Marriage

Back to it.

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Piper will be 15 months tomorrow, which means that we have been struggling through COVID-19 for 15 months. That we are all still here with even a portion of our mental health is a miracle. This past year has been unbelievably difficult.

When I last wrote, my wife was going through a mental health crisis. Although the crisis has receded, the struggles continue. At one point, her ADHD diagnosis was a glimmer of hope. We knew what the issue was, so now we could fix it, right? Unfortunately, no. She tried medication after medication and nothing seemed to work. She became more anxious, more irritable. I became more despondent. Will nothing ever get better? She is working on it, and I am working on it. Sometimes it feels like we will get through it, and other times it feels like a treadmill.

In this time of darkness, our children have been bright spots. Pidge has come into her own, strongly advocating for her likes and clearly articulating her desires and needs. She is the femmest of femme, preferring all things pink and sparkly and girly. She asks us to refer to her as Lady. She started dance in the late fall, and fell in love. This June we had the pleasure of watching her perform three numbers in her very first recital. She was amazing! I played the role of Stage Mom, helping all the little ladybugs out onto the stage.

Piper has grown like a weed. She went from infant to toddler seemingly overnight. She is feisty and funny, resilient and confident. You would never know that she has spent her entire babyhood under lockdowns and shutdowns and fear and with everyone around her in masks. She is a firecracker and makes us smile every day.

More light: the vaccine. Vermont has now vaccinated 80% of its eligible population and I am hopeful that means that we’re pulling out of this. I feel cautious optimism, which I am thankful for. It would be easy, very very easy, to let myself get pulled down in the fear of additional strains and other people’s vaccine hesitancy. But I just can’t do that. Not now. I have to have some hope. Of course, that hope is tempered with reasonable risk mitigation. We are not dining indoors and I am careful where we travel with the children. But there comes a time that we need to balance physical needs with mental health needs, and our high vaccination rates and low infection rates make that possible.

As the vaccine has become available and more has opened up, we have been able to spend time with extended family. To be honest, it’s been a bit of a mixed bag. We had a very pleasant visit with my parents in Florida. It was nice to get into the sunshine and the pool. A few weeks ago, my wife’s parents came to visit. It was a surprisingly difficult visit, where all parties felt judged. We couldn’t pinpoint what the problem was, but we felt it. We felt it deeply. It was heartbreaking to have such a strained visit because we knew that we would not see them again for at least six months or more. And yet, we could change it.

I tried to process what went wrong in therapy because (hooray!) I finally have a therapist. I think what it boils down to is this: my wife and I have some serious childhood trauma. Some of it is religious trauma, and some of it stems from the culture in which we were raised – a culture that focuses on body image and shame and guilt. My wife and I have worked tirelessly to escape that history and to build a new life together, insulated from much of the harmfulness of our pasts. We have chosen to live in the least religious state in the nation, and the state with the least amount of materialism. We don’t discuss weight and calories. We try to protect ourselves and our children. Having my wife’s parents here felt somewhat like a security breach. Suddenly, that trauma came flooding back. Suddenly there were discussions about disliking bodies and avoiding calories and “fat.” There was yelling and “sternness” directed at the children. I felt terrified and defensive and protective for my children. I don’t know what to do. They aren’t going to change, but these interactions are just so triggering. I’m scared for myself and for my children. What will we do if my in-laws actually fulfill their goal of moving to the area?

Another new development: I’m pregnant! Our family is overjoyed. In an ideal world, we probably would have spaced out the kids a little more. But I’m getting old and I don’t want to be much older before I have another baby. My wife and I (and Pidge!) really want a big family. Of course, we are getting grief about it from our families. They told us we were being selfish. My wife’s grandmother and aunt refuse to acknowledge the pregnancy. It is hurtful. My parents are excited, and my wife’s parents are starting to get excited, too. They all got more excited when they found out that we are having a boy. I don’t know why that makes a difference to them, and to be honest, it felt a bit patriarchal. I am looking forward to having a son (until and unless he tells us that he is really our daughter, which of course we would support), but I am also a little intimidated by the idea. I feel like I don’t know or understand men or boys at all. My whole world is women. But, I’m sure I can figure it out and I’m sure that I’ll adore our little guy. He will be OUR little guy after all.

All that is to say, there has been a lot going on. And there have been so many feelings about it all that I’ve been a bit stifled in my ability to convey it all. This has led me to not write at all. But I don’t want that. I want to document this fleeting and impossible time of new parenthood. I want to get back to writing. Hopefully, this is my start.

Black Hole.

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She couldn’t get out of bed. She just couldn’t. From the other room, I could hear tears. Sometimes muffled, sometimes heavy, heaving sobs.

