Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Really, who wasn’t inspired by Julie and Julia? After watching that I bonked myself on the forehead and said, why didn’t I think of that? 

If millions are interested in some woman cooking her way through a French cookbook, surely some poor soul would be interested in my train wreck of a marriage.  And so I propose:

If I write everyday about the ins and outs of my marriage, good and bad (though you should be forewarned, there is extremely little good…) surely you will get an idea of what the hell I should do: stay or go.  And if nothing else, it will be an outlet for me; a journal of sorts, but one that is on record and can’t be tossed into the garbage bin (like I did with my old journals that he was so disapproving of, lest they contain negative commentary about him, which they were indeed full of.  I’m less influenced by his disapproval these days, I hasten to add.)
We did try marriage counseling for six months, but were very quickly going broke because of it and seemed to be going nowhere fast.  If money was no object we would still be going.

Of course, anonymity is of chief concern here in this blog, as even my now cold-hearted self can understand he would be outraged and hurt, to say the least, should he find out that our marriage is the subject matter of a blog.  Although it would give me some perverse pleasure, I must admit, given he is a very private, all about image, don’t ask don’t tell kind of guy.  But for my sake (and who’s kidding who, it is all about me at the end of the day!) if you figure out who I am, mum’s the word.

First, a little preamble.  He is, as he points out to me quite regularly, not a bad person.  He works hard at his profession (ALL for us, he assures me, even as he heads out for yet another round of golf or to Las Vegas for a meeting, NONE of this is any fun, he promises), and he is an extremely dedicated, if too indulgent, father (the kind who caves too easily when the children beg for the toy that I have refused them all week).

He was raised in an extremely religious family, one whose views are so radically different from my own that I am relegated to discussing only the weather.  Anything else would result in uncomfortable moments fraught with tension.  His father frequently hushes his mother: if he had his way it would be wives, not children as the old saying goes, that should be seen and not heard. 

He was brought up as the cherished only son in a small family, the star athlete who wasn’t allowed to go to school dances (since dancing could only lead to things that the devil surely approved of).  Their idea of a good time was having tea after church every Sunday.

I, on the other hand, was one of several children in a raucous family, my parents too busy trying to provide for our family to give me much notice or any boundaries like a curfew. They drank and smoked and peppered their phrases with “oh my god!” and “for Christ’s sake!” and never paid much notice to table manners (I acquired those slowly over time by quietly watching and learning and mimicking, although the bread plate still gives me some grief). We knew we were loved, although it wasn’t ever said, unless it was Christmas Eve and the Crown Royal was flowing.  And come hell or high water, we went to church on Sunday, and confession twice a year.  Religious in the polar opposite sense of the word.

It’s an understatement to say we have extremely different backgrounds.  He grew up under a microscope, while I went about my business unnoticed.  Therapy has taught me (duh!) that not having that structure in my formative years made me crave it; so there was a certain allure to his family for me.  Like honey to a bee, I was drawn to it, although it is hard to write about it now without cringing, or recount it to friends and not say, ”WHAT was I thinking???”

The model that my husband was subjected to is one where a wife having independent thoughts and ideas (not to mention a livelihood) of her own was foreign – and perhaps dangerous - concept.  I don’t think my mother-in-law has ever ventured across the street without first informing her husband and gaining his approval.  In my own humble opinion this influence on his life has been a big source of problems in our fifteen year marriage.

That old saying that opposites attract played an instrumental role in our early courtship and in my decision to marry this man who is clearly very different from myself.  My twenty-one year old self was carefree, social, and left leaning.  He was a graduate student, intelligent, serious and conservative.  Although I kick myself now, since after all, we are who we are, I told myself then that he would be good for me; I could use a little kick in the pants since school was finishing and I was venturing into the wide, wide world.  He would surely help to refine me; if I stuck with him surely success would follow.

It’s funny how things lead to things, and before I knew it I was walking down the aisle, my boisterous and loud family acting like they are in a circus ring (I’m pretty certain I saw some objects flying through the air before I started down the aisle…), his family sober, quiet, and respectful on the other side, fully horrified and surely whispering about the goings on across from them. 

I think it’s fair to say neither of us were over the moon in love, ever.  It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time, to settle down with each other and think about starting a family.  Our first child was born a couple of years into our marriage, our second and third children following at even intervals.  Presto: a functional, if not always happy, family is born. 

And so now we are living the dream: professional father, stay-at-home mother, three cute kids, nice house, nice vacations.  Friends scour my photo albums and remark “you all look so happy!”  It’s easy to smile for a camera, I tell them.

Slowly resentment has grown to be our gigantic elephant in the room on both sides: he is resentful that I have time to brush my teeth in the morning and actually fit a workout in now that the children are in school; I am resentful that he has no idea and no respect for what I do all day, having sacrificed my career after our second child was born (fielding ten phone calls from him a day asking how our child was doing in daycare was tough to deal with, so I packed it in.)

The reality of that dream isn’t so pretty from my perspective: he is controlling, uptight, and has a drastically different outlook on life (Life should be hard! Strive for excellence in all areas!  Now that we are parents, it is all about the kids!) from my own, and discards any of my outlooks as selfish, lazy or hedonistic (those might include: life is short, let’s have fun! Let’s do things with other families and be social! I want to continue to be an interesting, dynamic individual, not just a mom!)  Turns out, we each want to live completely differently.

It is not lost on me that my situation seems atypical.  It is more common to hear of the husband who doesn’t know his kids exist, or the guy who can’t give up golfing every weekend with his buddies to spend time with his family, so I understand this may be hard to relate with.  I dream about a husband who wants to go out with his friends for beers, or wants to go on a guys trip – and I frequently suggest he do this to add some balance to his life, have a little fun.  (Life isn’t all about fun, he replies.)

I love my kids and have been happy to raise them in close proximity, 24-7, although I have certainly had crazy moments where I fantasize about getting in my car and driving into the sunset, never to be heard of again.  It’s fair to say I find it easier now that they are older and more independent; diapers, sippy cups and car seats no longer playing an instrumental role.  Yet there is a heaviness that follows me around, like a cloud above my head, that continually chants “I can’t stand my husband,” and I’m not sure what it will take for me do something about this bad situation- what will be the final straw: Affair? Cancer diagnosis? Leaving the cap off the toothpaste? 

It perhaps would be easier to do if he were a raging alcoholic, womanizer, bad father, or just a dead beat, but he is none of these.  We are simply incompatible, I surmise.  He refutes this, saying we must stay together for the sake of the children; he will never leave.  If anything is to change I will have to initiate it.
So, my mission in the next year is to decide: should I stay or should I go??