Tag: marriage

Posted in Life, Love, marriage, Uncategorized

Tulips and Off-road Diesel

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“What are you thinking about?” I asked my husband, as we were driving home last summer after a day of playing outside in the Maine woods. Full of sunshine and fresh air, our bodies were comfortably heavy while our minds were clear, and we’d both been quiet on our way home from a trip “up-north.” But after 15 minutes of daydreaming, I was suddenly curious to know what he was seeing in his mind’s eye. “Off-road diesel,” he answered immediately, eyes still on the road. I turned my head to him as I laughed out loud, and a slow smile spread over his face as he slid his eyes in my direction. “What?” he asked shrugging, as confused by my reaction as he was pleased to hear me laugh. “Want to know what I was just thinking about?” I asked, and continued before he could answer, “I was thinking about tulips!” We both laughed then, mostly I think, about how different we are.

We fell silent again, and still a few miles from home, I had time to reflect on our differences, as I thought about the day we’d just spent together. We’d rode the four-wheeler on some old logging roads, stopping occasionally when one of us would spot something worth investigating up close. Sometimes, it would be a stream with large rocks as our only bridge to the other side, and he’d insist on going first to make sure the rocks were stable enough to land on, then turn back to offer me a steadying hand. Sometimes, one of us would spot the ruins of an old farmhouse foundation and since we both love a good treasure hunt, we’d stop and dig through piles of broken glass, hoping to unearth an unbroken antique bottle. And if I found one, he’d insist on pulling it out of the ground so I wouldn’t cut myself. I thought about the preparations necessary to even go on such an adventure, involving ramps and ratchet straps, tire plug kits and portable battery chargers, all things I rarely even mention, let alone ever, in a million years use. He knows about things that I don’t know about, he knows about off-road diesel.

But, he knows about tulips too; he can plant them, tend them, cut them, surprise me with them, and arrange them. He also knows how to build a house, sell it, and clean it. He can catch a meal, and cook it. I’ve also seen him sew (cloth, and on one memorable occasion when we were young and poor, his own hand! It worked!). He can walk around patting a colicky baby’s back for hours and make the best omelettes ever. He knows how to do things, but I know how to express things.

I can turn a conversation into a story, a memory into a paragraph. I can remember what was said, when we said it, where we were standing and sometimes, what we were wearing (although I’m quite confident that this whole statement will garner an objection from my husband when I read this post to him!). I can remember how I felt, imagine how someone else felt and put it down on paper. But I don’t know anything know about off-road diesel, I thought to myself, suddenly feeling panicky. A quick google search just as we pulled into the driveway reassured me I actually did know what that was, I just didn’t know I did. Just as there are things that I bring to our relationship that I might not know, I bet he knows, as I know the things he brings.

We are as differently shaped as two pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. Our outer edges don’t match up and trying to fit those parts together would never work, there would be nothing to hold the two pieces together. But, the inside pieces fit perfectly and easily. The colors, although slightly different, compliment each other so that when they are joined, become one. Both of us a small part of the big picture, just as God intended us to be.

Last night I was in bed when I realized that my lips felt uncomfortably dry and I found myself in the ultimate first-world conundrum – I felt desperate for some relief for my lips, but I was already cozy and perfectly positioned for a good night’s sleep and didn’t want to get up. Just when I thought I’d actually have to get out of bed, my hero arrived, and in the nick of time. He had come upstairs to give me a goodnight kiss but I seized the opportunity and asked him to grab me “some lip stuff” from my bathroom. “It’s to the right of the sink,” I reassured him as a look of uncertainty flashed across his face since he rarely goes in my bathroom. I could hear him rummaging through lipsticks, lip glosses, lip-stains, pencils, chap-stick and two lip balms, yet he emerged victoriously a few seconds later. “You use this little tub thing at night, right?” he said handing it to me with a smile on his face. “Yeah, I do.” I said as I reached up for it, smiling back at him, while inside I thought, “tulips.”

Posted in Life, Love, marriage

Light (A Dystopian Fairy Tale)

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away…

The land was dusty and dry, the sky red. They marched together, down a straight path toward a destination only their spirits knew. They knew they must keep moving toward the great light ahead. It’s purity beckoned them forward and they were pulled like magnets toward it’s sweet promise of rest and beauty. They knew this barren land was not their home; there was little comfort there. Instinctively they knew that they must not deviate, they must not let go, they must march together, and they must stay on the path.

They were focused and determined at first. Their faces were set toward the light and they broke their intense gaze only occasionally, and only to turn to each other to exchange a sweet smile of encouragement. Her gown was gauzy and light, and blew behind her as she walked. Her feet were bare, and her step was light. She wore a backpack stuffed full of joy, hope and devotion. And sometimes she was so happy she skipped like a child, while he smiled fondly and indulgently at her. His boots were sturdy and he was dressed for battle. He had pockets where he kept his weapons and a canteen on his hip. He had a backpack too; it was chock full of love, loyalty, and protection. His hands were rough, but held hers gently.

They were not tired, they were not thirsty. They had each other and they were sure of their mission, although they did not know what they would find when they got there. And although the weather had been calm, a sudden gust of wind tugged at her dress, and threatened to pull her way, but his grip on her tightened and her feet come back to the dusty earth. She smiled up at at him, unaware that a bit of joy had spilled out of her bag. He smiled back, but a creeping vine reached out and wrapped around his foot, nearly tripping him. He stumbled, and nearly fell, but her small hand gave him just enough stability to right himself, although when he did, a little love leaked out of the side of his backpack. Unaware of what they’d lost, they smiled at each other and marched on, but not before they stopped to pick up two beautiful pebbles as keepsakes.

They pressed on, although they were wary now as they saw it was not as easy as they had initially thought. For the first time, her gaze swept from side to side, instead of looking straight ahead at the light. She was looking for danger and she found it, although to her, it was not scary at all. It looked like a puppy floundering in a pond just off the path to her right. She started to pull away from him, and go off the path to help the pitiful thing, but he held fast. He did not see a puppy, he saw a wolf, and it was not in distress, it was nashing it’s teeth as she strained to go rescue it. He pulled her back, a little more roughly than he’d meant to, before she could go any closer, and together they continued, a trail of joy and hope staining the ground behind her, while loyality and protection ran down his leg and out of his boot. And although angry with each other, they both stopped at the same time to collect more beautiful pebbles scattered in front of them.

They continued on, but they were beginning to feel weighted down. Her feet were not as light as they once were, and she had no energy to skip. His feet felt hot and heavy, and he did not smile at her. Even her dress hung limply around her ankles and they were both vaguely aware that the pebbles they had collected were beginning to feel heavy, while the reassuring weight they’d always felt in their backs was uncomfortably light. Trudging on toward the light, following the path set before them, they heard a sound behind them, bearing down on them like a freight train.

They turned to look, hands still clasped and saw that it was a tornado, far away still, but coming closer. Still looking over their shoulders, they saw the dry earth and tumbleweeds rise up to join the swirling air, which sucked everything in like a vacuum. The cyclone devoured the sky and obscured the light, and it was headed straight down the path and right for them.

