years of engagement, and one year of marriage for a total of five years. Five years with you at the center of my life. I can't fathom a life without you but I know it's what I need; sitting before you, with my heart in your hands, I know it's what we need. We need to take ourselves back. That revelation is what gets me through this conversation, it's what allows me to conclude my request. I draw strength from it as we rise from the table and I walk you to the door.

But as soon as it closes, I can't help but wonder if I've made the right choice. If I'd fought for you harder, if I'd prioritized our family before my career, if I'd gone into therapy sooner, if I'd been more open to discussing the traumatic experiences of my past. But none of those options are available to us now, none of those things can change the path we've chosen. Piece after piece, time after time; you chose you and I chose me.

Rumor Has It Wrong

We've been apart for four months or 'legally separated' as far as the law is concerned. You don't talk to me unless you're attempting to reconcile. I've given up on the concept of a lot of things, particularly love and marriage. I spend my days in my room. It's the only place I don't have to dodge judgement or pity, no one asks me questions about us here but their inquiries plague my conscious.

'What happened to you two?'

'Who left who?'

'Was there someone else?'

'Who gets custody?'

Still, questions aren't as bad as accusations; assumptions built on whispers tainted with misguiding information then projected through an onslaught of social media only to fall short at my inbox. In today's society, people can benefit from being left on read. So far my favorite response is fear for their personal benefit, statements like 'But I based my relationship on yours' or 'You make him so happy. Are you sure you guys couldn't work it out' create whirlwinds of uncertainty, anger, and doubt. I tell myself to shut it out and when I'm in this room, I can. But the minute I step out of that door my patience is tested once more.

Sometimes I consider going back to you to appease our adoring public, sometimes I consider returning to appease the continuous ache in my chest, sometimes I waste boxes of tissue trying to imagine a life where I wasn't constantly at war with myself. The majority of the time I just want the pain to stop. There isn't enough space in my head for my present life and future plans on top of the intrusive thoughts and behaviors of my past. Doubt and hostility congregate. I'm left with visions of you—another ghost I can't escape—and a heavy heart to accommodate exhausted blue eyes. The constant pounding in my chest seems to lessen as time goes on but ignites with a burst of adrenaline at the smallest adjustment.

My first priority is my mental health, to quiet the voice in my mind that's constantly reminding me how easily this fight could be over. My second is you. I miss you. Or maybe I just miss the familiarity, a sense of belonging. Why can't I create it within myself?

I used to imagine a future for us. We'd be sitting on our front porch watching the neighborhood kids race bikes down the block, his and her coffee mugs in hand. I used to imagine pulling strands of gray hair from your head, smiling softly to myself as your beard turned from red to gray. Now I see myself in a small apartment, sipping coffee and listening to podcasts while I tend to my indoor plants. I tell myself that's more than enough; I tell myself I don't need the porch, the gray haired companion, or the overly personalized coffee mugs. At this stage in my recovery, being able to sit in a comfortable silence by myself is more than enough.

Turning Point

You and I were an indisputable force before my diagnosis, before my episodes escalated, before they told me the last 8 years of my life had been in vein. I tried to talk to you about him but you didn't understand the severity of it—how could you? You hadn't experienced it alongside me, you didn't have anything to compare it to. Our realities weren't compatible in the end.

They told me I would be a victim to him for the rest of my life, that the experience was 'traumatic', that the things that happened to me had permanently altered the neurological pathways of my brain. When I told you, you were stunned. Like you didn't believe anything that bad could've happened to me. Like you didn't believe the hell I'd spent the past eight years recovering from was important enough to warrant such a daunting diagnosis. I didn't believe it either. They can't rewrite my history with a single diagnosis, they can't redefine my character, my life's work like that. And so quickly too. How many sessions did I go to before they slapped that label on me; three, four?

Summoning up the courage to tell you was the most difficult thing I've ever done. To request something like that, to ask that of you knowing your history. I hated myself for it. I hated myself for contemplating it. But the days kept coming and with them came the memories, the outbursts, the dissociation, the endless frustration. My reality was best described as a constant onslaught of waves, each of which symbolic of varying timelines, contrasting and overriding each other effortlessly. As for me, I was drowning in them. Coming up for air felt impossible, taxing. I lost track of my surroundings, I lost track of my relationships, my career, my personality. It felt like everything had fallen to the bottom of the ocean.

I know this experience was hard for you too, I'm not dismissing that. I did everything in my power to validate your concerns during this time. But there was only one of us in that house that was willing to learn about mental health, and I didn't have enough air left in my lungs to fish you out of the bottom of the ocean too. I wasn't equipped for scuba diving, I wasn't equipped to be in that ocean at all. My plane had been flying above when the motors quit working and we plummeted below. I couldn't imagine a future where I managed to save myself, not with you clawing at my ankles like that.

