I am a 25-year-old woman with two dogs and a sad marriage. I've been married going on three years and for the past one year or so have been seriously thinking I'd be better off without him.
We met about four and a half years ago, and fell for each other pretty quickly (which is how a typical relationship always seemed to start out for me in the past). We dated for 11 months before getting engaged, and then five months later we tied the knot. It all happened so fast and there was so much excitement -- but now I think that deep down I didn't really feel like he was the right guy for me ... I was young (a whole three years younger -- wow, huh?) and I don't think I was finished being independent. I just wanted to be the bride -- and everyone else wanted it for me too.
After we got married he started traveling a LOT for his job. Of course, he traveled before but since we waited to live together until we got married I was now spending a lot more time by myself (that was before the dogs came along). So, I knew we'd have some times apart and I knew it would bother me a little bit -- but it's gotten to the point where when he is at home I wish he'd leave again. I don't feel an attraction to him at all. I don't want to be hugged, kissed, or even touched ... we fight about it when he's in the mood and I never am. When we try to talk about the subject of sex and why we don't have it anymore, I tell him I don't feel good about myself and maybe when I lose a couple of pounds I'll feel better ... I'll tell him anything just as long as I don't have to say, "I'm not attracted to you anymore!" I really don't want to hurt him -- I know he loves me, but I'm getting tired of living like this.
I feel also that I should say that he's not a bad guy. He's nice, has a good job and all that other stuff. Sure, he has his moments (we all do) where he can be a real jerk ... but for the most part there really isn't any particular reason why I don't love him anymore ... I just don't.
I'm convinced that I married him too quickly and that I should have waited and dated a little bit longer. I've always been somewhat of the "heartbreaker" in my relationships. It was always me getting tired of the other person. I was hoping that it wouldn't happen in this relationship ... but I'm afraid it has -- I'm afraid that what I felt for him at the beginning was really no different than what I've felt for other men in the past. Sounds sleazy, I know, but it's the truth.
I want to divorce him. I want to sell our house and live my own life with the money that I make. Maybe I'd move away, maybe not -- I want that freedom.
I guess the only thing that's really slowing me down is my family. They love him! Also, I was raised in a religious family and divorce is a sin -- of course, we all sin every day -- but I feel bad about wanting to leave my husband. I feel that my parents will be so disappointed in me along with all of my siblings, and extended family for that matter (we're a close family). His family is great too ... but it's not enough to make me love him.
Before my husband left for his last trip we decided to try marriage counseling. We were going to start as soon as he got back home. He's been gone almost two weeks now and I'm still willing to try -- but we haven't said one word about it on the phone since he's been gone. I don't know if the marriage is worth saving. Right now I hope someone tells me it's not. But I guess life would be easier too if I could fall for him again. I don't know -- I think I've put up a wall; my marriage is on one side and my freedom is on the other -- I want my freedom.
I feel quite selfish for all these feelings that I'm having but I'm just not happy. I want to be happy again.
What do I do?
If someone were to ask you today, What was the most difficult thing you've ever done? what would you say?
I ask this in order to understand what you are facing and put myself in your shoes.
I've been sitting here in the cafe trying to think of the most difficult things I did before I was 25. There is a bit to get through but I will get there. You'll see.
I wasn't exactly the heartbreak kid. I was the guy who waited to be broken up with. So I never divorced anybody or even left anybody. I just let things fall apart. When I think about decisions that I knew were necessary and were going to cause me pain and cause others to be mad at me ... I don't think I made any!
OK, how about this. When was the last time you realized you'd made a decision selfishly that affected another person's well-being, and then found yourself obligated to rectify it? When was the last time you looked at something you did and not only saw that it had been a mistake but saw that you had done it knowingly for selfish reasons?
Stay with me. It gets better.
When I look over my first 25 years, I see a guy making easy decisions and then taking actions to make them even easier. I see a guy with amazing luck. I see a guy who got out of scrapes. I see a guy who drifted, followed, looked for signals, tagged along. I see a guy who mooched and cadged, whined, cajoled, pleaded, charmed, faked, seduced, flattered. I see a guy who skirted, fumbled, hid from difficulty, head full of poetry, skipped out when the bill came, left before the cleanup, felt above it all, thought he knew it all. I see a guy who hid his fear, ran from trouble, avoided avoided avoided. He took refuge, fantasized, pretended, dreamed, borrowed.