She wanted to run, but her burdens were too heavy, he wanted to fight it, but his arms were full. It was coming closer, following their path and threatening to suck them both up. They realized that the only way to be safe was to leave the path, break apart, and dive to safety, each on their own sides. They took one final look at each other, as the noise from behind them became deafening, her hair and dress swirled around her as they nodded to each other that it was time to let go and save themselves.

But the wind that was threatening to blow them apart had also stirred the earth stained with hope, joy, devotion, protection, loyalty and love. The letters swirled around, becoming words, words became meaning and meaning became feeling. Her gifts were all mixed up with his, and showered down on them both, until it became theirs. And the power that tried to carry them away, had instead blown away the once beautiful pebbles, which had become ugly rocks over the years. Resentment, anger, hurt and sadness were wrestled from their arms, instantly swirling above their heads and sucked up in the abyss behind and over them.

Lighter than they’d felt in years, they looked at each other, hands still clasped, and saw that they were infused with each others strengths. No longer afraid, they laughed and started running together, wind nipping at their heels, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them that was absorbed into the whirlwind chasing them. It followed them the whole way, but did not devour them, because love covered them like a shield. It felt good to run together, unencumbered and free. His boots supported him, and her bare feet flew as her dress and hair fluttered behind her. They did not leave the path, they did not stop, until breathless and laughing, they finally reached the light.

He was waiting for them at the end of the path, glowing as the light behind Him spilled out around Him. They stopped short and looked up at Him. He was spotless and beautiful and smiling at them both. Their smiles faded as they looked down and saw that they were both shamefully filthy. Her dress was torn and her feet were dirty. His boots were covered in dust and his face had dirt smudges on it. They were suddenly embarrassed to show up at such a perfect place this way. Together they turned to leave. But He put a hand on their shoulders and kindly said, “what is in your backpacks?”

They were so used to carrying them, and they had gotten so light that they’d forgotten them. They slipped them off their shoulders and unzipped them and inside, much to their surprise, they found new clothes, without spot or rip. “They are for you, “ He said. “I’m giving them to you so that you can come with me.” They were stunned, and grateful. He turned and beckoned them to follow Him. She was suddenly happy, so happy that she skipped through the doors, behind Him, light as a feather in her spotless clothes. He smiled at her fondly as he dropped the dirty backpack at the doorway and entered too.

And they truly, lived happily ever after. The end.

Today is Armistice Day at my house. My husband of 28 years and I have come to an understanding, signed an agreement, and shook hands on it, in keeping with the original of 1918, but we also sealed it with a kiss, which may or may not have happened back then. Probably not.

Wait, Armistice? You might now be thinking, if you’re still reading. Isn’t that in November, and isn’t that what parents, or maybe grandparents used to say instead of Veteran’s day? And what is Armistice anyway? I had to google this one because I really wasn’t sure, just as I really wasn’t sure what I wanted to do about some long-standing, years-running arguments my husband and I have had that have recently resurfaced. There is no google for that answer, but it turns out that I didn’t need it…but I’ll get to that later.

Apparently our grandparents were right in calling November 11th (now known as Veteran’s Day) Armistice Day, because it marked the temporary cessation of armed conflict between the Allies, and Germany at the end of World War 1. The agreement was signed on the 11th hour, on the 11th day, of the 11th month and effectively brought hostilities to a close (although true history buffs will know that while the fighting ceased on that date, a formal peace agreement was reached when the Treaty of Versailles was signed on January 10th, 1920). Armistice Day was the first step, and a major one, in ending a world war. While this War(ners! HA!), is not of world proportions, we are not for nothing, known in previous posts as The Bickersons.

My compatriot and I have always fought the good fight, side by side for a long time, longer than many. We’ve always had each other’s backs, and still do, but there are times, in any relationship, when a guard can go up, and a mask takes the place of that precious face you know better than your own, so that you might not know who this person is. It can be hard to know who to love, and who to hate, and if you are not careful, and constantly on guard, suddenly you might find yourself attacking your beloved, and he you, as if you were enemies instead of soldiers in the same army.

My husband and I have found ourselves here before. We’ve revived old hurts we should have drowned decades ago. We’ve given CPR to betrayals stiff and cold with rigor mortis. We’ve pumped blood into the broken parts of our hearts to watch it squirt out grotesquely, and all just to flaunt to the other, “See?!? You’ve hurt me! You did this! YOU!” And so, we hurt them back. An eye for eye. A heart for a heart. And, sometimes it ends there. Not just the argument, all of it. I don’t fault anyone for that. I don’t blame those who can’t do it anymore. I’ve thought I might be there many times, including yesterday, until I had an idea as I traipsed through the Maine woods, while taking pictures of the autumn display of scarlet maples and amber birches.

I thought, if bull-headed nations can honor a peace treaty, and put the past to rest, why can’t two bull-headed people? Sometimes talking about the past can be helpful, but it has not proven to be beneficial for us, and after almost three decades of marriage I think we can, and should move on. So that is what we did today, on the 10th day, of the 10th month at 10:10 am. Will this work? I have no idea. But, I do know that God honors agreements, and that my comrade in arms and I will do our best to do the same.

Addendum: In typical bi-polar fashion we skipped the armistice portion and went right for the treaty. We really saw no reason to wait. Bam!

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Armistice Day

Quote• Posted on by Susannah Warner
Posted in mental health

The Bipolar Life of the Bipolar’s Wife

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have…the facts of life.” So went the opening song to a sit-com in the 80’s. The lyrics are true enough for life in general, but they really strike a cord for me, a bipolar’s wife.

Much has been said about bipolar, a genetic mood disorder. Generalizations and jokes are made all the time in a way that would never be tolerated in society today if they were about a race, or sexual orientation. Even I have laughed and referred to things as being “bipolar” including, but not limited to, my state’s fickle weather pattern. But, as a die-hard, full-fledged, longstanding supporter of this wonderful, horrible, manic-depressive club, I feel justified in making a few jokes about it. As the the saying goes, “you might as well laugh, as cry.” And, I have cried about it, a lot. But I’ve also laughed, a lot.

You see, to be married to someone who is bipolar, means that you have it too. Not in the sense that I literally do, because, as my husband has pointed out on a number of occasions, “you can go to work, or sleep, or leave, and get away from me. I cant, I’m stuck with myself all of the time.” Many times, when the strain threatens to break, rather than bend me, I have thought that same thing to myself, but in a different way. I’ve often thought, “as hard as this is, it’s easier to be me, than it is to be him. ” Because it is hard. There is a reason that bipolar carries a 20% mortality rate, and a whopping 90% divorce rate. It sucks sometimes, and it’s also fantastic sometimes.

Of course, there are the highs of bipolar that my friends see on social media; hikes, trips, spontaneous adventures, over the top expressions of love, even after 27 years of marriage. But, then there are the lows that most don’t see; accusations, paranoia, restlessness, physical pain, and shame. Such is the life of someone with bipolar, and inevitably, such is the life of the bipolar’s loved one.

