“So, how would you characterize the state of your marriage? What transpired?” Every time someone inquires about my marriage or my divorce, I take a moment of pause. Within that subtle pause, I contemplate the repercussions of giving a complete response. I weigh it against the consequences of silence. I could disclose the discovery of a postcard, hidden in my husband’s work bag, addressed to a woman in another state – a place he had been visiting for business. I could discuss the exorbitant amount of money I’ve spent on lawyers, therapy, and dental work (due to teeth grinding), as well as the meager hours I sleep each night. However, if I only sleep a few hours, at least my teeth grinding is limited to a few hours. I could delve into how a lie is more detrimental than the truth it masks. I could delve into the concept of losing the security provided by a marriage, but also the expansiveness of the world uncovered without that security, the vastness of the sky. “Sometimes, people simply grow apart,” is my go-to response. I flash a smile and take a sip of water. Next question.
In 2015, three years prior to realizing that my marriage was coming to an end, I sat in a coffee shop and penned a poem on a legal pad – as most of my poems often begin. It started with the phrase, “Life is short, though I keep this from my children,” and transformed into a piece exploring my fears and hopes for my children, as well as the complex world into which I had brought them – a world that possessed both beauty and horrors intertwined. I titled it “Good Bones.”
The poem was later published online in the journal Waxwing in June of the following year – coinciding with the tragic Pulse nightclub massacre in Orlando and the murder of MP Jo Cox in England. The poem went viral. Reporters inundated me with emails, social media messages, and phone calls.
Meanwhile, I was a parent to two children, aged three and seven. Above all else, I was known as their mother – a title that suited me just fine. Even after the poem gained widespread attention, I remained hidden, skillfully disguised as one of the least noticeable creatures on this planet: a middle-aged mother.
I felt that my husband viewed my writing work as an interruption to my domestic duties. My occasional travels had been a sore point in our marriage even before “Good Bones” went viral, but the requests for my participation in speaking engagements kept increasing because of the poem’s success. I would spend a couple of days here, a few days there, and occasionally be away for a week-long workshop. However, the majority of my time was spent at home.
Whenever I received invitations to give a reading, attend a conference, or partake in a book festival, it meant that I would be unavailable. Even if I arranged playdates for the kids after school or ensured that my parents would be there until he returned from work, questions would linger. Who would pack the school lunches? Who would drop them off in the morning? Who would make sure their favorite pajamas were clean for “pj and stuffy day” at school? And – the constant worry – what if one of them fell ill and couldn’t go to school? This constituted “extra work” for him and an additional emotional burden as well, since, as the self-employed parent, I had always handled these responsibilities. Meanwhile, what would I be doing? Reading poems, conducting workshops, attending dinners, speaking in front of an audience during interviews? Maybe it was considered “business,” but it gave off an air of pleasure more than anything else.
After returning from a trip, there were no inquiries about how the trip went or expressions of joy that it went well. I didn’t feel missed as a person; I felt missed as a member of the household staff.
When my husband traveled for work, I eagerly anticipated his return – especially if the kids were sick or I had my own pressing deadlines. However, I was accustomed to extinguishing daily fires on my own. On the other hand, when I would call home from a trip, I distinctly remember feeling like I was in trouble. I had made his life more challenging, and I might face the silent treatment or a cold reception upon my return. There were no questions like, “How was your trip?” No congratulations or expressions of missing me. I didn’t feel missed as a person; I felt missed as a staff member. My hidden labor became painfully visible when I stepped outside of the house. I was expected to return to my post.
It’s erroneous to view one’s life as a plot, but there are signs everywhere. When my husband introduced me at the release party for my second book of poems, “The Well Speaks of Its Own Poison,” back in 2015, I stood to the side of the stage with my arm around our daughter, holding her close. While he spoke kind words about me, I couldn’t help but think, “Huh.” His public praise of me and my writing felt different from his attitude at home.
Now I recall that moment in that room, with all those people observing. They probably thought, “He is so proud of her. They seem so content together.”
Initially, I didn’t confide in anyone about the postcard. I desired to salvage my marriage while keeping the need for salvation a secret. That’s some serious first-born daughter energy right there.
Approximately a month after discovering the postcard, my husband and I began attending marriage counseling sessions. I withheld the information about the postcard from the counselor, as if not speaking of it aloud would keep it in the realm of the unreal. The recipient of the postcard wasn’t the issue, after all; she was merely a symptom. So what was the problem? My work was the problem. I was the problem – my travels for readings, workshops, and conferences. This wasn’t part of the agreement, although I was unaware that we had made any agreement.
What would I have done to rescue my marriage? I would have sacrificed myself. I would have continued doing so if he had let me.
Before we became a couple, my husband and I first connected as friends in a creative writing workshop during university. I believe this fact epitomizes the underlying tension in our marriage, especially in the final years. I worked as a writer and editor, while he pursued a career as an attorney. Whenever I received positive news related to my writing – a publication, a grant, an invitation – I sensed an inward wince from him. Consequently, I ceased sharing good news. I shrank myself, folded into a tight origami figure. I canceled or declined upcoming events, essentially saying, “See? I’m willing to do anything to make this marriage work.”
What would I have done to rescue my marriage? I would have abandoned myself, and I did, for a time. I would have persisted even longer if he had permitted.
After returning from our final family vacation, we sat side by side in the marriage counselor’s office. According to my husband’s account, we had gone to the beach with our children, and I refrained from playing in the waves with the family.
From my perspective, the use of the word “never” was an exaggeration. “Rarely” would have been more accurate.
I replied, “I didn’t want to be near him. I was too sad.”
What I kept to myself: I contemplated thoughts of death on a constant basis. Not necessarily dying, but disappearing. Poof. I had no desire to die, but I yearned for relief. I desired respite from the overwhelming emotions that plagued me. I carried that burden with me to the coast, unsure of how to confront it.
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