Today's post is about a deeply important subject, one that I've seen play out for so many people close to me. It's about learning to trust again after an abusive relationship. It's about the hope that things can get better and the bravery of knowing when to leave. If this helps just one of you leave, or heal, or take one step down the path to wholeness, it will be worth all of Jamaica's bravery in writing about it. And even if this has nothing to do with your life experiences, it's one to take into your heart and ponder.
There’s always a chance of rain in Portland. Scant hours before our wedding on the morning of September 17th, 2011, Mitchell and I sipped coffee in a corner café and watched the water begin to crease the window panes. We were calm, and surprisingly, it didn’t feel like a reaction before a storm. I think we were shocking my mom; she looked for any disappointment that the planned backyard wedding was a muddy bust. Nope. Acceptance. What will be will be, and moisture is a fact of life in the Pacific Northwest.
It’s now been over two months since that morning, and what I keep realizing is that Mitchell and I had the perfect wedding.
We compressed all twenty five guests into the living room of our dear friends; Mitchell’s honorary uncle Glen wrote and performed the ceremony; we read thoughts on love and connection from Douglas Adams, Carl Sagan, and Ranier Maria Rilke; we ate lemon-blueberry buckle (yum!) and played word games (more yum!); and we were ourselves.
The big question going into planning a wedding event was how to tailor the day for two compassionate and crude introverted nerds who are madly in love, who love quiet and tea, and who both feel extremely close with their family and friends (introverted, but not shy!). A mix of happy accident, mindful planning, and setting gentle but firm boundaries about what we would and would not do ended up creating a really good day. A day, may I note, with an awesome party favor: Mitchell was now my husband.
Ever since that day, I keep getting asked a variation on the question “How is married life?” And I keep wondering what exactly is different, or whether it should it be different. Should I have something new to say? Mitchell and I bonded over silent movie trivia more than five years ago, we kissed for the first time four years ago, and we’ve been living together for two years and counting. We were committed in so many ways before that vow-laden smooch.
So… everything is… the same?
Not quite.
I’m pretty sure that voluntarily entering into a legal and emotional bond with another person, stating your promises in front of an adoring throng, is a different experience for every person that goes through it. Scuffing sand between my toes on our honeymoon on the Oregon Coast, I told Mitchell that, for me, it boils down to trust. What does being a wife mean to me? What does having a husband mean to me? I spent a lot of time thinking about these things in the six months leading up to an actual marriage ceremony. It means that I have trust in him, as the beautiful individual he is, to work at not screwing things up—between us or with respect to his own goals. I trust him to trust the same in me (hell, I trust me to trust the same in me). For me, marriage was the next step in a deeper faith with the world.
I stopped talking, digging my toes further into the sand and sand fleas. “Thinking about….?” my husband asked. My facial expression alone told him what stories in my past I was recalling. “Yeah,” I answered.
I originally began this post with a long ramble about “physical abuse,” ”rape,” or “emotional manipulation.” All are parts of the larger truth. Then I hit “delete.” This isn’t an exposé titled “All About The Awful Things That Have Happened to Me”; this is about what happened after.
