It’s super hard going through a divorce, blending families, adding in a new baby and a fresh marriage, and all the hordes of other things that come along with such life decisions. What I really mean is, there’s a lot of material to
fight about work through and Andrew and I aren’t exactly…easy-going. And not only that, but we have a crazy huge intense madly in-love connection that is out of this world, so when we love? We LOVE. But when we fight, we FIGHT.
Except here is where our personalities clash: I hate conflict. I stuff it and stuff it and grit my teeth and smile my big horsey smile and laugh my big obnoxious laugh and then hope peace prevails. But when it doesn’t, and I’m filled to the brim with unresolved issues, then I become unglued. While Andrew, the king shit-disturber himself, is drawn to a good fight like a fat kid on cake.
This is a real photo of our late cat named Steps holding an air soft gun. Weird, I know.
So on Saturday, we literally fought about nothing, but it ended up being super destructive. How is that possible? Like this:
I felt hurt. I hate arguing, so I withdrew. Andrew saw me withdraw and then felt rejected so he poked the bear a bit. I felt more hurt, so I withdrew more. He poked the bear harder. I blew up. He blew up. And once again, we talked about ending the whole thing (remember the time I flushed my ring?) because we let fear govern our hearts that day and you know what I always say, right?
The opposite of love is fear, not hate.
I crawled into bed and tossed and turned until finally at around 4am I nudged Andrew to talk. Talk, not stuff. Talk with love, not fear. And after wasting an entire day of irrational energy, we fixed up our issues in less than twenty minutes, and then spent the rest of the morning snuggling, having sex, and administering medication to our fevering child.
But holy fucking shit relationships are hard. And I write because I want to connect with you guys, and because fake is a waste of time, so I tell the truth, even if it’s awkward.
We laugh so hard together that I can feel barf burbling up my esophagus. We make love like animals, like poetry, like the sun against the moon on the blackest of nights. But life is not pretty. It’s just not. But at the end of each day (well, 6 out of 7, which is pretty decent odds these days) we both acknowledge that there is nobody else we’d rather share the good times and the bad with. The rings and the sewage. The poetry and the swearing.