The now semi-famous proposal happened in the kitchen of Susan's old house. Somewhat apocryphally, I've always told the story as if she proposed to me, but in fact, we were clarifying options about what to do with our "situation." The situation was having sex, not being married, and being evangelical Christians (sort of evangelical, anyway). The guilt had begun to build to the point we were both awkward about prayer, church, parenting, living together, and all the other motions of life that happen in a relationship that is moving toward mutual commitment.
While discussing the options, we came up with two that seemed ethically legitimate: stop having sex or get married. Those were really the only two "christian" options we knew. We were both about two years past a divorce and an affair that had done horrific damage to dozens of people, including the closing of a church. We were still a little sensitive about the people we'd hurt, and a lot unsure about how to move forward without feeling even more shitty about the kind of people we'd proven to be when faced with the question of what we wanted more: each other or the church.
Marriage seemed the only option available, so we made plans, and most of you know at least part of the story from that point on. We've arrived at the end of the story, at least the married chapters. I told Susan I was going to post this, and I told her, and we've both promised, that the issues at the interior of our marriage are private. I'm only doing this to get ahead of speculations that something bad "must" have happened, because how can two people who get along so damn well divorce?
There is no scandal. There is a growing realization that this is the best course for both of us. The week of the decision was initially awful, but I filled it with planning and talking with good friends. By Friday night, we were civil with each other, and finally, after a bit of wine (or a lot) even friendly. Something vital and alive was just starting to break through the half-truths and complacency that come to define marriage, even the best of marriages. That truth can be spoken unencumbered by the myriad emotional calculi by which all marital statements are made seemed so fucking liberating; it was like breathing again right after that second when you realize you've stopped breathing.
We've had fits and starts since then, as is expected. Marriage makes us the grammar of the other's life, and that means the story is a story of oneness at a linguistic level, not a spiritual one. And in a linguistic reversal, separation and divorce cause the death of an entity that was only ever alive at the conceptual level; we becomes I, but it's like reaching into your own throat and pulling out a piece of yourself, bloody and torn. "Where is Susan?" Silence. Awkwardness. "Home." "When is she coming?" And then the decision: do I tell them or just let the weight of my newly discovered pariahhood fill the space while they take in all the nonverbal clues? How do I speak about I when we have 12 years of we? The honest answer only serves to cast a pall over whatever event is taking place: art opening last night, football the day before, drinks with friends this week. I am the subject du jour, and in a way that no one wants to be. I'm not a failure. Susan isn't a failure. Why do I feel like I've failed at something?
How do you answer the question "how are you doing?" I have no idea, yet. I've only been "you" or "I" for a couple weeks now. I'm still not used to it. To some degree we all preserve part of who we are even in good relationships; some part of me is cordoned off, preserved for when I need to be alone, to think, to wish, to despair, again unencumbered by the responsibility to parse what is said with an ear toward how it will be heard. The answer for now is that that piece of me is trying to find his way into the center, the true center, the one with equilibrium and patience and hope, the one occupied by we for 12 years.
We doesn't die easily. We still say "babe" and reach out to touch and wonder if it's okay. I start to tell a story and my throat constricts and I want to say words that have always been directional beacons for me, the stories of being married to someone who has made me laugh the most honest laughter of my life, who has believed in me, who has amazed me with her breadth of information and curiosity, who will hopefully continue to be my friend as we sketch out the fucked up parameters of a new we.
There is some insanity to this decision. We see it on the faces of our friends as they find out about the divorce. A few have said "What hope do we have for our marriages then?" It's a bit dramatic, and again, no one understands what happens in the interior of a marriage, but we have struggled while maintaining a commitment to be kind, to not use words that hurt, and to always try to make the other happy. Those simple rules make our marriage look amazing to outsiders, and by some standards, I'm sure it was. Ultimately, it's insufficient for both of us, as we are learning that comfort can become a stultefying sameness that leads to the death of we and I.
I want that day in the kitchen back, that day we talked about our options. I want to be who I am now and have that same conversation. I want to be free of moral and ethical calculations related to life-changing decisions encumbered by a Book, an invisible Being who seems recalcitrant at best, and an institution that insists that we can fuck up just about every other decision and start over, but this one we have to get right the first time. Looking back, I see how narrow my available options were, not because those were the only two that made sense, but because I wasn't able to see that my orientation toward an untenable ethical absolute was going to create a false dichotomy. I am not built for marriage. Susan believes she may not be, and that will be hers to discover. I am on the three strikes and you're out system, and I'm heading back to the dugout now, thanks.
