We moved to the east coast because it held the promise of a life less ordinary than the one promised us in the midwest: landscape from mountains to oceans within a three-hour drive, much-needed distance from our overbearing families, and multitudes of like-minded friends. An unexpected boon was the milder weather the east coast offered; seasons in the midwest were known for their extreme temperatures, particularly the cold, snowy winters and muggy, humid summers. Yet over the last decade and a half, as things in my marriage have become more complicated, so have the temperate east coast seasons become more extreme. Although science would have me believe this to be an unwelcome effect of global warming, my imagination seems to have conjured this weather as an apt metaphor for my love life. My husband and I married young–too young–after dating for our latter teen years and half of our twenties. We were stupid, horny, and adventurous, didn’t believe in moderation, and after six years together, getting married seemed warranted, if not by us then by our families, who not only believed in moderation but in the sanctity of marriage–or at least, keeping up appearances. It wasn’t until we’d had a kid, bought a house, sold the house, moved back to the midwest, then back to the east coast and bought a second house and were trying to have a second kid that I realized maybe I was in over my head.
On a certain level, I think we both knew our relationship was in no shape to weather bringing another baby on board. But for once in our lives, we had a plan, and true to our stubborn natures, we were sticking to it whether it was right or not. I think we assumed we were both strong enough swimmers to make it ashore intact. But like getting caught in a rip tide, sometimes it takes a while to realize that you’ve been swimming in place and getting nowhere for far too long.
When Hurricane Irene hit, I was still basking in the glow of my newfound love affair with my son, and happily welcomed the opportunity to spend a few extra days with him rather than returning to work. We had relished our summer, spending copious amounts of time alone while my husband and daughter went on various paddling adventures and day trips together. Yet as I began my reentry into the working world and attempted to reestablish routines within our household, I realized that all the time I had been growing closer to our newest member of the family, I was drifting away from the others.
I don’t know what caused the perfect storm that capsized the ever-righted ship that had been our marriage, but by the time Hurricane Sandy hit the east coast the following year, uprooting some from their homes and leaving others captive in theirs, I was ready to abandon ship. Maybe it was the strain two kids had put on our relationship, my husband’s neediness, my own shortcomings, financial strains, job stress, or all of these things. At any rate, I was barely keeping my head above water, so when I met someone new and she threw me a life raft, I reached for it without looking back. Once I caught my breath though, I realized I didn’t need to be saved. I needed to save myself, and in doing so, the others would be safe as well.
We weathered that storm, and although it cracked the hull of our ship, we haven’t sunk yet. We’re still bailing out water by the buckets-full, but now that we’re taking on less water, we can stop once in a while to enjoy the ride.
(mostly) full disclosure 