I see a guy who never honestly broke up with anybody. He just waited for things to fall apart and then moved on.
It's possible that at that age, how he'd grown up, the role models he'd had, the stresses he'd been under, the fear of the Vietnam War and the draft and the early drug use, the hippie culture he was ushered into, he did not have any choices the way we think of choices. How would he have acted differently? What model was there to follow?
So the outward behavior was not exemplary. But we do not always know what we are doing -- what we are protecting, what it is within us, exactly, that is surviving through our apparently selfish and chaotic actions.
Through all that, I see a kid carrying a gift like a kid in a fairy tale, carrying a precious gift under his arm wrapped in newspaper like the Maltese Falcon. He's been charged with its care and upkeep through war and poverty and homelessness. He's given a gift by his parents before leaving home, and he travels, knowing that if he could just get through the forest without losing this gift, keeping it close to him, sleeping with it next to him in the forest, hiding it from jealous thieves, disguising it from those who might recognize its true value and want it (and also from those who might recognize its true value and disparage it, wounding him, knocking his confidence out), if he could just hang on to it through hurricanes and bitterness and winter streets of windblown trash and rat-run alleyways under rattling windows, if through all those nights of traveling, shivering under wet blankets, if he could hold on to just this one thing, then later, eventually, if he survived, he could work out the rest of it -- what to do with the gift, how to operate it, how to use it, how to keep it running. Years later he would realize that the gift was not a metaphor. In a moment of stress a vivid memory would come to him of being a very young child and clutching something to his chest, lying on the floor kicking and screaming and crying and holding on to this thing. And he would see that this was not a metaphor, that it was physical, it was a book or some writing, it was a Bible or a journal or a story he had written. There was something he cared about more than anything else, something he would live for and die for. There was one thing at least that was not a joke. There was a bottom line, a real thing not a totem, one thing he was living for all those years of wandering.
Think about it. When you think about the most difficult thing you have done, or the most sacred thing, or the most precious, is there one thing you can latch on to?
This is hard because at that age we don't know it. Or maybe we do. Maybe we know it but don't have the word for it. Maybe we know it but are afraid for it; we protect it by not naming it. We think that if we name it we may harm it so we keep it secret. At that age this one most precious and dear thing may be the one thing that no one knows about -- not because we are ashamed of it but because we are protecting it from their careless murder.
So you have come to one of those points where the most difficult thing you have ever done may also be the thing that defines what is most sacred to you.
You must have the courage to do this. Where will you find the strength? You will find it in this hidden sacred object or idea, this thing that you are protecting by leaving. For you, perhaps the secret object or idea is a form of joy and freedom. Perhaps you are the heartbreaker because the lifelong song you sing is the freedom song. Perhaps that is the course of your life: Love, experience, freedom. That could be. It could be that you are the secret spirit of freedom, raised -- this is fate's fiat! -- in strict religion and thus hiding this spirit, protecting it, not exposing it to ridicule and at times not even believing in it yourself, but all the same secretly at night knowing that the spirit of freedom is the thing that defines you and that if it were exposed they would destroy it. Knowing, too, that to keep their love you have tried to live within their world. So the hardest thing you have ever done may turn out to be just facing it: You are not the good wife. Nor were you meant to be. You are the adventurer. Not the adventuress, in the censorious Victorian sense of a selfish, scheming woman, but the free spirit, the woman who will not be chained. Maybe that is you. Maybe it's the call of freedom in a very pure sense. Maybe there is great power here. Seek that power. Visualize it. Crystallize it. Make it real. Hang on to it. Don't let them shame you into submission. Keep it. Protect it. Meditate on it.
Then as you do all the necessary things to free yourself, you will have this northern star in your sights. You will have your heading. You will know where you are going even though, because of the nature of what you seek, your seeking it makes you appear to be without compass, groundless, spinning. You are not groundless and spinning. You are going somewhere. You are going toward freedom.
Go in this direction and you will know where you are going. You will be going toward freedom. You will be always going there. It is not a place you ever get to, but a place you always head for.
"Since You Asked," on sale now at Cary Tennis Books: Buy now and get an autographed first edition.
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