Reckless Poet

Reflections on a Broken Marriage

With tears dripping constantly and deep yearning for an opportunity to heartache, I sat in my living room and watched the cherry blossoms as if perhaps they could be a sign of hope. As the rain slowly sang its lament, my grieving soul silently howled to the unseen moon and wished for a chance to feel, to touch, to know the presence of another.

She did leave me. But it wasn’t so sudden that I felt the slap on the face. There were two years of barely knowing the one I should know. Of working hard, so hard, to bring out life from her in my presence, as if the very state of my being was enough to hide her away in her tiny egg-shell walls to protect her from some brutish man’s clumsiness.

How did it happen? I get that one a lot. The problem is, the story could be spinned as many ways as you’d like. Maybe it was my oafish behaviour, or lack of love and patience. Maybe it was the fact she started spending more time with other men, laughing at their jokes and listening to their stories, all the while growing more disgruntled with having to listen to mine. Maybe it started at the beginning, when she said, “yes.”

I asked her, “Why’d you say, ‘yes.’?” She didn’t have a good answer. Something about youthful infatuation and foolish rushing in, because she didn’t really love me, only thought she did. That’s not what I thought, I said, but what good is my opinion anyway.

Or I wonder if it happened around four years in, when she started holding herself back from me. I remember it well, that day. It all had started so innocently. For the first couple of years into things, she’d been criticizing me up, left, and centre, until finally one day she said, “Enough! I’m not going to change you. And I don’t want to be the nagging wife.” And it was like she suddenly relaxed far more than I might have dreamed.

And we had a great time.

That was year three. We laughed a lot that year. Spent time together. Argued occasionally, but nothing like at the beginning. We were truly happy. But then, all those issues she’d had with me came back. And whereas at first she’d just let go of them, didn’t want to be the nagging wife and all that, now she repressed her opinion. Didn’t even bring them up, because she didn’t think she was supposed to or something.

I remember that day when I noticed. I noticed that she was withholding herself. She wasn’t giving the full person to the dance, and I knew it. I think I said something, but really, I knew that for her to fully dive in it would mean she’d start criticizing me, and who wants that? So I allowed this to happen, this chasm between us to begin.

She stopped liking me around then. And I felt it. I felt like I was living with someone who was being forced to be there, and I wanted out. I wanted divorce. When I told my friend, he said, “How much do you trust God?” and I got angry. What the hell does God have to do with this? But when I prayed, I started remembering how He likes things like marriage and covenant and commitment, and I remembered how He’d helped me decide to marry her in the first place. But this sucks! I ranted. Why does it have to be like this? And popping into my head, as I walked along the beach near our apartment, were the words, “You are not your own. You have been bought at a price.” Ahh, yes. I had forgotten. I am not my own.

So I decided that since I was going to stick this conundrum out, I’d do my best to love her. Five years of that still wasn’t enough. Maybe my idea of love was too shallow, or weak, inadequate, selfish, narrow, or just plain simple. It didn’t work.

The last couple of years were the worst. I felt dried up and useless inside. Wondered why I bothered with this mockery they call life. Hoped someone might crash their SUV into me and end it sooner so that I could move on to greater things. I wished I could be loved, no, liked, and to find someone who’d recognize love when it was plomped right in front of her.

I bought some plants last month. Over the last few years we’d let all the other ones die. But I bought them and I water them carefully every Tuesday and Friday, eight seconds of pouring from the green spout for each one. I don’t know their names or heritage, but they are living here in my home, and I take good care of them. It’s not like I stare at them, as I sit at home and cry and listen to the sad songs to get my heartache rolling again. But they do keep me company. I must pay attention to them or they will die. All of us need to pour ourselves into some life, or we too will die. Like those plants we’d killed, we need to water and be watered. Host and be hosted. Give and receive. Love and be loved.

Or we die.