If I Were Still Married …
By Janna Qualman
If I were still married, today would be my 15th anniversary. I would wake hopeful, if cautious, thinking this would be the day it’ll all come together. Romance and gratitude and sentimentality would bring clarity, would fuse into a new level of appreciation for me, recognition of my worth, of my years of love and devotion. Something would be different, better. I’d finally feel special to him.
I’d hide my hope, of course, tuck it down deep, because he wouldn’t like my expectation, would have no patience for my emotional needs. The hope is something I would float as a balloon for a quiet moment, vulnerable and exposed and whispering, “See me,” but which I would hastily grasp and yank back to myself, hold close. Shielded.
If I were still married, I would be on edge as I started the day. Because even though an anniversary is supposed to be a time of soft marital reflection, of recommitment, of sweet and easy togetherness, any given thing I said or did could result, as always, in criticism. In dismissal. Or in flat-out disregard. So, I would ride the wave of my anticipation, solitary, lonely on the swell, yet watching over my shoulder, still open to the possibility that he would surprise me, and swoosh up next to me. Happy, loving, attentive. If I were still married.
But he wouldn’t swoosh. He wouldn’t acknowledge me or the date, even, except for crappy flowers pulled from the ditch, a free afterthought. (Maybe there’d be dinner out later, too, something ordinary, or exactly what he wanted, nothing at all set apart.) He would disappear to focus on work, as per the usual, because business, the promise of money, his own sense of success, the façade, was always most important. What he’d want would be to validate himself, not his wife, today as any day. The woman he’d vowed to love and honor and cherish on this date so many years ago would be little more than insignificant.
If I were still married, I’d wind up carrying out today just like the rest of them. Typical routine of mom and homemaker, doing the things which were supposed to please her husband. I would continue to enable, depend, submit, defer. I would shove into the darkest corners any imagined possibility, any romantic notion and common, justified wifely desire.
I would talk myself into believing it didn’t matter that this day was passing unmarked, with an absent spouse, no fanfare. I didn’t need fanfare, I’d decide, even while the very inside of me wanted nothing more. My wants were selfish, I’d conclude, since I’d heard that plenty anyway. It would be wrong of me to ask, want, expect respect, acceptance, adoration. And I’d go to bed emotionally exhausted, severely disappointed, my soul aching, but I would pretend nothing of the sort. Resigned to more of the same tomorrow, and every day after…
Only guess what? I’m not married anymore. Today really is just any old day.
In a few short weeks, however, it’ll be the third anniversary of my divorce, and there is so much to celebrate. The fanfare I always wanted will be mostly quiet, dependent upon nothing except my own claim, my own recognition. And lots of gratitude. The upcoming date will find me awake and cognizant. Thanking the heavens I left that union.
What I wanted so desperately back then and never got is so much smaller than what I actually have now. I’m talking about independence. Self-acceptance and self-respect. Strength, awareness, knowledge of my own worth, which needs validation from no one, least of all him. I feel special to myself, and really, isn’t that the root of what matters?
Fifteen years, come and gone, but it took only three to find my significance.
Janna Qualman is a single mom and writer who has found peace and perspective after divorce from a narcissist. Each day she chooses happiness, and sometimes she posts at her blog, Woman, Determined. You can also find her at Women Unplugged.
Photo Credit: FreeDigitalPhotos.net, Ambro