The Hard Bits of Being Married

I love my husband dearly, but his emotions are too strong. He feels too deeply. He wants too much. He is admittedly what I wanted in a husband on many levels, but now that I have him, my mind is (occasionally) exhausted by the desires of my own heart.

Who did I marry? Why did I marry? Why am I even still married?

I know my husband is a good guy, a great guy in fact. But, he isn’t always a great guy to me. In my own mind’s eye, he is, at times, unbearable. He is annoying and sometimes I want to be alone more than I want to be married.

Photo by Dc Lovensky  on Unsplash

But the truth is, I would feel this way if I married any number of other guys roaming this planet or some interesting alternate universe. It’s me. Some women are self destructively co-dependent. I, however, hoover on the polar opposite end of the spectrum. Being married is an exercise of faith: I die to self daily.

Marriage was optional for me, I didn’t have all these idolatrous views about the institution. I didn’t need it to feel whole and defined as a woman or person. But, I met a man that I wanted more than my own selfishness. I found a love that one could easily write sonnets about. But, that doesn’t mean that I fully stopped being a bit of a loner and an occasional introvert.

He isn’t an automaton (Jane Eyre anyone); I can’t just activate him when I want to be a wife and deactivate him when I want to be selfish. He has emotional needs, even when I am unable or unwilling to provide them, and that is (one of) the hard bits of being married. That I am a selfish creature fighting like hell to occasionally get out of my own head and be selfless for the man I made so many matrimonial and spiritual promises to.

My desire to be alone, to live independently of the responsibility for the happiness and corresponding needs of another—must be confronted and conquered. Not all desires will lead to a happy journey or happy ending, sometimes you find yourself wanting and even believing things that will only lead to you being the antagonist of your own life’s story. At my worst, I’m my own wicked witch and evil step-mother.

The part of me that itches for an empty bed—must remind myself of the euphoria of feeling his rhythmic breath tickling my neck in the darkest of nights. The part of me that is exhausted with the seemingly endless communication of emotions also revels in the fathomless and riveting depths of some of our most poignant tête-à-têtes about life, religion or politics. The part of me that is annoyed with having to abandon my past-time preference for endless novels or bath-less Netflix marathons, must be reminded that what I’m doing instead—being a partner to a man with a simultaneous capacity for such greatness and kindness and living my own epic narrative—is a better past-time.