#02: Letters to my Husband

TLDR: We're F*cked

An ongoing series called Letters to my Husband. The first of which was published by Hatch. Letters to my Husband is an anthology of the good, the dark, and the messy that we endure with our partner that, for whatever reason, we omit from talking about.

Pasiones Celestes by Carlos Enriquez

My Dear Husband,

We are two months into adjusting to life with a second baby. I, personally, am two months into adjusting to my new mind, but especially my new body. Yes, my body has undergone another strenuous change with irreversible effects. I wonder, husband, do you know what it’s like to have a body that you don't recognize? To have a closet full of clothes that don't fit? To have a mind that functions on its own accord?

I have known you for 19 years. Some wonderful years are there, some not-so wonderful ones. But what remains consistent is your person. Your body and mind. Your body has not so much even acquired a pimple, a grey hair, not an ounce of weight fluctuation, not even a bruise now that i think of it! 

Just to give you a little refresher, I have been at odds with the mirror since I was fourteen. Given that it’s been a war I've been fighting for more than half my life, the battle does not get any easier. Around that same age is when I also had to start accepting that this body is mine, and I would need to occupy it for the rest of my life. Admittedly I am still adjusting to that, and now that this body has birthed two times, I sullenly accept that most of the time I have no desire to occupy this foreign place that is my new body. 

Pregnancy is like being hollowed out to make room for another person to thrive inside me. Giving birth is like being hollowed out once more but this time it’s up to me to put the pieces back in. I’m starting to wonder what has been taken from me during those 9 months of gestation. My charisma? Emptied. My intelligence? Poured over and drained, slowly. My enthusiasm? Absolutely gutted and killed. Two months later I still feel vacant, nothing but an abandoned place, nothing left but a swollen uterus and displaced emotions. The woman who once owned this place has been passed off to a younger, fresher woman with a life she calls hers. 

In my ungrateful mind I feel doomed. Doomed to be naked, doomed to reveal to you that I own a body I no longer understand, and therefore have no tolerance for. There is no more fantasy, no more sexual prose. My body keeps another person alive, and thus, I no longer feel the incentive to be more than a functional thing. Sex now operates as another kind of mirror. To see your body physically infallible while gravity, hormones, and aging takes a hold of mine. It’s official, my body is keeping the score, and I would like to keep that to myself. 

I feel doomed in that I also have to share a home, a bed, and a bathroom with you. I watch you walk around our room in your little boxer briefs and in that moment I have to stop myself from concocting a little voodoo in my mind. What if I could create a spell that could transfer all of my stretch marks to you? All of this extra skin? This mind that is now only useful for spurts of panic and anger?

As a father of two you've never been kinder, softer, smarter. You see, because of this, I must find compensatory ways to dismiss it. To blur you and pixelate you into something ugly, and gooey and mushy, like the current state of me and my person. 

It’s not easy to deal with you. You speak gently, you have the utmost patience for our needy kids. I didn’t think it was possible to exude such sanguine injunctions. Sometimes when you speak I feel like yelling just for the sake of adding some turmoil into this perfectly serene scenario. Then everyone in the room will begin to yell, and then I will whip out mental gymnastics to be sure to blame all of this on you.

On some days, upon arriving home from work, you hand me my favorite brownie from my favorite bakery as if I’m a child who’d had a bad day at the playground. As soon as I walk into the kitchen you get up and say What’s up babe? And proceed to follow me to the pantry so that I can take more Colace. In the mornings you look at me and immediately drum up conversation about the prospects of our day together. You surprise me with my favorite epsom salts. When our toddler is on a toddler terror streak, you attempt to explain to him that mommy needs to take a mommy break. Who can stand this? This is maddening, this is chaos, dare I say - this is violence. 

Other times I experience you as a very handsome man, not an ounce of being guarded, your hair expertly styled using a hair “paste,” your pants neatly pressed, an outstanding pair of tortoise glasses framing your face wonderfully. In this same moment I hear you pick up a call and start saying words like EBITDA or SHORT SELL or PRICE TO EARNINGS and that’s when I revert back into a spiral. 

To be clear, I hate these silly little terms and they put me in a silly little mood. It’s in these moments I watch you transform from a well groomed academic to a lonely nerd. I watch you put on your headset so you can be hands free and make gestures each time this archaic language is spoken. Lately my mind is only utilized to keep track of diapers and naps, certainly not to conduct work related discussions amongst articulate adults. At night I try to read, my absolute favorite thing to do, but lately I just feel my eyes crossing at the sight of words, like words are just too much right now, and maybe I am undeserving of doing anything for myself. 

I’ve been feeling sick since we brought the baby home. It could be a combination of enduring our toddler screaming 85% of the day, being touched-out by our newborn, plus dealing with a bloated uterus. I am still recovering from my (second) vaginal tear. I haven’t had a full night's rest in months. The Colace isn’t doing what it’s supposed to be doing. However, I have stopped complaining about these things. I have learned that you don’t believe me! Your body treats you nicely, and therefore it’s impossible for you to put these things into context. I see that now!

Do I hate you? Oh absolutely. Definitely yes. You’ve been given two sons and all you needed to do was hold up one of my legs while I pushed them out. You walked out of the hospital the same way you walked into it. I guess what I’m about to say is probably the point of all this, and I say this with strenuous emphasis - this couldn’t be further from the case for me. I walked out of the hospital with a fresh baby in my arms and a diaper in my pants and a nice case of postpartum anxiety. It’s hard to carry sorrow and gratitude at the same time. It’s confusing to look at my body and attempt to grasp everything it’s given me, everything it’s taken from me, while not missing the way it was before all this. 

Am I broken? Probably. Each kid has broken me in ways that require me to rebuild myself into something better. But I don’t think I have gotten there yet, I don’t know what “better” is yet. All I know is that right now I am working so much harder to try to stay sane and you just carry reason and judiciousness in a way that is exhausting to witness. 

You see, I realize I cannot get away with being this mean to you. Over the years it has become clearer and clearer that we are damned to live a life solely for each other. And with two kids under our belt I can guarantee we are indubitably f*cked. Every night this body and mind gets into bed next to you, every day we do the things that people do who have invested in a life of unionship - we review our credit card statements together, we have a beer and prop our feet up at the end of hard days, we take turns running to the store for more milk and eggs. But most importantly, you don’t look at me as if I’d had two babies and am struggling to keep my mind sound. You look at me the same way you’ve looked at me for 19 years. 

You can't have love without hate. I need you more than ever, and for that I resent you. It’s the ultimate paradox of marriage. I want to be with you and to be alone at the same time. Can I put my little spells away and accept me for what I am and who I am becoming? Can I love me the way you love me, so easily and without apprehension? I am burning it all down to start anew, as a mother of two. Will I find peace amidst all this? The answer is likely no, but here’s to f*cking trying. 

With all my displaced emotions,

Your Dear Wife