10 years...

the flip side

For those who read my piece, an open letter to my soulmate, this piece will be a rather raw reflection of what it can sometimes take to choose someone over and over again.

Our 10-year anniversary was quiet. We got married in Paris last September, which was lovely and expensive, and we’ve opted to be frugal this summer after a series of costly moments in our lives happened back-to-back-to-back.

It was Thursday; we both had work, but R was off on Friday, so we agreed to postpone any festivities until Friday, when the promise of a nice weekend would bolster our enthusiasm. (Spoilers: it didn’t).

R and I are not the same. Despite the fact that we agree on most things and are undeniably tethered to one another, we maybe have only grown more the same on the surface in our 10 years. Eating the same foods, occasionally dressing alike for the same function, a love of the same music, a disdain for the same types of drama in the world.

We went through a pretty aggressive period of codependency from the start of COVID in 2020 through 2024, when I decided it was time to leave San Diego because things were only getting worse. Since then, it’s been a daily exercise in love and patience as we’ve both committed to individual growth and identity reformation. But in most ways, we’re happier than we’ve been and closer than we could’ve thought it was possible to get when spending every day together. There are stutters, and our growth has neither been linear nor on pace with one another, and some days are harder than others.

This day, this weekend, was one of those not-so-easy periods.

We spent most of Friday hanging out and idly playing video games between my work calls, enjoying the relaxing atmosphere. But there, underneath the moment, I could sense that R wasn’t quite himself. So, when it came time to get ready for our planned celebratory evening excursion, I passively suggested we just stay in instead. It took about half an hour of R hemming and hawing over the options — me standing half-dressed in our closet as he changed his mind every 30 seconds about whether we were going out — before deciding that he wanted to take me out. I nodded, slid my feet into a pair of heels, and out the door we went.

We arrived at a bar we enjoy for its somewhat upscale, trendy French atmosphere in our little corner of the world, and, given its lack of TV screens showing the US World Cup game, it was completely deserted. Fine by us, as we grabbed the best high-top table by the window to dog-watch on the street and were treated to prompt service over drinks and a cheese plate. I settled into the moment nicely, feeling present and in my love for R, but unfortunately, he was somewhere else.

“Tell me something sweet…” I prompted, hoping to bring him into the moment with me.

“What?”

“I don’t know… tell me how you’re feeling about 10 years.”

“Hmmm”

a too-long period of silence

“I feel very on the spot right now,” was all he said.

“Okay, okay, that’s fine, let’s play 20-questions!” I offer in the hopes of distracting him with something less abstract. “I have a word, you guess.”

We played, each in turn being the keeper of the elusive word and the guesser, and for a few minutes there, I thought I saw him come back. But it was short-lived as the games subsided and his discomfort grew heavier in the space between us across that little table.

We left in silence and drove home largely in silence, my nervous system acutely on edge and teetering further with every passing minute. R suggested another bar closer to home, but I vetoed, feeling like home was a safer place to be and probably the only chance we had of salvaging the evening. (Spoiler: It didn’t)

I put on some of our favorite songs and poured each of us a glass of wine to enjoy on the patio in the late-evening sun. Our dogs were overjoyed at our return, and I felt hopeful again that we could get back on track. I brought out our cards for one another.

I read him the letter I had posted the day before to Substack… his only response… “wow, it’s weird you put together all of these patterns because I don’t do that.”

Ouch.

R has never been one to process. He’s much more of a bury it deep and pretend he’s never had a problem a day in his life type. It’s probably our biggest disparity as a couple. I’ve been in therapy and acutely aware of my traumas and my ill-advised coping mechanisms since I was 13. I have also just been acutely aware in general since I was born. I can’t ignore anything. I see every pattern. I sense the larger issue behind the smaller one that gets talked about. I can read the emotional climate of a room so potently I feel like Jasper from Twilight a good majority of the time.

This is my own cross to bear. I know it’s not my responsibility to make others see things as I do, and now more than ever, I’ve embraced that it’s only my responsibility to honor and be with the emotions that come up for me in any particular room.

This is a part of my growth these last two years that is significantly out of pace with R’s own. He lives perpetually moment to moment, to erred by the past and too afraid of the future for it to be healthy, though. This makes him a slave to the impulses of his nervous system to defend and protect from a million perceived threats in any given moment. It’s rare to see him relaxed because even relaxation feels wrong and threatening to his body.

