What a slack little blogger I've been. Months and months without a blog post - slay me! In a world seemingly filled with addicted daily bloggers, I'm not much in comparison. A post here, a post there - whenever the mood strikes me.
But I've actually had a really good reason for being so slack. The subject matter of this blog centres around the sad, slow destruction of my marriage. And, for the avid readers (all two of you), this blog became kind of unnecessary. Because, you see, as of early August, The Husband and I have been Back Together.
It all happened at my little boy's birthday party. The Husband had a football game and was late to the party - no big deal, as I had urged him to go. Because, if I didn't, I was worried about what moodiness and darkness would be cast over my otherwise peaceful household. So he went, then joined myself, my boys, and ten of our youngest's little friends at the local skating rink. So far so usual.
But then, amidst the chips and lollies, and the birthday cake, and my little boy whizzing around the rink on his new skates, something happened that hadn't happened for seven-and-a-half years. The Husband smiled. Voluntarily. For no reason, other than he was happy. That doesn't sound so strange does it? For most people, I hope it doesn't. But, for The Husband, it was very strange behaviour indeed. It was behaviour - welcome I might add - that had been missing for our family for so long. So naturally, I was a little taken aback. Waiting for the bubble to burst. Waiting for the moodiness and the anger that have been his constant modus operandi for so long, to take over and plunge us all back into misery.
But then a funny thing happened. We came home, and a guy who had bought a single bed from me on eBay came to pick it up. We both helped him load it into his truck, he paid his money, he smiled and waved, and he was gone. And as I went to hand The Husband the money - money being one of his great bugbears, and I owed him for something he'd bought earlier that week - he smiled, laughed, touched my cheek, and said, "No, you keep it."
To those of you in normal, functioning relationships, this kind of behaviour doesn't seem odd. In fact, I bet you're waiting for the "funny thing" to happen. But that's just it. He laughed. He smiled. He willingly offered affection that was in no way related to sex. He let me keep the hundred bucks that I owed him. And it floored me.
But then, this new behaviour continued. For the next day, and the next day. There was kindness in his voice. There was understanding towards the kids. There was laughter. There was gratitude. In fact, the guy that I married, who had disappeared so many years ago, was suddenly back, with his sweetness, and his thoughtfulness, and all the reasons why I chose him in the first place. A miracle had occurred. Prayers had been answered. The Husband was back from the dead.
So it was with trepidation that I decided to put my proposal of reconciliation to him in a text message. Yes it's the coward's way out, but I was so fearful of rejection that I figured that would be the easy route. I wouldn't have to see his face flicker into pity should he decide to reject me. So I shot off a text message to him - "You have been so different this last couple of days. I would like to try to work things out if you are willing." I hit 'Send'. And then it was out there, hurtling from phone tower to phone tower, my destiny in its tiny digital hands.
After an hour, I thought, 'well, I guess he still wants to separate. Oh well. It was worth a try.' Then, a little later, he responded. "I'm floored. What's brought this on?" How do I tell someone that they're back from the dead? That the cloak of misery and anger they've been torturing you with for the best part of a decade has seemingly been lost, and the love of my life has risen, Lazarus-style? I can't even remember what I texted back - but the upshot was, we chatted that night, and agreed to give it a try. It was worth trying anything for the sake of our family. Finally, what I had been praying for for seven years - hope was restored.
The week progressed, some affection was regained, shy smiles exchanged, in so many ways it was like the beginnings of our courtship all over again. And then came the final (or so I thought at the time) piece to the puzzle. The Husband had arranged some weeks before to have dinner with an old mate, a good mate, but one who lives far away so we don't get to see him and his wife as often as we'd like. Now, I don't know all that was said at that dinner - but crazily enough, The Friend suggested to The Husband something I'd been suggesting for a long time - that he suck it up and go see a counsellor.
I firmly believe everyone - EVERYONE - has crap that they can't sort through for themselves. Counselling should be a compulsory part of life - like getting a Tax File Number (that's a Social Security number to you Americans). It should be that you register for tax, and get a few appointments with a counsellor thrown in just to sift through and rise above the shit that life throws at all of us. But some people - most notably, in this case, The Husband - see counselling as a sign of weakness. His constant excuse - "I don't want to tell my problems to strangers." Well, you know what? I would settle for him telling his problems to ANYONE. Because the man has issues. Deep, dark, damaging issues - issues that have brought our marriage to the brink. And FINALLY, someone OTHER than the nagging wife says to him, "I think you really need to see a counsellor."
Well, at last, it seemed that the penny finally dropped. Hallelujah. A door was opened. Insight gained. Counselling was NOT sought - "we can't afford it" was the latest excuse - but at least he ACKNOWLEDGED that he was in need of help. What an enormous obstacle had been overcome. We were on the path of healing. Anything was possible.
And so, we began our second honeymoon.
There was joy. There was affection - willingly given I might add. There was hand-holding. Kissing. Hugging. Couch time. TV shows were watched. Movies were discussed. There was sex. Lots and lots of really good sex. Kids were paid attention to. Smiles abounded all around. The kids were over the moon at their parents' reconciliation. All was right with the world.
And yet, my instinct kept telling me it was all about to burst.
In some things, I am a mighty slow learner. For years I have been ignoring my instinct, and bulldozing its tiny voice with rationality and assumptions. Business deals that have gone wrong, that my instinct told me wouldn't work, but I proceeded anyway. People who backstabbed and hurt me, who I pursued a friendship with, and confided in, despite my instinct telling me they were just a little bit mental. Jobs that, in some part of my brain, I knew were not right for me, but I chased after them anyway, only to be let down in the end. It's been a long journey for me to learn to trust my instinct. Even now, 3 months shy of turning 40, I have a hard time trusting my instinct over other empirical data.
But one thing I have learned. Over the 4 decades of my life, I can be pretty sure, despite my logical arguments to the contrary, that if my instinct tells me a bubble is about to burst, it's almost always right. And as it turns out, this bubble was the most fragile of all.