There is a level of figurative tiptoeing around, that I do when the pendulum threatens to swing towards DOWN. It is instinctual, and it is at the height of gaiety and fun, that something inside me says that IT is coming. Warnings like, “You’re so UP right now, you need to make sure you’re getting enough sleep, that you are eating enough, and getting plenty of exercise,” are as useless as telling someone to be careful, when they leave the house. It changes nothing. No one is going to be more careful just because you reminded them to be, any more than he can change anything about his UPness. But, to not say it, seems like you are jinxing yourself and your loved one.

And then DOWN comes, like a violent summer storm disrupting your outdoor plans, bringing with it anger and sadness, accusations and guilt; a fierce Mr. Hyde, to his sweet Dr. Jekyll. It is a difficult time, and sometimes makes me wonder if it’s worth it, but what holds me still, is hope and faith that NORMAL will come again, a brief place of refreshment and rest before UP comes knocking, and it starts all over again.

Two weeks ago, my husband and I decided to take advantage of the beautiful Maine summer weather by hiking a coastal mountain about an hour away from us. The trip there was jovial and fun. We sang songs, joked with each other and pulled over to explore a place we spotted that we’d never seen before. We snapped pictures and decided to check it out fully when we had more time. We started the hike in good shape too. The roots and rocks were wet on the trail and at times slippery pine needles blanketed the ground. And although the trajectory was up, there are times when you’re hiking that switchbacks cause you to have sections that you must go down. In these spots, my husband always warned me to be careful, and reached back to offer a hand, as I’m not as surefooted a hiker as he is. Although stronger and faster than I, he solicitously kept my pace. And so we made our way to the top.

Glorious views of the Atlantic ocean, blanketed by pockets of morning mist covering parts of the coastal towns nestled in the harbors, greeted us at the top. Wanting a better look, I inched closer to the edges. “Be careful!” he warned, as concerned about my safety as a father would be with a toddler. He needn’t worry, I’m neither careless, nor without caution, particularly when heights are involved. He knows that, but warns me anyway, just as I warn him when the whirlwind of UP threatens to carry us all away.

At some point, the tides turned; the mood tide, not the Atlantic Ocean’s tides. Something was said that triggered a host of negative feelings and words and culminated in a sullen silence as we headed back down the mountain. Suddenly DOWN, he no longer turned around, hand outstretched to help me navigate the slippery rocks and his pace had quickened so that I didn’t bother to try and keep up. Angry tears blurred my vision and having foolishly packed no tissues for my oft runny nose, I used a suspiciously cheerful green leaf instead. He would have slowed down if I’d asked him, helped me if I’d pointed out that he now wasn’t, but I didn’t want the help and I was glad he was ahead of me. It gave me time to think.

I thought about how although I do not have Bipolar disorder, in a way I do have it. I’ve been the recipient of its fun, joy, creativity, spontaneity, tireless energy and reckless, extravagant love. And although I would be lying if I said I didn’t love these things, UP comes with the foreboding of DOWN, surely to follow. Just as Christmas Eve is more exciting for me than Christmas Day, and spring better than fall, It’s the thought of what is next that keeps me from fully enjoying the day, or the season. Much better for me, is the delicious anticipation of something good, rather than the knowledge that it will soon be over.

And that is the thing for a bipolar wife. You KNOW what is coming, you can read the signs as surely as a meteorologist can predict a storm. For some reason, My husband, and perhaps all who suffer with bipolar, cannot read the writing on the wall, as he lives so fully in the moment. When he is UP, DOWN is a thing of the past and cannot be spotted, even on the horizon. It must seem so far away, and as hard to fathom as it is to imagine yourself bundled up in January, when you’re currently sweating out a heatwave in July. By the same token, when he is DOWN, it seems to him as if there is no other feeling, no escape, and that the barrenness and frigidity of winter is the only temperature he has ever known, or will ever know.

Strangely, this is one of the things that I love about him; the ability to live so fully in the moment. It is childlike in its innocence and has helped me relish the good moments in life, just as I have helped him to look beyond pain when life is difficult to see that joy will come again. That is how we help each other, that is how we fit together, that is how our two imperfect halves make one perfect whole.

Afterword: Although it may seem as if we are passive riders on a manic depressive roller coaster ride, this is not entirely true. Medication helps, as does a routine of exercise, sleep, and eating as he often forgets to eat when he is UP or DOWN (I cant even imagine having this “problem!”). We have identified triggers over the years such as exposure to aluminum (soda out of a can makes him weirdly angry the next day. Strange, but true!), summer (which makes him not want to sleep, causing all sorts of UPS and DOWNS), and lack of exercise (which causes depression and pain). We manage it as best we can, and yet….

 

Posted in Uncategorized

Part of the Experience; Traveling with the Bickersons.

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“Give me ya confirmation number please,” the weary Delta employee with the crooked name tag reading “Yolanda,” said with a yawn. “Give me a break!” my husband quipped back. Yolanda’s eyes narrowed warily as she squinted at my phone until she looked up at the sound of him laughing. She laughed too. “Ms. Warner,” she said with a Georgia drawl, “I like ‘im, you should keep ‘im a’roun’! ” I laughed too as we got down to the serious business of figuring out how to get to Logan airport, even though all flights to and from were suspended due to a snowstorm.

We thought we had figured it out 5 hours ago back in Charleston, when the text cancelling our flight and rescheduling us for the next day had me on the phone, reluctantly agreeing to fly from Charleston to Atlanta, Atlanta to Richmond, Richmond to Boston, arriving some 14 hours after we’d started out, but at least on the same day. Hustling around the hotel room as soon as I’d hung up to quickly pack since our new flight was scheduled to leave in less than two hours, we checked out, google mapped our way to the car rental place, remembering to fill it up with gas first, took a shuttle to the airport and made it through security without incident. Well, not without having my bag searched as it almost always is, this time I think the culprit was my AirPods, which kept “showing something electronic, but I don’t know what it is, must be my imagination,” the bored agent shrugged, giving up after the third failed attempt. He gave me a once over, and apparently deciding I didn’t look like a criminal, waved me on.

Happily we flew to Atlanta, our carry-on bags having been checked for free as the flights were full, something that I did not like that my husband had agreed to at all, as I knew for a fact they would not be waiting for us in Boston.”You’re not the one who has to stuff them in the tiny overhead bin, then get them out again on three different planes today,” he huffed. Since he graciously did not add that the bags were overstuffed  because I always overpack and insist on bringing five pounds of beauty products, multiple shoes and clothes for every sort of weather event, I reluctantly agreed for the second time that day. “Well, at least let’s get our bag of medications out of them, just in case,” I said. Sighing, he proceeded to rifle through six days of dirty clothes, annoyance increasing with every second. “I thought you said you were putting them in your backpack,” he grumbled. “No! I told you that I couldn’t fit them in there and asked you to put them in your bag! Oh! Just forget it then, if it’s that much trouble!” Apparently finding it to be too much trouble, he closed the bags, and wheeled them away, which would be the last we saw of them for four days.

Quarrel temporarily forgotten, we complimented each other on our travel skills, and ability to roll with the punches, until we checked in at the kiosk at our first lay-over and learned that our flight from Richmond to Boston had now been cancelled as well. Knowing we’d have a much better chance of finding something out of Atlanta, the busiest airport in the world, instead of tiny Richmond, we sidled up to the nearest counter and met Yolanda.

