C was up twice in the middle of the night. T came into our bed in the 6am hour, and I vaguely recall hearing him and Z leave the room at some point. But the next thing I knew it was after 8am. I looked out the window and one of the cars was gone. Z had taken both boys to the farmers market and let me sleep.
The night before we didn't have a conversation about how on edge and unreasonable I was. But we haven't been married for 12 years for nothing. He knew exactly what was going on even if I did not, he could have given me a hard time for being a brat, instead he let me sleep in. When I woke up to an empty house I was grateful and ashamed and I finally realized the my anxiety was through the roof.
I continue to try and push myself, to fight the urges to hide at home, to tell the anxiety to fuck off so I can get on with the business of living. But some weeks are still too much. Last Monday was our anniversary, Tuesday evening we had orientation for T's school, Wednesday my folks went home, T went to the dentist for the first time, C has his 12 month well visit and three shots, and in the evening I had class, Thursday a friend and mentor of Z's who I'd never met was driving through town so we had him for dinner, Friday we had a birthday party to attend for a sweet little girl who turned 3, by the time we got to Friday evening I had started to withdraw.
I wanted to do all of these things (Ok, not the orientation for T's school-he was there last year so we know the drill), and I'm glad I did to them, even the orientation. Listen, everyone in the world who has kids or who has someone in the household who works in academia had a week every bit as full-the start of the year is always crazy. I continue to be ashamed that doing what most others handle every week makes me want to rock back and forth on the sofa and be left completely alone with a huge bottle of chill pills, a 6-pack of hard cider, and all 8 Harry Potter movies.
It's hard to not hate myself for how much I struggle with the day to day stuff. It's hard to not feel like a burden to Z and the boys. But one of the things that makes it easier is that Z knows me, sometimes he knows me better and faster than I know myself. Even when our marriage was a big pile of bird droppings he still knew me. We saw some pretty bad times about 7 or 8 years ago, I don't think that either of us really understands how and why we (and a battery of therapists) were able to battle back from ending things. It feels like a miracle that he knows me more intimately than anyone else ever has, knows all the shameful and gross things, and not only loves me but likes me. I still don't feel worthy of his affection. He gets pissed whenever I bring it up. He doesn't want me to question him, he wants me to accept what he gives me. Hell, it would piss me off if he needed me to explain the million reasons I wake up wanting to spend the rest of my life with him. I'm glad that he feels like he deserves the love and the like I throw his way. I wish I was more like him.
So that is what I'm grateful for after 12 years of marriage, he knows me. He understands me before I understand myself. And a lot of the time he uses that understanding to be kind to me. He's a good fucking guy.
Happy Anniversary, Z. I love you. Incidentally, I also think you are sexy as hell.
And I'm glad we have these amazing boys together.
And that you do kick ass stuff like refinish the front door.
The traditional gift for 12 years of marriage is silk. Z hand stitched a blank book for me. It is covered in silk and on the back of all 36 pages he typed a fact including the number 12.
Yes, I do know how lucky I am.