I recently received the following in an email. It is such an encouraging story that reflects the value of holding onto principle and allowing those around us to have their space, which we all need at some point. đ
August 2, 2009
Modern Love
Those Arenât Fighting Words, Dear
By LAURA A. MUNSON
LETâS say you have what you believe to be a healthy marriage. Youâre still friends and lovers after spending more than half of your lives together. The dreams you set out to achieve in your 20s â gazing into each otherâs eyes in candlelit city bistros when you were single and skinny â have for the most part come true.
Two decades later you have the 20 acres of land, the farmhouse, the children, the dogs and horses. Youâre the parents you said you would be, full of love and guidance. Youâve done it all: Disneyland, camping, Hawaii, Mexico, city living, stargazing.
Sure, you have your marital issues, but on the whole you feel so self-satisfied about how things have worked out that you would never, in your wildest nightmares, think you would hear these words from your husband one fine summer day: âI donât love you anymore. Iâm not sure I ever did. Iâm moving out. The kids will understand. Theyâll want me to be happy.â
But wait. This isnât the divorce story you think it is. Neither is it a begging-him-to-stay story. Itâs a story about hearing your husband say âI donât love you anymoreâ and deciding not to believe him. And what can happen as a result.
Hereâs a visual: Child throws a temper tantrum. Tries to hit his mother. But the mother doesnât hit back, lecture or punish. Instead, she ducks. Then she tries to go about her business as if the tantrum isnât happening. She doesnât ârewardâ the tantrum. She simply doesnât take the tantrum personally because, after all, itâs not about her.
Let me be clear: Iâm not saying my husband was throwing a childâs tantrum. No. He was in the grip of something else â a profound and far more troubling meltdown that comes not in childhood but in midlife, when we perceive that our personal trajectory is no longer arcing reliably upward as it once did. But I decided to respond the same way Iâd responded to my childrenâs tantrums. And I kept responding to it that way. For four months.
âI donât love you anymore. Iâm not sure I ever did.â
His words came at me like a speeding fist, like a sucker punch, yet somehow in that moment I was able to duck. And once I recovered and composed myself, I managed to say, âI donât buy it.â Because I didnât.
He drew back in surprise. Apparently heâd expected me to burst into tears, to rage at him, to threaten him with a custody battle. Or beg him to change his mind.
So he turned mean. âI donât like what youâve become.â
Gut-wrenching pause. How could he say such a thing? Thatâs when I really wanted to fight. To rage. To cry. But I didnât.
Instead, a shroud of calm enveloped me, and I repeated those words: âI donât buy it.â
You see, Iâd recently committed to a non-negotiable understanding with myself. Iâd committed to âThe End of Suffering.â Iâd finally managed to exile the voices in my head that told me my personal happiness was only as good as my outward success, rooted in things that were often outside my control. Iâd seen the insanity of that equation and decided to take responsibility for my own happiness. And I mean all of it.
My husband hadnât yet come to this understanding with himself. He had enjoyed many years of hard work, and its rewards had supported our family of four all along. But his new endeavor hadnât been going so well, and his ability to be the breadwinner was in rapid decline. Heâd been miserable about this, felt useless, was losing himself emotionally and letting himself go physically. And now he wanted out of our marriage; to be done with our family.
But I wasnât buying it.
I said: âItâs not age-appropriate to expect children to be concerned with their parentsâ happiness. Not unless you want to create co-dependents whoâll spend their lives in bad relationships and therapy. There are times in every relationship when the parties involved need a break. What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?â
âHuh?â he said.
âGo trekking in Nepal. Build a yurt in the back meadow. Turn the garage studio into a man-cave. Get that drum set youâve always wanted. Anything but hurting the children and me with a reckless move like the one youâre talking about.â
Then I repeated my line, âWhat can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?â
âHuh?â
âHow can we have a responsible distance?â
âI donât want distance,â he said. âI want to move out.â
My mind raced. Was it another woman? Drugs? Unconscionable secrets? But I stopped myself. I would not suffer.