Fresh from our vacation in Charleston, where manners include kindness and consideration of others, not just please and thank you, and still in an expansive vacation mode mood, and never ones to take our frustrations out on anyone but each other, we waited patiently while she tried to get us home… “I have a 2:30 direct to Boston…but it’s delayed until 8 pm. Oh wait, that’s full. I have a 6:30 pm to Boston…but it’s delayed until 1 am, tomorrow. But, you’d be confirmed on that flight,” our smiles faded as we looked at the time and realized that meant 15 more hours in this airport, a three-hour flight to Boston, a shuttle bus to pick up our car, and a four-hour drive home, meant we would be getting home about 24 hours later. Portland and Manchester had no available flights, so my husband suggested Hartford. There was a flight available. “No way! How would we get to Boston to get our car?!?” “A bus,” he nodded confidently to himself. “Yup, that’s what we’ll do. You need to trust me on this.” Well, I didn’t trust him on this, not one little bit. My life? Absolutely. Eventually getting home in one piece? Sure. Making us take the most frustrating and least convenient way to get there? Yup, I did trust that. Yolanda and I looked at each other, a bond of sisterhood and understanding flowed one to another other like a rainbow. We knew we were thinking the same thing. Sighing, I indicated that we would take the flight to Hartford. She continued to look at me, and the long meaningful stare was not lost on me, “okaayyy, Miss Susannah, but if this don’t work out goooddd… ” we smiled at each other, and with new tickets in our hands, my husband and I started to walk away when Yolanda called out…. “Kev-in! Kev-in! I like her, you need to keep her a’roun’!”

I’d love to report that we flew off to Hartford, caught a bus to Logan, a shuttle to our car at the hotel, and sang songs all the way home while recounting our adventures in Charleston, arriving on the same day we set out. Alas, as any traveler knows, especially ones who are fortunate enough to travel with a spouse, particularly one that you’ve known for decades, such is rarely the case. I’m afraid that despite our initial glee at having been bumped up to first class by the kind Miss Yolanda (those little water bottles just waiting for me! The little pillow! the blanket! maybe even a free glass of wine when we took off!), our smiles turned upside down, as the pilot announced that “we are experiencing a mechanical issue, I’m afraid all passengers will need to disembark the aircraft.”

With a vague sense of relief that the Hartford scheme was now foiled, and with newly found hope, I marched down the aisle and straight up to another ticket agent while all the other passengers were wearily grabbing their bags from the overheads. As I was in first class, I was the first one in line to present our compounding problem.”Well,”  he said smiling into the computer screen, “looks like I can get you on a 6:30 direct flight to Boston!” I was so relieved that we didn’t have to go to Hartford, I didn’t even think about the fact that Miss Yolanda had already told us that this flight was delayed until 1 am. Gratefully we took our new tickets, rushed down the hall, took two escalators down, hopped on a subway, and headed to the gate, arriving there 20 min before it was time to board. But too late, because by this time, the Bickersons had arrived and they were not going to leave until we pulled into our driveway (which ended up being at 3 am). I’m sorry to say that the Bickersons further stepped up their game upon discovering that our new flight would not be leaving for another 7 hours and would necessitate more subway rides and another long, silent, arms crossed walk to the now changed gate.

At some point during the long trek (according to my Fitbit, I walked six miles in that airport!), Mrs. Bickerson took it upon herself to ask another agent if she and sulky Mr. Bickerson could be placed on standby for the 2:30, now 8 pm direct flight to Boston, which, much to Mr. Bickerson’s annoyance, prompted a turnaround and another subway ride to the new gate. Approaching the desk of the fifth Delta employee of the day, I swapped my Mrs. Bickerson scowl for a Susie sunshine face and inquired politely if the odds were in our favor. With 48 others on standby, it appeared unlikely until a quick search of our names revealed that miraculously we were in “the top-tier.” “What does that mean?” I asked stunned. “Well, Ma’am, that means you’re third on the list.” Thanking him out loud, and Miss Yolanda in my head for getting us in the toptier by bumping us up to first class, I looked around at the 48 other tired/mad faces. A little boy crying beside me caught my attention, and I knew before I even heard her say it, that this frightened mother with two fretful little boys, was also hoping to be called. “It’s ok, it will be alright. We will be together, don’t worry, we will get seats together.” Always one to think of quotes from movies and books, I was unpleasantly reminded of Titanic, when the poor Irish mother tells her children that as soon as the first class passengers were safe, that they would be let go. “Well, this is a fine kettle of fish,” I thought. “We can’t steal their seats!” But, as I gazed sadly at her, Mr. Bickerson’s face came into focus, and I shamefully thought, “well, maybe we can.”

I should have known that God had other plans; plans that did not force me to confront my conflicting survival/beast mode vs. Christian /nurse battle raging inside of me. Thankfully six of us; weary mom, weepy little boys, surly Bickersons, and one sulky teenage girl managed to get seats. We were the only ones out of almost 50 others, and we felt like we’d won the lottery, a sentiment I actually exclaimed aloud until I was hushed by a still crotchety Mr. Bickerson. Several of the other stand-by passengers actually clapped when the moms name was called; although not one clapped for the Bickersons, least of all Mr. Bickerson. They didn’t clap for the teenager either, so that made me feel a little bit better. Exhausted, hungry and stressed, Mr. B was suffering from an intense craving for a cigarette, although he’d quit smoking five months ago. Hours earlier, Mr. B had actually succumbed to the call of nicotine and, having left Mrs. Bickerson at a TGIF with a mai tai in her hand, disappeared into the Atlanta terminal abyss, where he was not seen or heard from until an hour later, which is actually how long it took him to take four escalators, two shuttles and to go through security AGAIN. Apparently, his 10 minute fall from grace also involved a discussion partly in Spanish with a prisoner who had been released days earlier and assumed Mr. B was Puerto Rican (?!?). But I digress… Needless to say, Mr. B was met with a stone faced Mrs. B; mai tai long since consumed and its potential soothing effects turned inside out. Even the story of the spanish speaking jail-bird who was looking for his “lady” and a couple of bucks, did little to assuage her disappointment. Mr. B, having bought a pack of cigarettes for the first time since October, felt little joy at the site of the smoker’s roo, inside the terminal the B’s noticed on the way to one of their gates, in fact it seemed to make his agitation worse. And so it was with relief , when we finally boarded the plane headed North, that Mrs. B. sunk into a middle seat, Mr. Bickerson a row behind me.

