Rob and I are on our way back from the brink — quite literally. Just hours ago we stood at the rim of the Grand Canyon, gaping at the void.
The contrast between utter geologic beauty of the canyon walls and vast nothingness between is almost too great. Standing at the edge, my heart pounded in fear, and yet I only wanted to stay right there, quiet, gazing, forever. And I'm glad I was there with Rob.
I never could have dreamt up a man more capable of change, more supportive in deed. He has grown up and stepped forward to be at my side this past year. With work he has worn away of outer layers of habit to reveal depth and nuance of character, and this transformation has buoyed our relationship.
And yet, there is the void. Our sex life remains underdeveloped despite the change and the therapy and the good intentions. Meaningful partnership with no physical intimacy is a lot to bear, and the sheer size of the nothingness brings to mind time. If I'm choosing Rob, is this really it for me, forever? How have I become okay with that, and how will I remain so?
Traveling for work: What does that do for a lackluster marriage? Does absence make the heart grow fonder, or does it provide a safe chance to test the waters of independence?
When you're in Phoenix from Boston, it's not the latter, there's not much to do here as compared to my home city. After each day's conference sessions end, a group of bored co-workers heads to a mediocre restaurant. And there's not enough energy left at the end of a long day to make more of these evenings out.
There is some flirting, for sure, among the youngest attendees — particularly the students here on scholarship. And why not? This is an atmospheric sciences convention, a gathering of geeks; they need to get it while they can.
But the researchers wish they were home with their families; the product peddlers are here to wine and dine; the National Weather Service folks are relieved for a break from the field, but someone has yet to show them how to clean themselves up. The NASA and Lockheed folks are aloof — who knows what's going on there.
I'm planning another trip with Rob and it feels so strange. How can you keep a straight face when you are planning what is essentially a romantic getaway with a guy who is only best buddy (even while he is your husband)? It's awkward, to say the least.
This trip is on honor of Rob's birthday, and we're tacking it onto a business trip I'm taking to Phoenix. Rob will join me when my week is done, and we'll drive up to Sedona for a couple of days. We'll check out the Grand Canyon as well.
Fun! The awkward bit is the hotel room in Sedona. Since it's his birthday, I made a big deal of checking out the options online together. Like an out-of-control snowball we went from wanting a "nice place" to "cool room" to "with fireplace" to "with Jacuzzi." The options were there, and we have the money, so the whole thing just sort of blossomed and now we're staying in what can only be called a romantic suite.
"Love actually is...all around." When Hugh Grant's character narrates the opening of the movie Love Actually, he admits love — the love in evidence at the arrivals gate of Heathrow Airport — is not particularly dignified. It's awkward and pedestrian. But it's pervasive.
Shot after shot of homecomings and reunions reveal something profound in everyday love. Siblings, grandparents and their children, and old friends reach out for each other, smiling and crying. They hold each other dearly.
By nature love is exponential. It multiplies to the beat of a steady drum. It keeps families together, protects us, and makes the world go round. It is quiet and vital.
Love actually is also...terribly hard work. Things get in the way — like thinking love should move me and elevate me to star status. For years I suffered under the girlish delusion that love means having it all — drama, attention, and romance. Even older and wiser I haven't truly let go of what I think love should be long enough to see what love is.
I've written about our happy days and sad, our intimacies and lack thereof, our dreams and traditions, and how those things have changed. Rob and I have both enjoyed each others' families and been hurt by them. Sometimes we've put each other first, and sometimes we've neglected each others' need entirely.
Rob has drunk himself near to death, stopped drinking altogether, and then found a balance. I've both searched for apartments so I could move out on my own, and gave my all to couples therapy in hopes we'd find the key to a happier marriage.
I've written extensively on my doubt, and shared my wavering heart as honestly as possible, even when my wishy-washiness seemed a terribly embarrassing mark of weakness.
In the throes of the holidays, with the New Year approaching, I've been playing my part as usual. Rob and I are having family and friends over tonight.
Who knows how we'll seem to some of them who don't know the troubles we've had, and who don't know we have a sexless marriage. Perhaps we'll seem the perfect hosts, with the perfect demeanor, with the perfect relationship.
You don't KNOW if you don't TRY. So I'm applying myself to my marriage to see if it might work. And things are shifting.
Then at our last counseling session Rob spilled to our therapist that I had complained our work with her had been overly focused on him. I had told him that in confidence! I was horrified when — apparently unaware this would be a problem — he let on. I was left sitting there sheepishly, making excuses as to why I said what I said ("It was in jest!"), trying to convince her I had no problems with how things were going.
Anyway, I didn't mind the neglect. Rob is paying for these sessions; I guess the unbalanced attention allowed me to feel okay about not contributing to the fee. So as the therapist spent our time week after week asking Rob about his relationship to drinking and encouraging him to work on communication and connection, I didn't argue. It's not like I wouldn't benefit immensely from his improvements in those areas, so I watched patiently and hoped the work would stick.
Re-reading my last post about not taking Rob to the end-of-yoga-teacher-training party, it worried me how desperately I wanted to avoid involving Rob in the new step I'm taking in my life. I wanted to avoid introducing him to my new friends. Is this telling? Does it mean that though I won't admit it to myself, what I really want is to have an altogether separate life from him?
Part of me wanted to bring him that night. After all, he's been incredibly helpful to me as I've been in the program — he gave me rides to the studio, made me dinners after a long days of training, and generally took care of things at home when I was swamped with homework. If I'm not sure my heart's in our relationship, am I taking advantage by accepting such support?
But there was that moment, in the midst of mingling at the party when I missed Rob. I met a fascinating filmmaker he would have had a great chat with. I thought of how much he would have loved to have been there, and maybe I even wished he was.
