Wednesday, May 25, 2016
I was irritated with something my husband had done. As usual. I seem to live in a semi-permanent state of irritation; it's something I'm working on with medication changes and better nutrition. I don't remember why I was irritated. Probably something silly.
Grumbling to myself as he opened the car door, I saw the sun glint off his wedding band. A simple rose gold band. And in that moment, I realized how much I love this man and that I don't want to know what life is like without him.
It probably sounds odd. I married the man, though, so I must love him, right? Well, yes. But I'm not good at intimacy or commitment or sticking things out when things are tough. So every time something goes wrong or we argue (especially about kids), I'm ready to leave. I'd often think, "If he told me he was leaving me, it would be such a relief." Because then it wouldn't be ME leaving. It wouldn't be ME giving up. Again.
That day, the sunlight hitting his ring shattered a wall within me. This man loves me. He's proud to have me as his wife. He is so incredibly happy to wear that wedding band. He doesn't wear it for me. He wears it because of what it means to him and because he wants everyone to know he's a married man. He never threatens to leave. He never uses my constant sense of guilt to get me to do things he wants. He doesn't use my depression as a sword to cut me down. He reminds me of the good things about myself, tells me that I've made his and the kids' lives better, and is forever patient with me. He's the first person I want to share news with: good or bad.
He drives me crazy. If he replies to my texts or posts with "Hodor" or "Hold the Door" one more time, he may very well end up on the couch for the night. He's a pun lover. We rarely agree on expectations or consequences for the kids. He's constantly trying to convince me to sing karaoke, despite my awful voice.
But he's my husband. I'm proud of him. I love him.