The next seven hours did not improve the Bickersons mood much. Not after the 3.5 hour flight, not while discovering the bags were in Richmond, as were our medications; mine, for headaches, his for mood :/. No improvement while waiting for the shuttle to take us to the hotel in the freezing Boston weather, our blood having thinned by the short stay in the south. In fact, tensions reached the boiling over level, by the time the Bickersons had been dropped of at their vehicle by the russian speaking van driver, and found it covered in a foot of snow and ice, but curiously with the passenger’s side cleared off, and snowy footprints on the floor mat. Wasting no time to find out why this was so, Mrs. B started the car, while Mr.B, aggressively cleared the snow and chipped away at the ice, obscenities flying as wildly as the snow. A quiet and reflective ride home from Boston in the middle of the night, gave Mrs. B plenty of time to wonder if traveling was actually worth it; the cost, the bickering, the swearing, the crossed arms, the inconvience…As we neared our home, we tentatively started talking again. First, about practical matters… Would our son have shoveled the driveway (he did), then about the funny things (Puerto- Rican!), and we laughed. We remembered the laughter, the fun, the experiences, the people, the food, the sites, and we knew that we’d made more memories. Like a savings account, we’ve stored these things up in our minds and in our hearts, and even though the Bickersons make exorbitant withdrawals at times, the Warners know that they could never truly bankrupt them, they’re just part of the experience, and an experience is always worth having, even knowing that the Bickersons are coming too.

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Fracture

Posted on by Susannah Warner

A bone is strong, but it can break. It can break cleanly or it can splinter. It can buckle  and it can be twisted. Car accidents, falls, sport injuries; many things can cause a bone to break. The effect is the same, pain so severe that it makes you want to throw up. You don’t want to look at, but you do. The site of it makes you feel worse, but confirms that there is a reason for your pain, and solidifies in your mind that you can’t fix this on your own, and that you must go to a hospital, to have a doctor fix it. At that time, whatever personal beliefs you may have for, or against Western medicine are thrown out the window. It’s unlikely that anyone could repair a serious break themselves, except maybe for a little finger fracture. Nothing can be done about that anyway, certainly nothing a little “buddy taping” with duct tape wont fix (yeah, I live in Maine, that’s how we fix things!). Most people don’t care about lack of insurance, or high co-pays if a bone is jutting out of their skin, they’ll figure that out later, and the vast majority will not delay, but go immediately to have it repaired, preferably by a specialist. In most cases, a cast is applied, mainly for protection while it heals on its own, and it will, as strange and wonderful as that is. Sometimes, the break is not clean, and surgery is required. The surgeon applies pins and screws, and the healing process is longer and more painful, but it does heal eventually. But you know what the most amazing thing about all this is? Not the fracture itself, not that you knew where to go to fix it, not that a specialist could assist in the healing process, and not that the bone essentially heals itself. The most amazing thing is that once healed, it is no more or less likely to break again than other areas. It used to be believed that the area was then stronger, but that isn’t true. It is as if it never happened. The initial pain, followed by the long crippling recovery period are eventually all but forgotten, and the whole ordeal is now an anecdote, a party story or a cautionary tale.

It occurred to me, after a trying time, that a marriage can be like a bone. It is a support, it is alive and it is strong. Pound for pound, bone is stronger than cement, just as the union of two people, is strong, but, it can break. Addictions, affairs, and unresolved issues can fracture a marriage. It might be a crack in a small bone, like a finger, that just needs some “buddy tape” and a little TLC to heal. Or, if you are together long enough, chances are there will be a fracture to a larger and more significant bone; an arm, or worse, maybe even to your femur, the strongest bone in the body. This is a bone that you have always depended on to support your weight. You’ve never given it much thought, it’s always there, and gives you no trouble. In fact, it’s never thought of at all. If that happens, mark my words, it will be thought of because it will hurt, you will feel nauseated, and the pain will keep you awake at night, and prevent you from walking during the day. Should you just cut off the limb then, to get rid of the pain? Wouldn’t it be better to have no leg at all then to have to look at how grotesquely deformed it is now? That would be painful, but it would be done and over with, and maybe you could just get a new leg, one that is no longer broken.

Some people do choose that option, and for some it is the right one, but some people choose the arduous, and painful process of healing their marriage. They have identified the break, now they need to know where to go to have someone help them fix it. Maybe a councilor, maybe a pastor, or maybe right to God himself. Either way, a “cast” is applied, or maybe “surgery” is required. It will be difficult, it will be costly, and there will be a long period of recovery. But just as a desperation to fix this situation occurs with a broken bone, so too is the desperation to fix a fractured marriage. It doesn’t matter how much it costs, or how long or takes, as long as each day there is some improvement. There will be set backs, but it’s the trajectory that’s important. After all, the goal is to be made whole and well again, something that is a foregone conclusion, if you are in it for the long haul. To be able to run and jump with no fears of a future break because it as strong as it was before? That is the prize, plus now you have an anecdote, a party story and a cautionary tale to tell, and you also have each other.

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10 Reasons Why I Am Still Married

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Formerly known as 8 reasons.

I wrote this a year ago, and just reread it for the first time when it popped up on my timeline. I’m kind of surprised at myself for forgetting a few good reasons why we are still married. Maybe, I didn’t forget, maybe they are just things I have learned over the last year. If that’s the case, then hopefully I can add to this yearly, like a modern-day epistle. I’m going to aim for 100 reasons, although, for this year, I think I’ll be happy with getting to ten, Here are #9, and #10, which I’ll tack on the bottom..

Sometimes I’m shocked by how old we sound. Here we were, on our way to church (of course we were!), when I realized that the following types of conversations happen when you’ve been married for a long time. We had just bickered briefly about the former whereabouts of a hair salon called Xana-do, after we passed the new location. We gave up quickly as neither side was willing to concede, and because neither one of us was in a contentious enough mood to whip this innocuous subject into a full-blown argument. We moved on to discuss a woman who we used to know who worked there. “Is she still with Tony?” I asked. “Nah,” my husband replied, “they broke up years ago, actually, it was more like decades ago.” He said this seriously but I burst into laughter because it  sounded so ridiculous and so old. It made me realize that I must have picked up a few pointers along the way that I will gladly share, but as you read them, please consider the source. Although we have managed to stay married for 25 years (now 26!), we have wrangled over every banal subject under the sun, and I don’t think that it will change anytime soon.

#1 Keep the fights clean: we don’t do this at all, we are terrible, dirty fighters. We have thrown rings and insults, we fight bitterly and often, and sometimes go to bed angry, Our disagreements once prompted my then six-year old niece to say, “you two are always either fighting or kissing.” This is true. Some couples say they don’t argue at all. I don’t know if this is bad or good, You could say that they have less passion in their marriage but then again, they also would have a lot less heartache, and probably more sleep.  Never mind this advice, I’m not fit to give it.

#2 Know each others strengths and weaknesses: This took us years and years to realize. When our daughter was a baby, I thought that things should be fair. We both worked, and I felt that on our days off, he should take turns with me getting up early. We never fought more than during that bleak period of time, I really didn’t understand that he was a night owl,and that as a life long early bird, it made more sense for me to get up, at least most of the time. When our son arrived six years later, we had seven years of marriage, and parenthood under our belts and came up with a plan that worked for both of us. He would take the “night shift”, and I would do  the “morning shift.” Our son was sensitive as a baby and never slept well. After nursing him, sometimes he slept, but often he needed to be walked or rocked for hours and would wake up as soon as these activities stopped. My husband was on duty until 2 am, and when the baby woke after that, I would take over. Since I was usually in bed by 9 or 10 pm, this actually felt like a suitable arrangement at the time, but writing this now, my goodness, this sounds like a miserable existence! My point is though, we figured out a way to make it work by using our strengths to our favor rather than our weaknesses against us.

