When I sat down to put this marriage on paper—the bulk of which took only a few weeks and spewed out of me like a geyser—I did it because I felt a strong urge to help other people in similar situations by telling my story. Even though I have journal upon journal filled with my sadness over the years, I had never previously wanted to formally write it all down because it was just too hurtful to regurgitate.
Bringing everything to the surface has forced me to relive the wounds repeatedly, editing them for correct grammar and punctu- ation. But I had come to a new place: I needed to make something good out of years of hard. If this helps even one person, it will be worth it. Were I to keep it bottled up forever, the experience and the pain would be for naught. I’m big on vulnerability in a world in which people hide their warts. No one can learn vicariously from others if others are projected to be perfect.
I also considered burning this once finished—the ultimate symbol of letting the past go. I’m still not sure which path is better, and I hope I’ve made the most beneficial choice for me and for you.
For years, sorrow was something I felt daily and stuffed down.
My husband didn’t ultimately rock my emotional constitution. But I ached horribly because all that potential in me that was ready to feel home in a husband’s arms and experience love and deep connection with a soulmate, best friend, and life companion was left vacant and unused. I couldn’t even watch sweet romance movies for years without feeling distraught afterwards because I couldn’t experience those things with the mate I chose.
I’m sure a lot of people out there would advise me that life is short, so I should go out and find the person who makes me whole. I’ve learned you can listen to all kinds of opinions that are enticing, but the opinion you have to circle back to is your own. If your opinion doesn’t jibe with the others, following their advice could result in a terrible outcome. You will live the consequences of your choices, so you better own them.
I still choose to be a part of this experiment. I have a feeling that seeing us through will matter exponentially more later down the road for abundant reasons, many of which I won’t know until then, and some I’ll never know.
Today I share life with a cordial, happy housemate. He doesn’t remember most of the details of our past. Then again, to him his behavior at the time felt normal and benign. He was usually unaware that he was causing pain and neglect almost every time we were together. After each interaction he’d leave me to deal with hard emotions while he went on his merry way. Because he didn’t see himself as hurtful, he doesn’t look back and feel or remember pain in any of it, except the times I couldn’t hold it all in.
Does that make him innocent? I still don’t know the answer to that. (But even guilty people have been forgiven through the ages.) I share this with you not because I care to remember it, but because during every one of those neglectful or hurtful instances in the past, I hoped that my husband would someday change.
While nothing is even close to perfect, today I can say that even though I lost hope at a certain point, he has nevertheless ever so gradually transformed into a nice person, even generous, fairly trusting, and surprisingly flexible. Irritation and anxiety are almost entirely absent from his demeanor now. It snuck up on me in the last several years into a bafflingly pleasant reality.
These days, my husband’s very aware of the few times he says or does anything hurtful. Because of that, those instances rarely happen anymore. When they do, he works immediately to make things better.
That doesn’t mean everything is peachy, though. I’m a happy, excitable person out in the world, but I still haven’t regained my full smile around my husband after all the years of discord. I only tap into a tiny percentage of my spousal love capacity with him on a daily basis. It’s hard to try for so long, only to realize that even when things improve, the potential that was once there for chemistry is not accessible and may never be. While I’m still an idealist in general, I’m no longer one in this marriage. Hope is not something that carries me through the day. I have a realistic outlook on the possibilities between us.
Somehow in all this, I’ve grown a bit disenchanted with God, too. Or at least the way I used to think of God. I don’t know if that’s cynicism or if it’s ultimately leading to spiritual growth in ways I didn’t originally imagine. Important changes did happen over time, so perhaps there are even better ones on the horizon. Will I finally feel the sparks I’d hoped to share with my husband when I’m 60 or 70? Maybe. But that thought’s a little deflating in itself.
I say all this so you know I’m not downplaying or sugarcoating the end in order to wrap the book up in a pretty, tidy bow. The past and present physical and relational disconnect and its effects are still very much with us.
There have been times I’ve put this aside hoping I could come up with an appropriate ending. I want to be the idealist. I want to encourage you. I want to say everything’s going to be alright. I want the fairytale conclusion. Or at least a fulfilling resolution. Unfortunately, there is no ending to a book about a relationship that continues to be unresolved.
How is it going to play out for us from now on? I have no idea. Only time will tell. In the meantime, I hope knowing our story helps you in some way. If so, perhaps someday you can let me know how.
Please pass this on to anyone who has a similarly difficult journey. While no one can guarantee hope for change, at least you who read this know that you don’t suffer alone. Somehow, there has to be strength in that.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Some people in this world are abused by their families, by war, by famine. Some don’t even have clean water or adequate food. There are times I chide myself for dwelling on marital emotional expectations gone awry while surrounded by myriad first-world comforts. Though someday I hope to be of help in more global ways, I have to hope that what I have experienced is a calling I must respond to by helping others with this book.
In the telling of it, my intent is not to harm my husband in retal- iation. In its one-sided nature, I don’t want him to be seen as “the bad guy.” I even asked if he’d like to write the other half of the book from his perspective, but he declined. Writing is not his thing, nor is recounting any of this.
When out of the blue I asked my sister, who is also my godmother, to think of the best pen name she could that evoked both strength and femininity, “Lila!” shot out of her mouth. “I don’t know why,” she said. “I didn’t even have a chance to think about it! I don’t even love the name.” Nevertheless, Lila it is.
I have written with a pseudonym in order to protect my husband and children. I was tempted to change all the identifying details so that no one would ever put two and two together about who we are, but I soon realized that the account would no longer be something I even recognized. With numerous facts changed for anonymity, it would become foreign to what I experienced, and our children would not recognize it someday. While 49 percent of me hesitates to put this out to the public in loyalty to my family, the other 51 percent must put it out in loyalty to myself.
There are undoubtedly many athletes living with their families in beautiful places where they train, who look like they have it all together. It would be easy to assume that one of your local athletes is the subject of this book, but there are millions of athletes in millions of pretty towns. If you recognize some of these details without a doubt and realize that you know us, please be compassionate about how you share it with others.
Thank you.
Neglect’s Toll on a Wife: Perfection’s Grip on My Husband’s Attention © 2023-2024 Lila Meadowbrook
