Friday, December 28, 2012

Emily Jane White kind of day




I'm perplexed by grief and options that are mine:

Improve a marriage that feels empty and lacking in future when it is "good".
Leave a marriage that feels empty when it is "good".
Live in pain with the man who once brought unimaginable happiness.
Live in pain without the man who once brought unimaginable happiness.
Wait for God to perform miracles that aren't certain will ever occur, to fight those battles that rage endlessly in body and mind.

God hasn't said to return. I'm not certain why I'm sitting in his house again, even if he's once more in the North Country without me.

He texted this morning and I told him to leave me alone. I'm certain it hurt him. I wouldn't have said as much if I weren't hurting. There is no justification for my cruelty in any of that.

It is my first-born son's fifteenth birthday.

I'm remembering being that close to God, breathing through four hours of Earth-bending work, the joy of pushing back the veil through the last five minutes of contractions, and meeting the piercing gaze of the infant placed in my arms.


I'm remembering the months I carried him, first receiving my endowment, my belly covered in temple robes, and the quiet promise I'd whisper to him in the Celestial Room that I would bring him back someday. He's done baptisms for the dead with the young men in our ward, but the two of us have never been together. Some of that has to do with choices I have made. Most of it. I feel I have failed him.

My husband says how cruel it is that I revere the men who have given me motherhood. And it's true, I do hold them high. Even the one who abandoned me with my youngest in my belly.

I think it is cruel that my husband denies that motherhood is anything I should expect from him. Cruel that I'm expected to be happy with the promise that he'll give me all the babes I want in the next life. Cruel that he says he doesn't need me for children because he already had her. Cruel that I'm supposed to be happy just being present somewhere in his house, because feeling that he's not alone is what makes him happy. Cruel that he clings to the assertion that 49 is old and that he doesn't want to be parenting when he is 70, though he has five children from her who will still need parenting in some form or other until and beyond then. Cruel that he insists God must tell him to procreate because he doesn't know that he'll be able to provide till he's 70, though I will still be his wife and in need of that providence. Cruel because I have the insurance that he says isn't available. Cruel because so little of what he claims must be in place is needed to raise a child well. Cruel that he expects me to live alongside this ravaging dream and all its ghosts without answer to convenience him. Cruel because there is nothing better he has planned for the next 18 years.

There's always a cop out. God whispered once, "He doesn't love you enough."

I am twisted with joy and pain. December is going to be a dagger for the rest of my life.

Two years ago, when my husband's first granddaughter was born on Christmas day and this all woke up inside of me, when he told me that if I needed to bear his child to make me happy that he would let me go, when I first began to die inside—I tell myself I should have left then. Though I don't know if I could have found the strength, because I can't now.

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