I have always had trouble in relationships. Which is strange, because I love love, and I love relationships. I like to talk about them, write about them, obsess about them and fantasize that they are there when they are not. And yet, whenever I have gotten myself involved in one, it has inevitably had destructive consequences in my life. Why is that? And how do I overcome it? Is this a female problem? Or more broadly perhaps, an identity problem?
Yes. I have lots of problems. And I love to talk about them and write about them too, for discourse is the antidote to problems. Without placing any blame (because quite honestly I don't know where I would place it), I would like to admit that I was raised in an environment where problems were the enemy, so we all pretended that we didn't have any. Well, ironically enough, this pressure-cooker-style containment resulted in some nasty complications for me, and it took me some time to learn how to unzip all my problem files and get them into usable form. The catalyst for this process was my marriage to the love of my life, Wellington Lacerda. It has been high, it has been low, and it has certainly gotten very ugly. But, for better or worse, here we are on the eve of our second anniversary, enjoying a tender love that I always believed was possible but have never experienced. (I'm sorry if this is getting too mushy, but I'm a girl, so I'm allowed!) Our marriage is very special. It happened before we were ready for it and ate us both alive during our first go. After one year we emerged, skeletons of our former selves, in need of emergency care which we were unable to provide one another. So I had to learn to rely on my friends and family for support through a difficult time. Thank you.
I think possibly the biggest problem that I had was that I take issue with the very idea of marriage. I mean, aren't we past that by now? Don't we know that humans are not meant to be chained together in pairs for the rest of all eternity? I am a modern and fiercely, proudly, independent woman trying my best to carry on a tradition of independent women in my family - I work, earn my own money, travel solo internationally, know how to use a drill - I can take care of myself. I don't need a man! But, streaming just below what I considered to be my strong, female exterior were the formidable forces of nature and biology and psychology and such, shouting, "Companionship!! Babies!!" I didn't quite know what to do with those urges for a long time, and so for years walked around denying them, pretending that this strong-woman shell was awesome and all I needed. But eventually it started to crack (thank god), and my emptiness became apparent to me. Who was I? Woman? Or dung beetle? Sadly, I have to admit that at that time I had become more insect than human. Now what?
Enter Wellington. The man who inspired me to save myself. He hails not from my world, yet with each day that passes our worlds become a little less distant. At his best, he is affectionate and loving; at his worst he is the irritant that produces pearls. Together we have created equal parts chaos and calm, we have chosen the ugliest words from a handful of languages for each other in moments of crisis, and have inspired in each other passion, venom, cruelty and strength. With Wellington in my life, I have life. Not a rose garden. Life. And so long as I keep my mind focused on that fact, on my life at this moment, with him in it, marriage loses all other meaning except for what we have, right now. Hello, freedom to pursue my dreams and be the woman I always wanted to be. What's that? It was a man who helped me get here? Well I'll be. He really must be special.
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