Anchors

I wish more people would talk about the fact that being married requires work. Don’t get me wrong, it’s worth it, of course. But living with another person is a very different thing than building a life with them.

Living with someone means coexisting. You have your space and I have mine. We interact of course: catch up, maybe cook dinner together or even watch TV. The emphasis, however, is on being around them and not with them. It’s easy: you do what you want and you’re only accountable to yourself. Everyone else can go fuck themselves.

Building a life…no that’s different. That means you need to talk. To check in. Not just asking how they’re doing but also how they’re feeling. It means making space for them, both physically and emotionally. Spiritually. Learning how and when to back off and when to bring them in closer. It’s accepting each other’s idiosyncrasies. Habits. Shortcomings. Learning that the things you do may not fit quite right with what they need. Learning how to adjust to both yours and their needs. Compromise. Acceptance. 

Oh, so you’re just gonna leave this here…

Building a life with someone means trusting them. Trusting them so much that you both are willing to take huge leaps into the void of uncertainty because, if nothing else, they believe in you. Leaning on them because they can see what it is you need even before you are aware of it. They see all of the ugly side of you; the parts of you nobody else even knows exists, much less has seen. They know you at your worst and then hold up that magic mirror that lets you see all of your hopes and dreams.

I must’ve misheard you. I fucked up. That’s on me.

I enjoyed being single. 2013-2015 were prime years for Ricky. I had just moved into my own apartment after my roommate of 4 years graduated. I had also just gotten out of a relationship that had resulted in me having anxiety attacks post-breakup. I remember the day I finally felt “over it”: an early fall midwest day where I decided to have lunch at the Mexican restaurant a block from my house before biking over to the local brewery to have more than a few beers (with a growler to-go). A few weeks later, my Texas friends flew up to Chicago where I met up with them and we drank way too many beers and me and my buddy M talked about our recent respective heartbreaks in that wonderfully sad bastard way that dudes can be. Friends served as the reminder that feelings were still worth it.

But that kind of living is only sustainable to a point. Even the most solitary of us need human heat*. I’ve moved from a 1-bedroom off of Union St. in Lafayette, IN to a two-bedroom apartment with a wife, a dog, and two cats just north of expensive-ass Seattle, WA. Yeah, sometimes I miss that life. Sure, it can be hard being away from my family. And sometimes, I wish we didn’t have any fucking pets because god damn they are so fucking demanding.

I think you should.

I have a life here, though. A wonderfully complex one where we have to figure out schedules, dog duty, who’s cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Where sometimes we get on each others’ nerves. Where we have real issues like bills, health, family planning, communication, creating healthy boundaries–all the shit that requires work.

But we genuinely understand each other. And most importantly, we understand why we need the things we do.

That’s awesome, boo.

The weeks leading up to my 40th birthday, my wife kept asking what I wanted. When I finally said that I wanted to go on a writing retreat to work on this novel that’s been my focus for the past year, she didn’t balk, judge, or look at me in disgust.

She understood. Even when other family members thought it strange, she knew that this was a thing I wanted and I rarely tell people what I really want in life.

Last week my wife went on her own “staycation” downtown. While I stayed home with the dog, she rented a hotel room and did some writing, wandering, and decompressing. We both know that, as much as we love each other, we also love having our own alone time (or “bear time” as my wife refers to my own retreats).

When we think of anchors, we can think about heaviness. How they weigh you down. Keep you from moving. Difficult to move.

But a useful anchor is one that knows when to keep you moored and when to release.

My wife knows when I’m feeling some kind of way. I’ve been in my head with work anxieties that I internalize and don’t talk about. I’ve been frustrated with the fact that I’m at almost 25,000 words into my novel in progress, which means I’m in the dreaded middle part that is such a slog. She can sense it in me even when I refuse to acknowledge it in myself.

But here I am, late at night, having written 562 words of my book and several hundred more in this blog. She’s asleep right now, cuddling both our dog and our furry orange boi-cat, while our soft tabby boi sleeps in the corner behind me while I type, 4 ciders in. She was the one who, sensing my need for something beyond academia after a series of jarring transitions, encouraged me to play with my writing. And now, despite my recent frustration with how my progress has been going these past few weeks, I feel fulfilled.

Because anchors can center you. Keep you from drifting away into the murky waters. Keep you safe when the water is choppy. And even though it can be a lot of work lifting and lowering the anchor, there’s a certain satisfaction you feel when you lift that anchor and watch that ship sail out and enjoy the solitude of the great sea because you know, when it comes back to port, all will be right with the world.

When you have someone who believes in you, anything is possible.

* With all loving respect to Scott Hutchison and Frightened Rabbit