#3 Have fun together: Millennials call this “date night” and that is fine and good for them, but when we were just starting out, we had no money for date nights. I am well aware that this makes me sound old, but don’t worry, I wont launch into one of those, “when we were your age” parables. Suffice it to say that we have never really spent much money in the pursuit of merriment. Oh, we have taken family trips to amusement parks and beaches, we have gone out to eat by ourselves and to the movies and Broadway plays and museums. Sometimes though these have ended up feeling like a commandment to have fun.’Thou shall take thy family to the beach and all will have fun, for thou art an American family.’ But one sandy bottom, two sunburned shoulders and three temper tantrums later and the whole “happy family” sham topples like a house of cards. These family pursuits of happiness have not all been failures. We have had fun too, but our favorite times together are simpler arrangements. Walks, board games or cribbage, playing softball together on our church team, jeep and four-wheeler rides,  hiking, (when he makes me feel guilty that I haven’t gone with him in years), shopping ,(when I make him feel guilty), all things that we do for our “date nights.” For me, I don’t care if we are just sitting on the couch watching Survivor, as long as he keeps making me laugh during the commercials.

#4 If at all possible, sleep in separate beds!!!  OK, this is a weird thing to say, and certainly this would not work for every couple, but I’m just going to say it anyway.  Because for us,  given that we are polar opposites in many ways, especially in our sleep habits, if we had not done this about 15 years ago, we probably  would be divorced now. I’m not saying that he can’t come visit, but when its time to get down to the serious business of sleep, (and the older you get, the more you treat it seriously), he needs to pack up and go back home.

This is why this works for us: I go to bed early, he goes to bed late. I have my covers tucked, his are swirled around like a hurricane hit his bed. I make my bed as soon as I am on my feet in the morning, if he makes his at all, it is a few minutes before he climbs into at night. I have a top sheet (who doesn’t?!?), he does not. I sleep with my electric blanket on from September until June, he is like a furnace and needs only one blanket. I like to have a mattress topper, he does not, “That stupid thing is too hot and soft.” I’m sure you get the picture. Sleeping apart has actually not separated us, it has brought us closer. I guess the real lesson here is, don’t be afraid to let go of what you think a couple should look like. Create your own bubble.

#5 Remember what attracted you on him in the first place: My husband is a bad boy,  I have always gone for the bad boy. They are exciting and dangerous and everything I am not. Bad boys are fun to date but a nightmare to marry. At least he was for the first several years, still is sometimes, but although he hasn’t changed, my attitude has. For the first several years, I tried to change him, and mold him to my version of the perfect husband. This created so much drama that I wondered if we could ever get through it. But, about the time that our daughter starting having problems with a bully at school, I realized the value of having a tough customer on your team. He has dealt with every tricky situation, including somehow, the bully, and walked head on into difficult and sometimes dangerous situations to protect and to keep our family together. He keeps things interesting… I think I’ll leave it at that. This may not be your spouse. Your spouse might be the solid, boring one, as I am. Remember, what you liked, and admired about that person and try to be thankful that they are different from you. which brings me to…

#6 Embrace the differences: My husband and I are like night and day. He is bipolar and has ADHD. Because of this, he is spontaneous, and colorful, fun and a risk taker. But, he has so much going on in his brain that at times, he is overwhelmed and can become anxious. I am solid as a rock, but a little bland, and not much of a risk taker as evidenced by the fact that I have been working at the same facility since I was 16, that’s almost 30 years if you are counting! He helps me to have fun, and I help him to stay calm and grounded. He wrestled with the kids while I kept things on schedule. He hunted, fished, rode ATV’s, hiked and showed them wildlife, and I read and watched movies with them, went to every game, meet, event and most practices, sat in waiting rooms, filled out insurance forms and comforted the sick and injured. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes we did these thing together, and because the my job requires me to work every other weekend, he was pressed into service and nicely filled my shoes as Mom, albeit, a fun one. Last night, I asked him to make me a grilled cheese, because he makes the best, and when I was finished eating he asked me to make him a “big sandwich”, a giant deli style heated cheese and sliced ham stuffed affair. I could have made my own grilled cheese and he could have made his own sandwich, and twenty years ago, we probably would have, reluctant to ask a favor, lest one of us be beholden to the other and unwilling to admit that we each have skills the other does not. These days though, older and wiser, we see this as a benefit, not a competition.  I never liked wrestling on the floor with a rambunctious kid and he is not really a fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder.

#7 On the big issues it helps to agree: We may be the Bickersons about mundane things, but on the big issues we agree, To me, these are politics, religion, and money. Well, we really don’t agree on money, because he is generous to a fault, and also never in my life I have I seen someone literally lose money as he does. I’ve actually witnessed it fall to the ground, not that surprising as he does not like a wallet and instead stuffs bills in his front pocket. But, we do agree that I’m the better manager of it so usually I handle the bills and do whatever I want with it except for large ticket items. Those, we talk about. Although, it’s really not much of a discussion as the more I spend, the better he likes it. The other two issues, we agree on. He is more zealous about politics, and I am more so about religion, but we do agree and because our values mesh, we have had a solid foundation to build our marriage.

#8 Prayer (Don’t stop reading here!) This is not the part where I try to force my Christian values on you. I know that not everyone who reads this believes in the power of prayer and that’s OK. Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water, as my mother has been known to say. Actually, I hate that saying. Anyway, prior to meeting my husband, I had a few relationships, that after a time,  I felt the need to pray about. Each time, I asked that if this was not the right person for me, to end it now. Four times I did this, and three times the relationship ended in a week. To some, this might seem like a coincidence or maybe that I was just acting out what I obviously felt anyway or why would I have prayed in the first place. Whatever you believe, if you find yourself at a crossroads why not throw that prayer out there? It won’t hurt either way.

So, that’s it. I’m sure there are many reasons that we are still married that I have not mentioned.  Chief among them, might be stubbornness, convenience and maybe we actually love each other (I know we do). It’s a gamble for sure. The stakes are high but the payoff is higher, at least for us. Now, pardon me while I have my husband read this. I’m pretty sure I know just what he will say, “oh, that’s nice, I look like an irresponsible jerk and you look like the martyr”. We quite possibly will argue about it this afternoon. apparently,  that’s just the way we like it.

P.S. What he actually said after he read it was , “Yeah, that’s nice, it’s pretty good……..martyr”.

