Monday, March 9, 2015

No retreat, no surrender

A few weeks ago, my wife and I went to a weekend retreat about marriage.



Maybe if we talk about stuff right now, like if I really open up to her, put all those feelings out there that she wants me to express all the time, maybe it will be enough and we can go back home. 

It would be like a stay of execution; we'd be so giddy, just brushing death that way, and the whole weekend would still be in front of us, wild, alive, free.




The retreat was set in a large, late-18th century house that had columns, lots of windows, and there is no way I'm going to draw it.


Nametags bother me because every time I wear one, people call me by my name.

But worser is having to sit in the front row. Now I can't doodle unflattering caricatures of the person speaking. They might look down, see themselves, and possibly be devastated. And I won't be able to focus on what is being said either, because I'll be too fixated on the person's face or mannerisms.
  Just as he was about to tell us the many secrets to a happy marriage, I noticed a large bubble of moisture hanging from one of his nostrils.
 A person of even mildly sufficient intelligence and maturity would've seen right past the nasal run off and on through to the valuable message beneath.

Why can't I be that person? Is that why my wife wanted us to come?

For the next three hours, I watched the bubble expand and contract with his breathing. I saw my life in it, my marriage. It was filthy with metaphors, but they all proved too elusive for me to pin down. 

Then he burst it with a deep and sudden sniff.

It was time for the breakout sessions. We were separated from our spouses and divided into groups of three.
Everybody in my group was almost touching knees.

Our assignment was to study each other intently, total strangers, and then write down as many affirming qualities as we could discern in five minutes. We were told to be honest, open, and gushing with our praise.

Marcia and Mark began writing. I stared down at my notebook and prayed for it to become a giant, chomping mouth that would rear up and bite off all of our heads; beginning with Marcia, the kindly 50ish lady with chunky, pearlescent jewelry; then Mark, an obvious engineer with a brassy class ring from Notre Dame, and finishing up with my own fat face, brittle as it was in it's social rigor mortis.

The presenters called 'time'.

I was horrified to see Marcia had two whole pages on me, and she even breathlessly scribbled a bit more after the bell.

The woman looked down on me with such a face of earnest kindness that I knew I was in for an excruciating vivisection. 

Marcia described this "other" me for a long time.
I liked him; he sounded good natured, dependable, kind of a happy rock. 

It soon became clear that she was basing the entirety of her affirmations on the sight of my bright tennis shoes and my admission that I have three boys.

We were told that we could only respond with a gracious thank-you, which I did.

Mark started in, and it was just as nice and earnest.

He mentioned my shoes as well.

They had made some alternate universe version of me feel like a million bucks, while the real me stared down in shame at what I'd written about them.
I read out loud the little I had, and was met with blank expressions. They did not really say 'thank you' like they were supposed to.

The main event for the evening was a romantic dinner by candlelight.

Two other couples sat at the table with us, thereby guaranteeing a complete absence of romance.

We were then told to ask each couple how they had met...

Part of the problem with my marriage is that we don't have a compelling backstory.

I met my future wife at a low-key, uneventful party put on by a mutual friend. We started joking around and got married three or so years later.

One of the men at our romantic dinner table kept asking us about the party, like he was trying to help us out, to make us revisit those first moments and see what magical elements we might have forgotten.

"I had wrist braces on," my wife offered. "Because I had carpal tunnel."

I was going to add that I might've had some ice cream, or maybe cereal, at the party as well, but the next couple had already started talking.

They were an odd pairing: he, a German Jew from upstate New York, and she, a flamboyant woman from Colombia. On a faraway Caribbean beach, they'd found each other amidst a whirlwind of love, tour groups, and halting Spanish.

Nice people. Genuinely good. I felt bad that I wished desperately to be somewhere else, even zapped into a smoking outline of a body in ash upon the floor, than sitting there at the table with them.

My social anxiety has become an unchecked monster. It almost paralyzes me.

There were times throughout the retreat when I was certain I could not continue on another moment. I was a dog sled team run to fatal exhaustion in the last leg of the Iditarod.

A review of the little notes I kept writing to my wife demonstrates my state of mind: I can't take this, my head is going to explode (doodle of a monkey) My vision is blurring, my hands are shaking, get me out of here, get me out! (more doodles, little hearts with our initials in them, a terrible ink blot ripped down through several notebook pages by the heavy stabbing of a pen) Dear God, dear God!

Eventually, she drew an 'X' on a piece of paper and told me to just stare at it.

The clean, even intersection of that X calmed me down and allowed my mind to drift off.

I thought of how my little son had unexpectedly poked me in the scrotum while I was urinating. How personal and invasive that had felt.

Then my mind turned to the dingy blue dresser behind him, and the little photo of my wife that lays on it.

When I am stuck on the toilet for a particularly long haul, I sometimes take the picture down and study it.

It's from 2003, which seems old to me now.

We weren't together when it was taken; there had been apathy, betrayals, a painful breakup.

She had gone away to Nicaragua while I struggled through a long first year of desolate sobriety. It's not much of a story.

I don't know what the girl on the horse is thinking. 

The little Nicaraguan horse wrangling man had hissed "Gorda gringa! Gorda gringa!" at her, but eventually handed over the reins. Maybe she was thinking how much she would have liked to kick his bony ass into the sea.

In the picture, she looks like what my wife has always looked like to me: beauty, hope, goodness. 

As good a reason as any to suffer through a marriage retreat.

I guess.

14 comments:

  1. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

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    1. I am going to guess 25 years.....is it 25? Time for a retreat I think

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    2. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

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    3. Sorry esb your comment was not offensive or anything, somethings up with my blog links and I have to take down a few comments temporarily

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  2. I am just pretending you didn't mean THAN in the first image and you just really like prostate exams.

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    1. Ack! I still always get my thens and thans wrong-if I can find the file for that picture have to change it-I don't enjoy prostate exams too much, they feel kind of like someone is putting their finger up my butt

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  3. I've never been to a marriage retreat & hope to God I never have to. What you just described going through is exactly the way I would feel if I had to go to one. In fact, the mere idea that it could even be a possibility makes me want to call my wife right now & discuss our feelings so the idea never enters her head.

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  4. Haha - ' Eventually, she drew an 'X' on a piece of paper and told me to just stare at it.' hahaha

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    1. I agree Julie, that was one of my favorite parts.

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    2. Hi Julie! I am glad that you liked it.

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  5. I regret your loss of a weekend, but I'd sentence you to it all over again for an excellent read like this. This is gold. I raise my sparklin' apple juice to you, sir!

    That picture of you gnawing on the steering wheel--I'm dying. (Faster than usual)

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    1. Hi Queniff-I am really glad you enjoyed it, but I will never ever do it again. Ever.

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