Always Look On The Bright Side

The answer was in front of me all along. Or, at least, part of the answer. Less is more. The key was not to pour on the pressure, but to back off, to ease up, and let things happen.

Several days ago, prior to her most recent road trip to Detroit, as well as during, via text message, I told her flat out why it bothered me so much that she frequented the clubs and made these overnight visits, completely barring me from participation.

Several years ago, she made similar visits to various bars and clubs with her cousins. Now, her family never fully approved of me, and in turn, I can't really approve of them. My wife told me how she was the family lackey, how her mother had physically, emotionally, and psychologically abused her, how her older brother bullied her. Her family had some ill-conceived, laughable notion that their history of alcoholism, Neanderthal brutishness, physical competitiveness, and commonplace incest (no, not joking or exaggerating in the least) made them objects of nobility, demanding a 'kiss my ring' sort of admiration and fealty from anyone connected to the family. That was, until I came along. I made it clear to them, through word and deed, that they were not gaining a son, that I was liberating their daughter. I told her mother bluntly that the next time she rose her hand to her child, she'd end up staring at the bloody stump at the end of her arm. I let them know in no uncertain terms that they were living roof of Darwin's theories. Summarily, it became the mission of her cousins to split us up, by any means necessary.

They tried seducing me. The thought still brings on waves of nausea. Call me discriminating, call me aloof, call me an elitist, but I just get motivate myself to get turned on by stretch marks, flesh-pocking cellulite, and chronic STD's virulent enough to render the usual orifice for sexual congress a biohazzard posted by a detour sign to the 'back door.' That failing, miserably, they frequently invited my wife out to clubs, and every time, they had a would-be affair waiting for her, fully intending and even encouraging her to cheat. I'm grateful that she resisted, and thankful that she received no harm greater than a wandering grope, though even that is unforgivable. However, the effect on me, which I have only just begun to realize with her current clubbing, was to grow to distrust anyone with whom she had social interactions outside my view. While I am making efforts to be more trusting, it comes with great difficulty. I trust her; I'm confident enough of where I am now that I can declare that to myself without the air of trying to convince myself. Those with whom she socializes, however, I do not trust. So many so close to her have disrespected and ignored our marriage vow that the probability of anyone else doing so is to prevalent. It doesn't help that she's hanging out with men, albeit gay men. She continually tells me that they're not interested in her, or any woman for that matter. I argue back that, so long as they still have penises, there is that remote chance that they'll want to experience how the other half lives.

And though it was a far more difficult discussion, we did talk about my concern that she might want to see how the other half lives. At first, predictably, she was offended, but I held my ground and explained to her that my suspicions were not the result of anything unrequited or of mere spite, but the result of months of her hiding plans and behaviour from me. She said she couldn't believe I had asked her that, and I told her that I couldn't believe that she had gone to such great efforts to keep everything from me that I was forced to wonder and worry.

These discussions, these confessions were the small incidents that began the turning of the tide.

A few days ago, just as I was ending my shift, I sent her a love-letter I had composed on my cell-phone in a series of saved text messages. When I got home, without provocation or a single word, she sat closely next to me on the loveseat. It may seem so insignificant an act to so many, something trivial and not worth remark, but after months during which she strove to avoid any discernible physical contact with me, that position she took next to me spoke volumes. My pulse quickened, my chest became tight, and for once it wasn't some middle-aged health crisis; it felt good and right. I gently rubbed the curve of her hip, and she didn't flinch away.

Two days later, following an overnight shift and a morning pre-surgical radiological scan, we walked our youngest to school together. Half way back, on a whim, I grazed her fingers with mine; we held hands the remainder of the way back. We then sat on the loveseat again, talking for an hour and a half before I had to turn in and sleep for my next overnight.

Late last night, as we moved during sleep, the covers slipped off both of us. I awoke to find her lying naked next to me, still half-covered by the blankets. I caressed her bare back; she didn't flinch. I kissed her, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back; gentle shifting, but no flinch. We made love, fully, arduously, with passion and avarice. We held each other throughout the rest of the night.

As ecstatic as I am that we have progressed this far, I am no fool. A night of fantastic passion, no matter how wonderful, no matter how mutually approached, does not heal the rifts that have led to the past several months of hurt and accusation. We still plan on scheduling marriage therapy, once schedules and finances can be appropriately coordinated. To assume this was our solution, our fix, would put us back on the same road again, but months and months further back. We're in this for good, forever, not just the satisfaction of the here and now.

I'm unaccustomed to having things to which to look forward, to anticipate. Hope is fleeting, but it's here, available for the taking. I'm going to take my fill, hold it close, and work towards a better and healthier marriage, for both our sakes.