It had been a slow descent. Slow, then rapid. Ever since Piper was born, ever since the pandemic, ever since quarantine, my wife had been slowly falling apart. She was caring for both Pidge and Piper full-time while also trying to write her grad school thesis. She was emotionally worn and physically worn. I tried to assist with the kids, but between my two jobs, I had very little to offer. We needed help, and we had no one to help.

I reached out to my in-laws, but they couldn’t do it. I reached out to my parents, but they wouldn’t do it. I reached out to my sister who wanted to do it, but whose job didn’t let her. We. Had. No. One. And my wife couldn’t keep on.

When she was diagnosed with ADHD in July, we were surprised. But she’s not hyper. Isn’t ADHD the diagnosis that applies to those little boys who bounce off the walls? With a little research we learned that there is another type of ADHD, an inattentive type, that can be equally disruptive if not more so. Once we learned a little bit about it, it explained so much. It explained why my wife has consistently struggled with hyper-focus and then an inability to fulfill commitments. It explained her short-term memory glitches. It explained her periodic self-loathing. It explained my frustration with her apparent lack of tenacity, discipline, or will power.

We got excited. Maybe once we treated the ADHD, she would be able to function again. She went to the doctor. He told her that he really wanted to put her on one type of medication, but that our insurance would not cover it until she had tried a different type. He did not want to put her on the different type. But here in America, insurance is King, so we went with the different type.

It was terrible.

And my wife was devastated.        

Not only did she not feel better, she felt worse. Her heart palpitated. She was agitated. She couldn’t focus. She would have periods of productivity punctuated by big crashes or fits of rage. The hope she had was smashed, and she grew depressed. Very depressed.

She stopped being able to care for the kids. I attended Zoom meetings and phone conferences while bouncing Piper on my knee and exposing Pidge to way more screen time than I felt comfortable with. I was just trying to hold on. We feared that my wife would have to check in somewhere. And we still had no help.

We called the doctor again. He took her off the meds and put her on a new one for depression. It seems to be helping some. We are no longer in the black hole we were in, where nothing and everything surrounded us all at once. But we are still struggling.

We are trying to make it all work. It will work. It has to work.

But I don’t know how.

You and Me

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To my beautiful wife:

Here we are in our last days of being just you and me. In a few short weeks, we will be three. I am excited to meet our baby and to embark on this next stage of life with you. I am also a little nervous and a little sad that our time as a team of two is ending. It’s bittersweet.

I remember the first day I met you after several weeks of chatting online. We were both university students. You had recently discovered your interest in women and when you saw that my online profile stated that I was interested in both women and men, you sought me out. Little did you know that I was still in the closet, and that I had only expressed an interest in women because I was new to social media and didn’t understand the implications of my selections. When prompted about my interests I had thought, Of course I want to be friends with both women and men! Oh, that naivety. But then we met. In person. In Geology class. You were turning in your homework and I timed my approach to the front of the room so that we coincided. I looked at you and you smiled. Sharply, shyly. You looked away and quickly shuffled out of the room.

I invited you to the campus Queer-Straight Alliance meeting. You were there as queer. I was an ally.

“Hi,” I said. I introduced myself and explained who I was.

“Hey,” you said (trying to play it cool). “I know who you are.”

We sat on the floor and you hugged your knees to your chest. I sprawled on the dirty carpet, half paying attention to the meeting, half looking at your gorgeous curling hair, your soft blue eyes, your awkward cuteness, your many string bracelets.

You and I became fast friends. We did everything together. We spent time at the river, we organized demonstrations for women’s rights, we marched in the streets over the unjust outcome of California’s gay marriage ban. We laughed. We ate. We drank wine. I came out as a lesbian.

We moved in together as friends, as roommates. Early mornings we would walk to the fish pond, drink coffee and discuss books. We recited Richard Brautigan poems. “Your Catfish Friend” was a favorite.

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge

of my affection
and think, “It’s beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,”
I’d love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,

and ask yourself, “I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them.”

Then one night we became close. Very close. We held one another and found a new version of the love we always had for each other. The sky cracked and rain began to fall.

“Come on,” I said, dragging you outside. We basked in the summer rain together, smiles spreading across our dripping faces. “This is a good omen.”

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Days turned into months, months turned into years. I am going to marry this woman, I thought. I bought a ring.

We took a trip to New York City. At the time, we were living out west. I remember being nervous about how I was going to get the ring onto the plane. I didn’t want to put it in my checked luggage, but I was also unsure whether airport security would search my carry-on luggage or whether it would trigger the metal detector. The last thing I wanted to do was propose in an airport! I sewed a little pouch into the pocket of my coat and placed the ring inside. I remember breathing a huge sigh of relief when it made it through!

We got engaged in Central Park on a little bridge. I had never seen you smile so brightly. Your radiance stood in stark contrast to the gray New York sky. It was early spring and the trees were just beginning to bud. You adorned your hair with little pink flowers. I took photo after photo. I could not get enough of you.