Addendum: 2018 

#9 Appreciate the little things: Whenever we go out to a Chinese restaurant, my husband always gives me his fortune cookie, not because he doesn’t like them, but because, “you like them more.” This small act of selflessness is what I think love is all about. A marriage, I think, can be made or broken by the little things. Of course, there are big things that can cause a break-up; infidelity and abuse chief among them, but in many marriages, I think it might be more about the little things that we do,or don’t do for each other that can make all the difference. Forehead kisses, foot-rubs, picking wildflowers, holding the door open for me, putting washer fluid in my car, leaving notes in my lunchbox, he does little things for me all the time, and they mean so much more to me than any grand sweeping gesture. He’s far better at this than I am, which brings me to…

#10 Keep working on it: A marriage, like our old house, needs constant attention, and upkeep to keep it in good shape. Much like an abandoned house looks unloved and forlorn, so a marriage falls apart if it’s not given TLC. It is very easy, especially when you have young children and jobs, to not give it the maintenance it deserves, but it will be alright, as long as the foundation is secure; there will be plenty of time in the future to rebuild, stronger and more beautiful than before. But, if the foundation is neglected to the point that it crumbles and breaks, it might be all but impossible to repair it. Don’t let that happen. Don’t take it for granted, and not invest even the smallest amount of kindness, thoughtfulness and appreciation to your partner. Because that’s what they are, your partner; no one gets you like they do, and no one will love your children like they do. At times, over a period of 28 years, we have let things go, but always in the nick of time, something wakes us up and makes us rebuild. We are a little older and wiser now, but still we need to invest in renovations, not for resale value. or even curb appeal, but just to continue to enjoy living in this beautiful institution of marriage.

That’s it for this year’s edition of “Marriage advice from a middle-aged woman,” Stay tuned, I’ll re-post this next year, hopefully with more reasons.

 

 

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Oh, Christmas Tree

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband and I have decorated 26 Christmas trees together. We’ve had real trees, fake trees, and on one particularly poor, but memorable Christmas, a stolen tree. “Nah, we acquired it” my husband said when I read this to him. We’ve decorated with babies crying in the background, toddlers with bright eyes and sticky hands, preschoolers with  questions and excitement, and nonplussed teens. Last week was the first time we decorated alone since our very first one so long ago, and it was by far, my favorite.

The decorations we use now, are not ones we originally picked out together (see paragraph below for explanation), these belonged to someone else. They are all antiques, in various stages of antiqueness. Half of them belonged to his side of the family, half to mine. Some are from the early 1900’s and are hand painted, even handblown, and others are plastic beads from the 60’s. I love them all.

It’s really a good thing we were given all these ornaments, because our own ornaments were unceremoniously, albeit mistakenly, brought to the dump by my ADHD suffering husband, 20 years ago. His long(er)-suffering wife occasionally still loses her shit about it when she’s riled up about something that has nothing to do with Christmas. Just the thought of the beautiful glass “Our First Christmas” ornament my sister gave us, and our daughter’s first, in the shape of a pink pacifier, amongst rotting banana peels and dirty diapers in a landfill, makes my blood boil.

Discarded ornaments were not the only thing that made our Christmases memorable. My husband has the gift of resourcefulness. He’s the type of person you would want to be stranded on a deserted island with because not only is he good at getting things done without the tools necessary for the job (being poor in our younger years, has had its advantages), but he’s also a fun person to be around as you while away the hours, waiting to be rescued. Anyway, one year early on in our marriage, we had less money than usual. Quite likely he had been laid off, as he was working inconstruction before he went to college, and I didn’t make much as a CNA, a job I had for many years before I went to nursing school. Apparently, we didn’t have enough money to buy a Christmas tree, so he decided to go into the woods of Maine, and chop one down for free. Unfortunately, although he found a beautiful one, it was on top of an 80 foot tree, which also unfortunately was on privately owned paper company land. Technically this was illegal, however given the fact that this occurred over 20 years ago, I think I’m safe to put it in print, given the whole statute of limitations thing and all. Besides, chopping that thing down with an axe, then hoisting and securing the remaining 18 feet on top of our Ford Tempo, was probably punishment enough. Never mind that 6 feet hung off the back of the sedan, suffice it to say that we live in Maine, and most people around here wouldn’t bat an eye to see such a spectacle hurtling down the highway.

 
Sadly, we haven’t had a real tree for years, mainly because my son and I are allergic to them. Every year now, he gamely hauls the artificial one down from the attic, puts it together and untangles the lights. Usually, at that point, the kids and I would take over and decorate. Sometimes he helped, sometimes not. Lately though, as we have sort of become “empty-nesters” (sort of, because our college age son still lives with us, although he is often not home), we are doing more and more things alone but together, if that makes sense. The other night, Christmas music on, we decorated. It struck me then, how  the traits we each bring to our relationship are unique, yet our adornments are beautiful in their own ways and compliment each other. Some from his side of the family, some from mine, yet they are so enmeshed, they are like one. It is hard to say sometimes, which one came from which family member, or even if they were from my side or his. It is not hard to tell though, that together, they make a beautiful tree and a beautiful life.

IMG_3828
Here is our tree. Ok, actually you cant even see our tree, I just wanted an opportunity to show off my party dress.

 

 

 

 

 

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Tree of Life

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

Last night after dinner, my husband and I rose from the table at the same time, and while still discussing the minutia that dominates most of the conversations of a long marriage, started clearing the table. He scraped the dishes, and loaded the dishwasher while I wrapped up leftovers. Suddenly, I noticed the way in which we moved together. We were doing different tasks, but working towards the same goal. No movement was wasted, we did not bump into each other, or reach for the ketchup bottle at the same time. The work was done quickly and easily, and when I pointed out what I noticed, we joked about working like a “well-oiled machine.” This is one of the many pleasures of being with someone for a long time. You know their strengths and their weaknesses, sometimes even better than you know your own.

We’ve had a hard year, the two of us. This is the first year in a very long marriage that we’ve ever questioned if we would spend the next one together. We have been together since I was a teen, and I never doubted that we would  grow old as a couple. I guess it’s a miracle in itself that we made it this far without questioning our relationship. Not that it has been easy. We have survived poverty; not the kind where we were starving, but the kind where our electricity was shut off and we were too proud to ask our parents for money, so we told our young children that we were “camping” for the week (they loved it), and the kind where we couldn’t afford toothpaste sometimes, so we had to use baking soda. We survived the death of both of his parents, one by suicide, alcoholism, jail, a diagnosis of bipolar, with its 20% mortality rate, and both of us attended college with small children, while working.

Through all this, we laughed our way through many a hardship. It wasn’t all fun and games, of course. There were many tears, fights, threats and even throwing of wedding rings on two dramatic occasions. But in all those years, neither one of us, even while the words, “that’s it! I’m done” were hurled at each, ever thought for one minute that we would ever actually be done. Not for nothing, did my then six-year-old niece proclaim, “you guys are always either fighting, or kissing!”

No, the real threat came quietly. Years of his bad boy behavior, and my long-suffering martyr act caught up with us. We finally outgrew the roles that we’ve played for decades. Roles that we fell into naturally and actually must have enjoyed.  There is something so satisfying about being the “good one,” in the relationship. I do believe that I actually relished the martyr role. It felt pretty good to be the forgiver; benevolent, strong and merciful. I would shower him with forgiveness, and snatch it back at the first signs of a disagreement, enslaving him to a lifetime of being the naughty child to my scolding mom.

