On April 20, 2024, I ventured upstairs from our finished basement bedroom and found my husband still awake on the couch; when he asked me what was wrong, I said we could talk about it in the morning. But he wanted to talk about it right then.
I knew it was a terrible idea to talk about right then. He was insistent. Would we get in a fight over not talking about it, or would we get in a fight over whatever we were going to talk about? At this point, the fight was inevitable. I opened my mouth.
I was mad about many things that had happened over multiple years, things that kept happening, things that needed to stop.
I was mad about the dishes he hadn’t washed, but not really. I was mad about everything the dishes symbolized — his promise was broken, my labor assumed, and no acknowledgment was granted.
I was mad about a question he’d asked me on the porch earlier that day. Why are you so angry? The implication was clear. I had no right to be angry and knew there were no words I could use now after midnight to convince him otherwise.
It didn’t matter what I said, though, because he cut me off as soon as I started speaking. He heard my fury in the quavering tenor of my voice, and my fury made him furious, and his fury took precedence.
He said maybe he should leave, and I said okay, which made him even angrier. He stood up, puffed up his chest, and put his face in mine. He was yelling now, never mind the sleeping children one and two rooms over. In all likelihood, our daughter wasn’t even yet asleep — it was a Saturday night, and she’d always been a night owl.
He took a framed picture off the wall and put it in his backpack. He left his wedding ring. He drove one and a half hours to an apartment he’d recently started renting during the week to be closer to his new job. I’d told him to get the apartment for his own sake, to save commute time and help him focus on his work.
But I knew, deep down, the apartment was more for my sake than for his. “You’ll work it out,” my daughter said. “You always do.”
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We’d had our share of fights before April 20, 2024. Was this one different? I can’t say.
“Working it out,” as we always did, generally entailed me letting it go while undergoing rigorous mental gymnastics to convince myself that letting it go was the right thing to do, all the while clinging to a sliver of hope that maybe this time, I’d been heard. Perhaps this time, he’d understood my fury and seen my pain.
But now, my husband had another living space to retreat to, and all I could think of was how much lighter I felt after his departure. They say you’re only as happy as your unhappiest child, and my husband had not only become the family member who required (demanded) the most tending and care but had also been spiraling deeper and deeper into his own unhappiness for years.
For years, I felt like I’d been flailing in deep water, unable to take a full breath. Every time I got my head above water, I’d get sucked back under.
I started researching “healing separations” because I have always taken it upon myself to research my family’s salvation. Parenting books, relationships books, endless articles, frantic Google searches, and multi-tabbed spreadsheets dedicated to therapy options — marriage counselors, EDMR therapists, cognitive behavioral therapists, 12-step recovery groups, Internal Family Systems therapists, trauma retreats, psilocybin facilitators, rehab centers, anger management courses, culturally responsive therapists…. shall I go on?
All the therapists recommended books and articles, and all the books and articles recommended different therapeutic techniques. Even then, I still thought our marriage could be saved. Maybe we could try a nesting approach that gave each of us time to ourselves.
Maybe we could go all in and “live apart together.” Maybe we could try a five-year marriage. Yes, I researched “unconventional marriages,” too.
I knew that for my part, I had simmering resentments to untangle, unproductive behaviors to examine, deep-seated fears and triggers to explore. With my replenished well of emotional energy, I was eager to get started. However, the key to a healing separation is that both parties must agree to work on their healing. I couldn’t force healing on him. I’d already tried that. All I could do was focus on my salvation and hope for the best.