We were married in 2012 in a beautiful field in Vermont. It was just you and me. It was perfect.

We recited an e.e. cummings poem at our wedding:

if everything happens that can’t be done
(and anything’s righter
than books
could plan)
the stupidest teacher will almost guess
(with a run
skip
around we go yes)
there’s nothing as something as one

one hasn’t a why or because or although
(and buds know better
than books
don’t grow)
one’s anything old being everything new
(with a what
which
around we come who)
one’s everyanything so

so world is a leaf so a tree is a bough
(and birds sing sweeter
than books
tell how)
so here is away and so your is a my
(with a down
up
around again fly)
forever was never till now

now i love you and you love me
(and books are shuter
than books
can be)
and deep in the high that does nothing but fall
(with a shout
each
around we go all)
there’s somebody calling who’s we

we’re anything brighter than even the sun
(we’re everything greater
than books
might mean)
we’re everyanything more than believe
(with a spin
leap
alive we’re alive)
we’re wonderful one times one

These past five years together have been a journey through laughter, love, home buying, daytrips, bonfires, hikes and swims, activism, snuggles, but most of all, joy. We spend our evenings sipping red wine and dancing in the kitchen, the aroma of cast-iron cooking in the air. We ski in the winter, snow and sharp air biting our faces. We come home and soak together in the warm tub, caressing one another, inhaling the sweet smell of each other’s skin.

Soon there will be another person to love. A new sweet smell. New soft skin. I cannot wait to meet her, to hold her, to nurse her. I cannot wait to share the love we have with her. She will be my second love.

You are my first. You are my first great love. I will always think back on these past eight years with fondness. I hope to cherish these few remaining days – days where it’s still just you and me. Because one day, before we know it, in the blink of an eye, there will be three of us.

I am looking forward to that day. I am eager for it to arrive. But in these final precious weeks, I want to focus on you.

I want to love you more than you’ve ever been loved before.

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Banned & Bound

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Picture1Edit

WARNING! Banned Books! Three words painted on the papered-up window of a bookshop in Portland, Oregon. Large and red, a deliberate exaggeration. In the center of the covered window was an opening. I had to look. I had to. Maybe it was my fascination with literature that was once considered immoral, illegal, or obscene. Or maybe it was the rebel in me. I walked up to that window and I peered in. I looked to the left and I looked to the right. Two-tiered shelves of familiar titles: The Catcher in the Rye, To Kill A Mockingbird, Beloved. Books that shaped this country. Books that shaped my life.

I remember seeking out those edgy books as an adolescent. At times I would pull one out and read in public, wanting to be seen. Mostly I would read in my bedroom, seeking solitude and privacy for those intimate moments where I was drawn into the storyline or drawn to the characters or when I saw reflections of myself drawn on the pages. The author’s candor spurred self-awareness. I found comfort, support, and understanding. I found pleasure. Formerly banned books not only helped me to discover myself, but also allowed me to realize new and exciting ways of being.

I see marriage as a collection of essays, ours newly printed. Her stories, my stories. Stitched together with string and glue, love and tradition. Single and flimsy at the beginning, but over time our collection grows stronger, thicker, and more enmeshed. Harder to tear apart. Harder to ignore. And like banned books, there is a realness to our story. There is a rawness. I find myself experiencing a new awakening, a new way of being, a story that is all mine but somehow more. Ours. Marriage has brought me companionship and intimacy. It is safe space to be vulnerable. It is the sharing of my dreams. It is seeing myself reflected in her—not because we are the same, but because she brings out the real me.

If marriages were books, I would have seen mine that day in Oregon, situated somewhere among the rows of those prohibited texts. Published in Vermont in 2012, my partner and I were bound together in one of the few states willing to recognize our story—to see its value, to appreciate its merit. I looked into the window’s opening once again and I imagined my marriage there, spine to spine with Radclyffe Hall’s The Well of Loneliness, at once illustrating both how far we have come and how much further we have to go.

Fear and misplaced morality created a culture where artistic works were censored or forbidden, where marriages like mine were illegal. There are still some who denounce same-sex marriage, wanting to censor our existence, seeking to quash our story. They push back against the recognition of love as love. Of love as justice. Of love as equality. They are reluctant to acknowledge the unpublished volumes that have existed for centuries—the truth and the beauty that has moved out of the shadows and into the libraries. Once-banned books now accessible. Once-forbidden marriages now possible in all fifty states.

In reading banned books, my world expanded in ways I never thought possible. Marriage has been a similar experience. I am growing and learning. In finding someone else, I have also found myself. We write our story together, page by page, chapter by chapter. She and I. Her and me. Once banned, now bound.

And I could read her every day.