After a week or so of sleeping on the couch, of losing sight of everything I loved, of staring at my son and feeling void of all emotion, I opted to sit down with you and talk. It was difficult to keep myself rooted in time, I took constant inventory of my surroundings, reminding myself of the feel of that second hand chair we'd agreed to refurbish, acknowledging the blatant fear and flashes of pain in your eyes, reminding myself of our son sleeping one floor above. I pushed through so many internal forces to sit with you that day, to explain what I felt, where I was coming from, where I wanted to go. I wanted you to come with me, to wait for me to return from my journey. But you didn't want that; you wanted a wife to stay glued to your side. Your version of faithful was sharing a house. You dismissed the idea of our love surviving a distance. It wasn't enough for you that I needed help and when I said I needed that time to get right, you dismissed me too.

I can still hear your proposition, your voice echoing those words. As if I wasn't worth waiting for. As if what we had, the times we shared, the bond I yearned to feel again wasn't worth your time. I understood, of course, we come from different backgrounds. We have different expectations. Until that moment, I honestly thought we could make it. I thought I'd always have you in my corner. I thought I chose who to invest in wisely. Alas, the vote was in and I'd made a grand miscalculation.

You wanted a divorce.

Emotional Resilience

The realization that I'd put myself in this position, that I'd been the one to subject myself to another wave of disappointment was enough to throw me off my game. It took one year and three quarters for me to accept that my mental health was not the downfall of our union. It took even longer for me to come to terms with my personality, my symptoms, and the way I come off to those around me. Looking back, it's obvious that diagnosis didn't change who I was as a person. I had those symptoms for years before they gave them a name, as a person I wasn't different. I was still me, the same person you fell in love with. That dorky, food-obsessed teenager that could make you blush with a single glance, the girl that marched up to you in the cafeteria and asked you out in front of your friends. The girl that stopped mid-conversation because you walked into a room. A diagnosis didn't alter my identity, in a weird way it brought closure to the irregular rise and fall of my pulse.

But it took me a while to get there, the weight of the title and the stigma that followed nearly broke my back when it settled about my shoulders. I don't blame you for hesitating, I don't blame you for cringing and turning your back. I don't blame you at all. We were kids, after all. Young kids that committed to forces we didn't understand with minimal knowledge of ourselves, not to mention each other. It took me a long time to recognize that sometimes things like this don't come down to one ill advised action, instead they're compromised of a pattern of choices influenced by a lifetime of history and last minute adjustments. Sometimes both parties give it all they have and it still isn't enough, sometimes all it comes down to is destiny. After all, you can't fix a radiator with a hammer or complete a puzzle with a moldy Cheeto you found under your couch.

Back then though, as I was unloading boxes into my mother's spare bedroom, I couldn't help but feel betrayed. I still don't understand how I protected you from myself in that moment but i know it took me a long time to allow myself to be frustrated with you. First, I internalized my insecurities, my rage, my confusion. I blamed the situation on myself; if only I'd done this, if my history wasn't so complicated, if I was more open, if my brain wasn’t so fucking LOUD.

Eventually I'd learn that you didn't have the tools to understand what the world had thrown at us. I'd realize I didn't have the capacity to heal myself and be there for you, too. Eventually I'd be able to notice the joy that radiates from our son, his contagious giggles, and the way his brain keeps growing; I'd see how well we work together for his benefit, I'd see his development flourish in two different homes. Honestly babe, you and I didn't turn out so bad.

A Haphazard Trio

It took me a long time to come to terms with our story. It took even longer to learn how to trust you again, to recognize the importance of letting other people in. I worked continuously on outward expressions and communication, to squash miscommunications before they arose, to advocate for my intentions even when I wasn't sure I was worthy of them. Of you, our child, or a future where I wasn't constantly hurting.

I still have all of my symptoms, I still experience what I experienced prior to our divorce but the degree is weaker. The episodes are shorter. I've been fortunate enough to surround myself with people who understand my dilemma, my history. They work with me to set goals for my future and answer their phones when I need a helping hand. As for you? It's as I said, you and I didn’t turn out so bad.

Our romantic relationship came to an abrupt halt, but when I need you to pick up an extra night with the kid, you're there for me without hesitation. You and I work together for the benefit of our child, we work together to set rules and expectations at both houses, to ensure his education and health remain on track. Together we've raised an intelligent, curious, warm-hearted young man. He's everything I could've asked for and I wouldn't have him without you. I couldn't raise him without you.

I'm glad I chose you to start a family with, because even though our marriage didn't pan out, we were able to come together to raise our child. It's hard to cultivate a relationship like that, to find someone who's willing to put aside their pride for the benefit of their child. Someone who's willing to dismiss the accumulating gossip and say 'That's the mother of my child' or distinguish the difference between co-parenting and being a single parent, to refer to each other with respect and dignity. At the end of the day we chose our son, and we continue to choose him.

We have different expectations, yes. But I know I’ll always have you in my corner. I chose who to invest in wisely. Marrying you was never a miscalculation; it may not have gone the way I planned but you, darling, you were exactly what I needed. Raising this child with you has been an honor.