For some reason this year, we both grew tired of our roles. I was weary of the burden, and after a summer of no sleep and a restless spirit, I abruptly shucked it off like an old coat. I decided that I did not want to be responsible for his happiness or lack thereof, something he never asked me to do in the first place. I don’t know why, but I also had no desire to hold our family together with an iron will and a clenched fist anymore. I let it go. I had no idea what would happen, but I was too tired of carrying our responsibilities, our happiness, and our salvation on my back like a figurative beast of burden, to care anymore. I thought that if I let go, everything would topple like a house of cards. I thought that I was so strong, that if I gave up control, he would go down too. It turns out that I’m not that strong, I never was. I was weak, because I thought I needed to hold on so tightly. God is strong, and he does not tire, nor does he hold on so tightly, he chokes the life out of someone.

Matthew 11:28 

 “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

 

So, I did it,  I told God I was tired of carrying all of this baggage and I asked him to take it from me. Then, of course, like a control freak, I plucked it back from him a few times, but ultimately I experienced the freedom that comes with letting go. I decided that whatever happened, and whatever became of us, it would be better than what we had been doing and the weariness that I’d been feeling for years.

So, what happened to my bad boy? Did he spiral out of control? Did he fall apart without me to hold him together? Nope, he stepped up. It seems that maybe my mother-role wasn’t saving him all along. I actually was standing in his way. By stepping back, and letting go, I gave him room to take his place. By not feeling responsible for his happiness and behavior, he became responsible for it himself. He is more content, and I feel unburdened.

What this means for two people who share a lifetime of memories and laughter, is that we are free to choose each other, every day. No longer entangled in a vicious cycle of dependent/co-dependent behavior, we are able to oblige each other, because we are happy to do it, not because we feel the other person will give up, or fall apart if we don’t.  It seems impossible to believe that after 28 years together, we are happier than we have ever been. We laugh, as we always have done. After all, having fun has always been the glue that has held us together, sometimes one of the few things. Now, enjoying each other’s company is more like fruit on our tree of marriage. A strong tree with roots of trust and commitment, a trunk of love and devotion, and branches of respect, loyalty and friendship, The fruits have developed over the years and have ripened for such a time as this. They are children, grandchildren, joy, fun and companionship. I don’t have to support this tree, like I always thought, I only have to water it daily and enjoy it for the beauty, shelter and comfort it provides.

 

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Sometimes “Good Guys” Wear Black

Posted on by Susannah Warner

When my kids were small, there was a lot of talk about “good guys” and “bad guys,” especially when my son was little. He, like many children, liked the idea of defeating the bad guys. After all, the good guys should always win, and they do, at least in movies and books. Luckily, they are easy to identify.  The “bad guys” are dressed in black and are usually ugly with snarls on their faces. They are mean and rude. They don’t say “thank you” or “please” and I’m sure they never pick flowers for their wives. Actually, they probably don’t have wives, because they are bad, and no one wants to even kiss one, let alone marry one.

The “good guys” are handsome of course. They are often dressed in white and have impeccable manners. They are excellent swordsman and probably call their mothers every Sunday, and they always get the girl in the end. It’s black and white, there is no gray. The bad guys do not become good guys and the good guys are good 100% of the time. They do not do good things 90% of the time and then occasionally slip up, due to a lack of judgement, or lapse in sanity.

So, when we grow up and meet “Mr. Right,” we expect that they will be good guys, and they are, for the most part. Certainly no girl sets out to marry a bad guy. No one wants to look at a snarl-face at the dinner table or buy the same black outfit for him whenever he needs new clothes. We have already started to become disillusioned somewhere between the happy endings of childhood and the harsh realities of adult life, and realize that there is more to life than good and bad, black and white. We know that there are many gray areas and we accept that these gray areas apply to our own lives as well as in others. But still, we search for a good guy, and after we are with one for a while, we start to appreciate the little things, like the things my good guy does for me.

A good guy picks wildflowers for you because he knows that your practical heart dies a little inside when you see expensive roses fold their haughty heads after only one day of extravagant splendor.

A good guy gives you his fortune cookie at the Chinese restaurant, not because he doesn’t like them, but because “you love them more.”

A good guy poses for selfies with you every time you pull out your phone even though he says, “I don’t know how to fake smile” and, “why do we bother, we always have the same faces?”

A good guy walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even if the sidewalk is slightly slanted and it makes him appear shorter than you, just to keep you safe.

A good guy will go shopping with you if you ask, even though crowds make him panicky, and he puts the groceries into the trunk, while you sit in the car because it’s cold/raining outside.

A good guy has sampled lasagna all over Rome, but thinks yours is better, and tells you that.

A good guy comes upstairs when you text him from the warmth of your bed to ask him to turn on the fan, even though you are 8 feet away from it, because you don’t feel like getting up.

A good guy tells you that you are beautiful and that you that you smell good even though you often forget to compliment him.

A good guy sometimes leaves love notes in your lunch box and doesn’t mind if you show your friends at work.

A good guy empties the dishwasher, because he knows that you inexplicably hate this task.

A good guy rubs your back, even though you rarely rub his.

A good guy makes you a grilled cheese sandwich, when you text saying you are craving one, while you are on your way home after a long day at work.

A good guy makes a headboard from a pallet, after you saw it on Pinterest and then strings christmas lights on it and turns them on every night, so that you will see it when you go upstairs to change after work.

A good guy makes you a huge walk-in closet, big enough to fit three dressers, and floor to ceiling shoe racks, and bars to hang an exorbitant amount of clothes, while he makes do with one bureau.

A good guy asks if you have “stencils” for your fingernails and offers to paint them for you.

A good guy washes your car for you, notices when you need air in your tires, and your oil changed, and does it for you.

A good guy repaints a whole room, without a complaint, after you come home from work and exclaim, “ohhhh, I didn’t know that color would look so bright!  Ummmm, I don’t like it…”

A good guy knows that a long marriage is like hiking a mountain. It requires endurance, strength and perseverance. Sometimes, you don’t feel like climbing anymore and you want to go back, but if you push through when you think you have nothing left, the view is so beautiful, all the struggles leading to it are forgotten.

A good guy calls you his best friend and makes you laugh.

A good guy is strong, loyal, protective and sweet. He stirs emotions in you like no one else. He can make you go from love to hate and back again in one afternoon. He is the only person that can make you so mad, you never want to see him again, then five minutes later, make you laugh. He might snarl at you at the dinner table, but kiss you goodnight. A good guy always has your back, even when he is mad at you.

A good guy does all this, but he also f*$#’s up occasionally. Sometimes he drinks too much or too often. He stays out too late with his buddies.  He can be irritable, especially in crowds and can be irrationally jealous. He throws his jacket on the kitchen chair instead of hanging it up and his boots always track in mud. He loses things all the time and absent-mindedly drives off with cellphones and Ipads on top of his vehicle. A good guy also admits when he is wrong, apologizes, and tries to do better.

My good guy, like so many others, wears black sometimes. He is not always good, but neither am I. Many times in our adult lives, we find ourselves in gray areas. Sometimes we wonder if the good outweighs the bad. Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t. The longer I am married, the more I realize that if my guy always wore white, I probably would tell him that he is boring, and anemic, and that I need a little more color in my life. Sometimes, my good guy wears black, but in the end, he still will always get this girl.