Instead, I went to my desk, Googled âresponsible separationâ and came up with a list. It included things like: Whoâs allowed to use what credit cards? Who are the children allowed to see you with in town? Whoâs allowed keys to what?
I looked through the list and passed it on to him.
His response: âKeys? We donât even have keys to our house.â
I remained stoic. I could see pain in his eyes. Pain I recognized.
âOh, I see what youâre doing,â he said. âYouâre going to make me go into therapy. Youâre not going to let me move out. Youâre going to use the kids against me.â
âI never said that. I just asked: What can we do to give you the distance you need … â
âStop saying that!â
Well, he didnât move out.
Instead, he spent the summer being unreliable. He stopped coming home at his usual six oâclock. He would stay out late and not call. He blew off our entire Fourth of July â the parade, the barbecue, the fireworks â to go to someone elseâs party. When he was at home, he was distant. He wouldnât look me in the eye. He didnât even wish me âHappy Birthday.â
But I didnât play into it. I walked my line. I told the kids: âDaddyâs having a hard time as adults often do. But weâre a family, no matter what.â I was not going to suffer. And neither were they.
MY trusted friends were irate on my behalf. âHow can you just stand by and accept this behavior? Kick him out! Get a lawyer!â
I walked my line with them, too. This man was hurting, yet his problem wasnât mine to solve. In fact, I needed to get out of his way so he could solve it.
I know what youâre thinking: Iâm a pushover. Iâm weak and scared and would put up with anything to keep the family together. Iâm probably one of those women who would endure physical abuse. But I can assure you, Iâm not. I load 1,500-pound horses into trailers and gallop through the high country of Montana all summer. I went through Pitocin-induced natural childbirth. And a Caesarean section without follow-up drugs. I am handy with a chain saw.
I simply had come to understand that I was not at the root of my husbandâs problem. He was. If he could turn his problem into a marital fight, he could make it about us. I needed to get out of the way so that wouldnât happen.
Privately, I decided to give him time. Six months.
I had good days, and I had bad days. On the good days, I took the high road. I ignored his lashing out, his merciless jabs. On bad days, I would fester in the August sun while the kids ran through sprinklers, raging at him in my mind. But I never wavered. Although it may sound ridiculous to say âDonât take it personallyâ when your husband tells you he no longer loves you, sometimes thatâs exactly what you have to do.
Instead of issuing ultimatums, yelling, crying or begging, I presented him with options. I created a summer of fun for our family and welcomed him to share in it, or not â it was up to him. If he chose not to come along, we would miss him, but we would be just fine, thank you very much. And we were.
And, yeah, you can bet I wanted to sit him down and persuade him to stay. To love me. To fight for what weâve created. You can bet I wanted to.
But I didnât.
I barbecued. Made lemonade. Set the table for four. Loved him from afar.
And one day, there he was, home from work early, mowing the lawn. A man doesnât mow his lawn if heâs going to leave it. Not this man. Then he fixed a door that had been broken for eight years. He made a comment about our front porch needing paint. Our front porch. He mentioned needing wood for next winter. The future. Little by little, he started talking about the future.
It was Thanksgiving dinner that sealed it. My husband bowed his head humbly and said, âIâm thankful for my family.â
He was back.
And I saw what had been missing: pride. Heâd lost pride in himself. Maybe thatâs what happens when our egos take a hit in midlife and we realize weâre not as young and golden anymore.
When lifeâs knocked us around. And our childhood myths reveal themselves to be just that. The truth feels like the biggest sucker-punch of them all: itâs not a spouse or land or a job or money that brings us happiness. Those achievements, those relationships, can enhance our happiness, yes, but happiness has to start from within. Relying on any other equation can be lethal.
My husband had become lost in the myth. But he found his way out. Weâve since had the hard conversations. In fact, he encouraged me to write about our ordeal. To help other couples who arrive at this juncture in life. People who feel scared and stuck. Who believe their temporary feelings are permanent. Who see an easy out, and think they can escape.
My husband tried to strike a deal. Blame me for his pain. Unload his feelings of personal disgrace onto me.
But I ducked. And I waited. And it worked.
Laura A. Munson is a writer who lives in Whitefish, Mont.