It’s gut-wrenching to watch and hard to live with. It would be a whole separate article to go into the many nuanced ways this has shown up in our relationship over the last 10 years, but the main point I struggle with most is that I see and feel all 10 years of it, yet R only acknowledges it right now, today, and forever deems his woes as fleeting — not worth helping.

Big moments are tough then because they carry the weight of high expectations, and this is especially true for someone who feels, viscerally, that the worst-case scenario awaits in every next moment of every day.

So in this moment, like many I’ve seen before, the R I know and love was locked inside of his own mind. No amount of prodding on my part could resurrect him from that dark place. But I didn’t feel safe enough to go for the jugular and outright ask what was going on.

My own nervous system trauma responses screamed at me to stay quiet and tread lightly in the face of this unknown emotional climate. It had THREAT written all over it, and all of my tools, knowledge, and personal reassurance tactics were rendered useless.

It continued into the weekend until R finally cracked on Sunday afternoon over something stupid that was indelibly the final straw. And, as anticipated, it was all my fault.

I was being too impulsive.

I was making him spend too much money.

I was moving to quickly.

I was too in his space.

I was too much.

Well, no. I wasn’t. Enough of my growth and our time together has taught me that just because I am the person here physically when he’s going through the result of not processing his own issues and emotions does NOT make me personally responsible for them.

I shut that right down.

I am not impulsive because I make fast choices.

I am not forcing him to buy $15 worth of fruit that he picked out for himself.

I am moving at my natural pace.

I live in this space too.

I am right as I am.

I am not responsible for his choices.

As much as I love him, the problem is in the pattern that he refuses to look clearly at, but I’m not going to waste our time talking about fruit when there are far larger issues at play.

He feels identiless.

He feels stuck.

He feels misaligned with his body.

He’s not acting in accordance with his personhood.

He’s feeling the effects in every moment of every day of all of these things; of course, it’s easier to blame it on the fruit.

But 10 years in and I know better.

He shut down halfway through the conversation, and I let it go because it’s not in my power to control. I made a very conscious and heavy choice to not ruminate about this for the rest of my day (my usual MO as an anxious person). It was there in the background and continues to be, but I regathered my tools and focused more on what I needed in the face of so much uncertainty.

And so we continued until Monday night. I spent a therapy session talking about exactly this weekend, and came home to an outright irate R absolutely losing it over some poorly cooked rice.

Nervous system overload.

Though the advice of my therapist was to do nothing but take care of myself, I’m not so empowered by my own peace that I could not react to this mounting tension of our shared environment.

This time I asked more bluntly, “What are you so upset about, because I know it’s not the rice?”

And the conversation spiraled into me in tears on the floor and him saying he was “here,” to which I only sobbed harder and responded, “but for how long.”

How long before he retreats back into his head and leaves me alone in my own confusion and fear?

How long before we can’t talk about it again until the next time his bottled emotions blow the lid off?

How long before I’m at fault again for something I had no part in and was only trying to help?

How long?

We sat in silence at that. He knew what I meant, and I knew he had no answer.

He curled up next to me on the floor. I rested my head on his shoulder. And all we could do was be in it together again. Not at odds, not on defense, not alone with our fears. Just together with no answers and the knowledge that 10 years has afforded us that everything will be alright again.

This weekend didn’t define us. It certainly highlighted some of the consistent struggles in our relationship. 2 imperfect people with 2 different experiences of every day and every situation. 2 different histories with 2 different outcomes for our bodies and minds. 2 people who care so deeply that at times, it’s downright overwhelming.

I told him at one point on Monday that I had just as much experience in this life as he did, and just as much in this relationship. I didn’t know if I was showing up correctly any more than he did. It seemed to wake both of us up a little to put that out there and remember that we are in this together because we choose to be, not because we know how to be with absolute certainty.

10 years.

10 years of being together, yes. But maybe more impactful is 10 years of being flawed people who continue to adapt to the changes in one another. To coexist even when it’s a challenge. To let love remind us that we are safe here, with each other, even when every impulse in our bodies struggles to find safety in a chaotic life.

10 years of reconciliation, compassion, uncertainty, joy, anxiety, bliss, and sadness.

10 years of carrying two contradictory truths at the same time.

10 years of trusting that it’s okay to be weak and let someone else carry you.

10 years of learning how to best carry one another.

10 years of accepting all that we cannot change about one another.

10 years of weekends like these, interspersed with the happiest moments of my life.

10 years of faith in one another.

10 years of choosing to show up for whatever the day holds.

10 years.

"Real love doesn't just happen. It's a conscious choice made by two people who decide that their bond is worth more than their fears."

—Anonymous

anyway, here it is…

-June

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