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.
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Posted by: Tedford | September 18, 2011 at 10:20 AM
"...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."
This still seems so utterly impossible for me, I am running from the necessity to do this, yet I know I have to. Thank you for these words, Greg. I am sorry you both are going through the rip of separation right now, though.
Posted by: Kristen C | September 18, 2011 at 11:19 AM
You found words. Beautifully written. Sending you both lots of love and peace.
Posted by: Lorrie | September 18, 2011 at 11:30 AM
"How do I speak about I when we have 12 years of we?"
For me it was 17 years of we....its almost been a year since we have been divorced...but I still have a hard time speaking about I rather than we. Its definitely an odd awkward stage of life, for me anyway. Thanks for posting there's something therapeutic about listening & hearing others who have walked thru similar experiences.
Posted by: Dino | September 18, 2011 at 12:59 PM
love
Posted by: Jessica Campbell | September 18, 2011 at 01:10 PM
I'm sorry, Love you both and hope the best for you.
Posted by: Adam Mac | September 18, 2011 at 01:11 PM
love you both so much.
Posted by: dani | September 18, 2011 at 04:46 PM
I hated to read this. I am hoping the best for both of you.
Posted by: Jason Shepherd | September 19, 2011 at 09:44 AM
Wishing you both the best.
Posted by: Leighton | September 19, 2011 at 09:10 PM
As one who is on the same road, I have a sense of what you're going through. My thoughts and positive vibes are with you.
kgp
Posted by: Kevin Powell | September 20, 2011 at 09:15 AM
Greg, this is a really powerful post. Sorry to hear of the divorce.
Posted by: MyQuest | September 20, 2011 at 06:42 PM
Oof. It's difficult to read; I can't imagine how difficult it is to endure. I wish you both well.
Posted by: Darrell | September 20, 2011 at 08:03 PM
Peace and love to you Greg. Thank-you for your searing honesty.
Posted by: goz | September 21, 2011 at 05:20 AM
Sorry to hear about this Greg, but also very glad to know you and Susan are both breathing again...
Posted by: April | September 22, 2011 at 07:06 PM
Beautiful and heavy words, Greg. Thanks for sharing them.
Posted by: Sheri | September 24, 2011 at 08:31 AM
Greg, thank you for sharing this - you didn't have to at all. I wish you and Susan the privacy and healing you both deserve.
Posted by: Natalie | September 26, 2011 at 07:05 PM
This was good. I wish I could go back in time with my wife knowing what we know now, before we had 4 beautiful babies together, and make some different decisions. Now I feel stuck, she feels stuck, and I am afraid I am going to fuck up my kids life if we stay together or split up. So much of life is fake. Every step of our relationship was based on a false premise. We were "christians", this is right, all things will be well. They're not, she still believes, I have reached a plane of uncertainty. Then, we are having kids, they will change everything, they did but not for the better in regards to our relationship. ughhh
Hope, I guess...I hope.
Posted by: brett | October 14, 2012 at 12:36 AM
Brett, I wish you well, sir. Thanks for stopping by.
Posted by: Greg Horton | October 14, 2012 at 11:53 AM
Strong, hard words. And I am sorry.
Today I fought and wept and fought some more with that man I still call "my beautiful husband."
And he is just that, but marriage is an odd and messy thing.
He and I are also very odd and messy things...*sigh*
I understand that our "rough streak" (he's a Birmingham News journalist, if that's any insight) doesn't compare to your raw loss, so I think maybe I'll just trail off right about now--I'm on quite the if-I-use-words-I'll-fuck-it-up streak today...
Still, thank you for telling. So many don't.
Regards, Leslie
Posted by: Leslie | October 14, 2012 at 07:19 PM