with the greatest unease

I've been in a transitional period lately, not so sure I have a solid grasp on anything, and therefore less inclined to write. I read a great and timely post today over at 37 Days that got me thinking, though. It likens transition time to the moment in aerial acrobatics when you let go of one trapeze bar and soar for a moment, ostensibly unsupported, until you grab the other--the next thing. This in-between moment may be the scariest, and the time during which things could potentially go most horribly wrong, but it's also the time when we're actually most alive, present and in the moment. True transition crackles with electric life.

G told me a few days ago that he has been experiencing the very uncomfortable emergence of an awareness that he is unsatisfied in our marriage. He said he "wasn't sure if he wanted to be in this for the rest of [his] life." Thankfully, this revelation came within the context of a discussion which included the topic of his general emotional dysfunction: in our one-on-one interactions, he tends to stuff his own feelings down so far that he can't even access them himself with spelunking gear, so I really don't have a prayer. The connection was clear, and though his words gave me a start, I was not afraid. I don't want to be in this as it is for the rest of my life, either. And now we could start on the path out and up. And yet... it's not like nothing changes after a talk like that.

When I got home last night from my weekly singing event, the sensation of fear accosted me suddenly as I stepped onto my own front porch: my guts turned over, my pulse raced, my head felt woozy and I began to tremble. I'd had a feeling like that once before when I walked into my own house; at that time G was having a very brief but intense episode of some mystery illness, and I had known something was very wrong the moment I stepped into the kitchen. But last night, the feeling was more terror than intense unease. It was as though I were being pursued by a psycho whom I somehow knew was lurking in the bushes. Not pleasant.

G wasn't at his computer or in the TV room. And the lights in the bedroom were off--strange for this hour. I went straight upstairs without taking my coat off. I stood in the bedroom door for a moment, listening for his breathing, not wanting to wake him if he was there. "Hi," he said weakly from the dark bed. Phew. I sat down next to him, found his face to kiss, asked him how he was: okay. Just okay. It sounded to me like something was up, but he had obviously been sleeping and would soon be sleeping again if I let him, so I didn't press it.

Rivulets of sweat ran down my neck as I washed my face, and I brushed my teeth with trembling hands. What the hell? I breathed; I remembered the presence of God and my perfect union with perfect peace and wholeness. Gradually my body and spirit quieted down.

Then, this morning, G let me know that he'd gotten a phone call last night: one of his sisters is leaving her husband, the father of her two gorgeous little kids. Out of the blue. He's been mostly away for a few months, in a training program for his vocation. Apparently during that time, though she had never let him know that there were any issues, she thought about herself and who she wanted to be, and the more she thought, the more she realized she didn't want to be with him.

They've been together since high school, something like eighteen years. I felt anger, disappointment, sadness. To me, it seems like the epitome of irresponsibility to simply decide to walk out on a marriage, especially with young kids, without first at least trying to work it out. Maybe she'd find she could be more herself within her marriage, if she only showed up with her new expanded ideas of herself. If she only gave him a chance to meet her wherever she has found herself of late. Maybe the relationship could be refreshed and revived--maybe it could be better than ever--if she brought her bracing truth to the table rather than wrapping it in the cocoon of mistrust and running away with it. To where, I wonder. If she can't find the courage to show up here, then where?

I was afraid to ask, but I did: How did G feel when he heard the news? Awful generally, I knew, but awful because he didn't want it to happen to us? Or did he think, A-ha, I could do that? The latter, I'm afraid. He said his first thought was That sounds easy. Lucky for me, he has enough self-awareness to notice that first reaction and not stop there. He's been thinking a lot about this stuff since our talk the other day, but after that phone conversation he was plunged in even deeper. (Hence my sense of terror upon entering our home last night, I expect.)

"Luckily, I agree with you," he said of my assessment of his sister's choice. "I won't do that." But his fear, and the reasons of family history which make it hard for him--and for his siblings--to know and honor their own feelings, seem so large and unwieldy right now that I feel insecure, shaky, teary to hear him talk about his first reaction.

And of course, his stuff is complementary to mine in many ways, and it has the potential to push some buttons. For instance, I get slammed sometimes for having a "strong personality." And it's not like I haven't learned over the years that toning it down here and there to ease the delicate dance of relating is a reasonable and productive thing to do. I have no investment in making it hard for anyone. There's just lingering frustration about how what I really, truly want is for others to be just as strong with (and for) me. I have no insatiable need to be right or to get my way. In fact, I often feel distinctly uncomfortable and deeply disappointed when I am showing up and sharing honestly--not just my vulnerability and my need, but my strength and my truth-- and another is unwilling to do the same. I want to enjoy the company of others, not just seek validation for my own views and perspectives. Seems to me that's more like being alone. I can tell you that at those times I feel just lonely, lonely, lonely. But in the past, what has really sent me over the edge is when the unwilling party feels their fear and blames me. My strength has frequently served as the scapegoat for chicken-shit wussbags, bless their hearts, who need an external excuse for their own failure to know and assert themselves.

But this is my marriage. G and his siblings may all have chosen strong personalities for spouses, and this choice may provide at least the ostensible excuse for remaining self-sublimating within their intimate relationships, but G chose me. I may be strong, but I have seen what he's been up to from the start, and I have consistently implored him to get in touch with his truth and assert himself, not out of a sense of nurturing support, though I feel that, too, but because I want him to show up! I can't have a decent philosophical discussion or make love with a reflection of myself. Well, I can, but seriously--how boring. Then what's the point of being with another person?

Happily, it's really only within the context of the extra-close one-on-one stuff that his fear can take over. He's very assertive and self-determining elsewhere in his life. He's so excellent. I can't wait till I get to see more of him. But during our discussion the other day, he told me to be careful what I wish for, that he could be a bit of a bastard as he works through some of this stuff. So I told him that that sounded infinitely more interesting than what we've had. Bring it the fuck ON, I said. Bring it on.

So it's on. And I have to tell you: all this quease and unease may not be fun, exactly, but I am aware of the juice between us so much more palpably now, in this in-between time. I really do prefer these tears and fears to the old anesthetizing routines, to the stupefying safety of just swinging back and forth on that same old trapeze bar. I don't know for sure what's next, but I'm so glad that we have let go. We're flying!