Marital Relations.

The end of last year--losing so many people we cared about in such a small time frame--was incredibly difficult on my marriage.  Despite the fact that we have been together and present for each other's traumas, it is difficult to understand the individualized experience of another person.  I often find myself trying to push my grief aside, thinking "Well, no matter what happened, you didn't lose your mother...You need to be strong for your husband."  My husband, meanwhile, told me his thought process is similar; he finds himself pushing aside his emotions, thinking "She just lost two people, now she has to hold your hand through this.  You need to be stronger for her."

While this is a form of distraction--an easy way not to focus on the barrage of insane emotions these losses have brought up--it has also made me open my eyes to one of the most difficult conflicts I've ever faced: how to balance my need for support with my marital oath to be a supporter.

In the beginning, when our wounds were still fresh and we were flitting in and out of denial, we encountered a level of tension that we'd never felt in our relationship before.  We were each in a highly emotional, vulnerable state.  We each felt as though we'd been locked in dark rooms, and as we searched for a way out, we became more and more frantic....  Unable to handle our own feelings, we put all of our effort into ignoring them.   My husband withdrew emotionally--thinking that refusing to acknowledge his grief might prevent him from experiencing it--and I threw myself into my every day life with a vigor, trying to wrap myself up in a blanket of routine and monotony.

Suddenly, and for the first time in our relationship, it felt like we were no longer partners.  It was as if he was standing a few feet away from me, but I was unable to reach him because the earth was splitting apart between us.  I felt scared and helpless and powerless as I watched this great divide grow into the grand canyon.

I wish I could say that we recognized the need to communicate immediately, but we were both so wrapped up in our own experience of loss that we were unable to see clearly or think rationally.  Instead of turning to each other for support, we turned inward.

We each found ourselves in a place of righteous indignation; each of us bitter with the other for failing to see our desperation and misery, for being unable to save each other.  Our home, usually filled with laughter, was quiet.  We each clung to our side of the bed at night, making the distance between us palpable.

We went on that way for a couple of the most miserable months of our marriage until one day it all just came out.  I don't remember exactly what spurred the conversation, but all of a sudden we were speaking to each other again and finally saying things that mattered.  Instead of talking about what to make for dinner or what had happened at work or what we'd heard on the news that day, we began talking about what we were feeling--what we were experiencing.

It turned out to be the the same.

We discussed how hurt and lost and unsupported and alone we felt; how scared we were about the growing space between us.  We talked about how we had no idea how to proceed--how to sort through everything and heal.  We were finally able to take off our bandages and be vulnerable with each other.

I wish I could say that every day since that conversation has been perfect, that we've figured out how to balance our personal needs with the needs of the other, but the truth is that this is new territory and we still stumble frequently.  What I've learned, however, is that I need to take my husband's hand when I'm falling.  I've learned that I need to share with him in order to create safe space for him to share.

Yes, the earth is still cracked between us and there still is some distance to overcome, but now that we've built the bridge, it's just a matter of making our way across...

We probably should have went with a more sturdy model, huh?

I'm not sure how long it'll take us, but I do know that we'll get there.  While I wish things could've played out differently---that we had more time with our loved ones, that we'd been able to process each experience individually instead of sifting through a pile of grief--but I can't get hung up on all of that.  I have an obligation to myself and my husband to get through this in a way that is healthy.  I have no choice but to accept life despite the terms and conditions in the fine print.

I've learned that our love is stronger than we ever knew and that honesty, vulnerability, empathy and compassion have a lot to do with that.  I've learned that grief makes you do and feel some fucked up things--things that aren't even close to the scope of reality.  I've also gained a lot of perspective; I've realized that every day my loved ones are breathing is a day to celebrate.  I've realized that in the scope of life and death, not a whole lot really matters....  The important things are the people you are surrounded by--the people who let you lean on them when the world gets dark, the people who love you despite the fact that humans can be pretty unlovable sometimes. Cherish them.  Appreciate them.  Don't take them for granted.  Everything and everyone is finite.