Foreverland: On the Divine Tedium of Marriage

by Heather Havrilesky

Later we stand next to a card table outside, eating dry, crumbly chocolate chip cookies someone made. That’s life in the suburbs: pretending that nothing is bothering you while you eat something shitty.

Being part of a community turns out to include countless hours of trying to look relaxed while you freak out on the inside. If you don’t stay quiet, if you dare to scream or fidget or complain, you risk everything. Moving to the suburbs means agreeing not to mention that the sky is falling.

We try to shake off our most passionate desires, but instead they render us at once anxious and willfully nonchalant, controlling and totally out of control, intent on divesting and overcome by a feeling that this one tiny thing matters more than anything else in the world.

I’m middle-aged, so I have all kinds of baseless and unfair opinions, which people used to call “being fucking delusional” but now refer to as “honoring your truth.”

He is referring to my precarious drive right along the edge of unhinged.

surviving a marriage requires turning down the volume on your spouse so you can barely hear what they’re saying. You must do this not only so you don’t overdose on the same stultifying words and phrases within the first year, but also so your spouse’s various grunts and sneezes and snorts and throat clearings don’t serve as a magic flute that causes you to wander out the front door and into the wilderness, never to return.

Bill’s sneezes are an emergency. I don’t think I’ve ever not said “Jesus fucking Christ” out loud upon hearing one.

Do I hate my husband? For sure, yes, definitely. I don’t know anyone who’s been married more than

But you can’t spend fifteen years with someone who makes as much noise as my husband does and not feel white-hot rage well up inside you occasionally. Yes, of course I also love him. For years, I couldn’t imagine a suitable replacement for all of that noise, beyond maybe empty space and blessed silence. Then I started to use my imagination a lot more.

I am too thin-skinned and critical for marriage.

Love and hate are intertwined, sometimes to the point where they’re almost indistinguishable from each other. I need you, therefore I hate you. I can never leave you, therefore you are my bunkmate in this prison we freely chose, back when we were younger and even stupider than we are now. No sooner are you saved than you start to resent your savior.

Marriage is a solution to several problems that creates infinite additional problems. Marriage can cure your loneliness or exacerbate it. Marriage can make you feel a lot stronger than you really are and a lot weaker than you really are.

negative reinforcement was not that effective. Yanking on their leashes and saying “No!” worked reasonably well with our overconfident alpha dog. For these two insecure dogs, it just added to the chaos. These dogs needed a calm, confident master.

But cheating in general suddenly sounds like the best thing ever. Fucking someone you barely know in a nice hotel room somewhere? And you’re sneaking around and lying about it? Plus there’s no time, and you’ll never be there again? I finally get it. And I’ll never get to do it.” “Oh poor you, you have a good marriage so you can’t cheat.” “I know, it’s dumb. I’m sorry.”

It suddenly seemed feasible to have a one-night stand (or even a brief affair, preferably on some tropical island in the middle of the ocean!), and it would just be a big fat bonus added on to my preexisting life, kind of like second breakfasts in The Hobbit.

Being married is like being a teenager with a curfew, I thought. You’re never really free. You’re always tied to someone else. I wish I could make my own choices without worrying about how they’ll affect Bill.

Bill helped me put the wheels back on. We returned to the living room, and I felt okay. I wasn’t alone. Bill understood how it felt under my skin. That’s all I really needed, as it turned out. That’s all I ever need most of the time. Even as everything else is falling apart.

You will feel misaligned with your purpose on this earth as long as you ignore your opponent, your imaginary friend, your patron, your padawan, your dragon hiding in the mountain, your rusty wrench, your master, your fidget spinner, your inspiration, your servant, your patient garden, your rising tide, your dirty bomb, your falling star.

But I’ve still struggled to stand still and feel his love for me. It’s the hardest thing to do, sometimes: just to stand still and be loved.

Sometimes we fail and fumble simply because we’re here to feel as much as we can before our time runs out.