magnetic pull of this relationship is not comfortable for me. To trust the relationship, I have to let go of control and expectations. The more I trust, the more I gain. We go on adventures together, sometimes with maps and compasses, sometimes without. I like myself when I am with him; I am relaxed, confident, and creative. I am not worried about being perfect. With him, I feel like I belong.
I throw my perfect partner list into the wind and watch it blow away. Fear babbles incessantly in my head, giving me reasons why I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. It feels reckless. But it also feels like I am being held. I remember this feeling from when I was very young, leaping into a cold lake. Terrifying and delicious. But I didn’t drown. The water held me.
I am used to spending my mental energy worrying. Is this right? What if this is terribly wrong and I should be with someone else? But now, instead of worrying, I daydream about our next adventure together. With Kurt, my voice has powerful ease. I say what I feel like saying. I don’t feel the usual societal pressure to be cute or witty. I also don’t feel like I have to prove that I am not needy. I’ve even stopped checking myself in the mirror to see how I look. It feels like I’m peeling off layers of caution and prudence and finding my skin underneath, young and shining.
3
We are married under two oak trees, not far from the ocean where we met. But we soon move to Arizona, then to Vermont, and the changes rattle me. With each goodbye to friends and family, I feel like part of me is left behind. At least we have each other, I think. But I am not convinced that it is enough. My strong, independent voice feels shaky and weak. I keep looking for a script. I wonder how to act when we are broke and he is unemployed. What would a good wife say now?
There is no time for adventures. There is no time for poetry or long walks. He commutes an hour and a half each way to graduate school. I have a job with a lot of responsibility, and I work sixty-hour weeks. At thirty years old, I am part of a small team, running a residential school with motivated teenagers from across the country. I keep wondering when the grown-ups will show up to take over. Can I really be in charge? If something happens to one of the students, it’s on me. I feel that pressure with every class I teach, every meeting I run, and every time we let the students explore the woods alone.
My colleagues are like the A-team of teachers. I am the new kid. They are brilliant, experienced, and unconventional. They quote Thoreau and T.S. Eliot over breakfast. They know how to play the accordion and solve page-long mathematical equations. I feel simultaneously giddy and anxious among them. They say things about other schools and other leaders that are not generous. It scares me. Is that how they talk about me behind my back? I don’t feel smart. I don’t feel like I deserve to be here. I feel like someone is going to knock on the door any minute and say, “We’ve found you out. Come with us. You don’t belong here.”
I stay up late grading papers, preparing for classes and board meetings, then answering emails from anxious parents to prove my worth. The voice in my head is critical. It sounds like a picky principal: “Susie is awkward and keeps missing the point. Her students like her, but they would respect her more if she knew the material better. As an administrator, she fails to consider all of the details. Susie needs to prepare more, manage her time better, and be more professional. She lacks the raw material to be a true leader.”
I miss my brothers, who always know what to do. I miss my girlfriends, the ones I call my sisters, who pick me up, brush the dirt off, and help me get back in the arena. We live in rural Vermont now, and they are all back in Canada, at least ten hours away.
I cannot remember the last time I did something for myself. I feel the walls pressing in on me in our apartment. It’s too much. I am not enough. I shut down the computer and walk outside. Kurt and all of the students are asleep.
Kurt finds me standing under the stars in just a t-shirt on a cold, October night.
“Come to bed,” he urges.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I say in response.
“Maybe you should put some pants on first,” Kurt teases gently.
The next day, I check myself into a motel. I’m going away. I can’t keep up. “Don’t tell anyone,” I beg Kurt. My colleagues and students can’t know I am falling apart. I don’t remember how I got to the motel. I remember locking the door. I remember lying on my back on green sheets that smell like moth balls and pond water. What’s wrong with me? I watch TV in a dark room, hours and hours of TV. The commercials with beautiful, perfect women reinforce my feeling that everyone loves their life, except me. Maybe I don’t need to go back. I like it here. Nobody expects me to know the answers here. Maybe I can stay here with the “Golden Girls,” eating microwave popcorn forever. But I do go back. I put on makeup and pretend that I was away on a fun weekend. I stand up to lead the next faculty meeting, saying to myself and anyone who asks, “I’m fine. I’m fine.” I had better be, because I find out I’m pregnant.
#
Four years later, I am still helping to run the residential school in Vermont. Kurt is away at a graduate school conference. We have two children now. The baby is teething and has been crying for forty-five minutes. Our toddler is screaming at me to play with him. “NOW MAMA!” he hollers. He hands me his stuffed cow, the one that moos when you touch it. The baby wails in my arms, her face red. I can’t think. There is too much crying and screaming: WHAAAAA. MOOOOO. NOW MAMA! Something inside me snaps, and I explode. I grab the stuffed cow and throw it against the wall, hard. Make it stop. I need silence. I want to smash it to pieces. Instead it lands with a thud, but nothing else happens. “Mooooo,” it moans. “MOOOOOO,” it cries again, louder, it seems. I’ve succeeded in making it whine more. The baby is still crying. My son is also wailing now. I feel suddenly terrible for him. What have I done? In angry response, the cow says, “MOOOOOOO.” I need to get out of here. I can’t do anything right. I’m not cut out for parenting.
Kurt walks in the door. I hand him the baby and the broken cow toy. The toddler lifts his arms; he wants to be picked up by his dad. I escape to another room.
I call the number on the crumpled piece of paper. It is for a therapist. A friend recommended her to me years ago, but I never called, because I thought, Therapy is for broken people with terrible childhoods. I am just a little overwhelmed. But now I hear a woman’s voice on the other end. She sounds kind. She sounds smart. Can you see me now? I hear myself ask. I sound like I am begging.
I grab the car keys. I tell Kurt I’m going out. He waves goodbye. I can’t tell if he’s angry or relieved that I am leaving.
It’s early summer in Vermont. As I drive, I feel the thick trees on both sides of the road squeezing in on me. The forest seems dark and unfriendly. And even though my breath is shallow and I can’t get air, I roll the window up tightly.
Hilary’s office is in her barn, upstairs. The morning light comes in through the giant windows up near the roof and I can see the sky. I want to stay here. I feel like asking her to write me a note, to excuse me from having to go back to the crying and screaming and mooing.
“Do you second-guess yourself?” she asks.
“All the time.”
“Give me an example.”
“I should not have had children.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m not good at it. I don’t know what to do. I throw their toys at walls. I think about driving across the border and never coming back.”
“If a
