a hippy chick

Seven years ago today we stood on a sleek boat in Newport Harbor; I marched up the aisle to a badly recorded “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” past your crying mother and bewildered friends.

It didn’t matter that we’d eventually grow up, enough to realize that emotion wasn’t love– and even love wasn’t enough. Nothing would’ve stopped us.

That overcast day was seven years ago right about this time, and six months ago today I finally left you, calling you on all the times you’d said you wanted to leave, that it was over and we weren’t going to make it.

I don’t know what you’re doing right now, but I know that it’s hitting you hard too; the loss of our dream. We always had the dream in common, didn’t we? A little place in the country with some kids and dogs and enough money to throw around to smooth out the differences. And now we struggle with the reality of payday loans, visitation schedules and not knowing how to greet each other.

On our first anniversary you bought me (after several detailed hints) some beautiful paper that I’ve used for every occasion since. I’m down to the last sheet, and surely that means something too. We’ve grown up, both of us, and moved on past one another. While I can’t agree that I abused you, too, I certainly wasn’t honest when I stood up before God 7 years ago. I knew you were untested and untried, and I knew how much life was going to slap you around before you decided who you would become. It wasn’t love that made me take a chance, it was fear of being unloved and unlovable by anyone except you.

But still I was so full of hope on May 31st, 2001. Today is no different, but the hope is. I hope that you’ll take responsibility for the way your life has turned out-and I hope that you will find peace to work on that stuff without thinking it makes you look weak. I hope that I will keep growing and learning to lean on God instead of people. I hope we can be friends someday. I hope I’ve shed my last tear over what could have been. I’m allowing myself that luxury tonight because it’s really the dream I’m mourning, remembering the picture of our eyes bright with unshed happy tears so thankful that someone else loved us. And yes I do, I do hope for a future for both of us, in which healthy people figure prominently and intimately in our lives.

They say all experiences meld together to make us the people we are today. We’ve always joked about my penchant for making everything a celebration by saying “it’s the last time!” when it rarely is the last time. But this…truly is the last. It’s our last anniversary, the last year I’ll carry your name, the last time I’ll allow myself reflection back and look at pictures and wonder what if. I’m sure I should feel celebratory but I just don’t. It feels like a failure even though I’ve learned more through this than any of my successes so far. For seven years of marriage–from the first great year, the next two good years, the next three bad years, and the last unspeakably tortuous one–here’s to you, that boy with the stars in his eyes. I thank you for being part of my journey.