from the flickr photostream of wookieslayer

I was sitting on my cousin’s couch, alone, in the dark.  I didn’t want to, but I picked up my phone.  Instinct.  And dialed his number.  Habit.  I had just snapped at my cousin before she and my sister left to ran an errand and I was feeling bad about it.  I hate it when that little guy on the inside, whose job it is to hold the net and catch all of my nasty before it escapes my mouth, puts his net down and goes to the movies.  The phone rang.  I knew I should not be calling.  I wanted to do this on my own.  The feeling bad.  The knowing I should not have snapped.  And the knowing that I was still okay and loved and worthy even though I snapped.  He picked up the phone.  I didn’t hang up.  That would have been ridiculous.  But instead of saying, “I totally snapped at Betsy and she didn’t deserve it and I am a horrible person, please make me feel better about myself!!!” (which is really what I meant), I simply said, “Hi.  Being away from you for a long weekend is making me realize something:  I really depend on you to process my emotions.  I can hardly go through anything without wanting to call you to talk about.”

“Yeah”, he said, “you do have a high need to process your emotions with me.  And . . . you have a lot of emotions.”

We talked for a while.  About how much I need him to help me sort out what I am thinking and how I am feeling.  About how it is hard for me to process things on the inside.  By myself.  About how I am out of sorts until he comes along and reassures me.  Then he mentioned that he was sitting in his car in the Target parking lot.  In the rain.  “OH, I am so sorry babe.  I will let you go.”  With the fierce instincts of a mother lion, without even thinking, he replied, “NO!  Its okay!  This realization has been a long time coming!  I am happy to talk about it for as long as you would like!”

In marriage we enter this strange dance in which we try to become one entity with our spouse, all the while maintaining our own sense of identity.  Always the external processor, I talk everything out with Herb.  And he has always obliged.  But lately, I have been noticing that the weight of it feels a little heavy to him.  What I am realizing is that he does not mind listening.  But when he senses that I won’t be able to sort things out on my own - that I won’t be okay without him - he becomes weary.  And he should.  I never meant to be this girl.  This girl who comes undone, like that egg from the wall, and needs my prince to come put my pieces back together.

Forget the egg that can’t stay on the wall.  No, I long to be like that bouncy yellow ball from my playground days; tethered to a sturdy metal post.  And the metal post?  It is not going anywhere.  It is extremely secure in several inches of cement.  I envy that ball as it inevitably gets bounced around.  It does not feel great, I suspect, to be hit and twirled and thrown.  But even the biggest and strongest boys in my elementary school could not pound it hard enough to make it go flying across the playground.  It always stayed securely in place when the big blows came.  And they always come, don’t they?  In life and in Tether Ball?  They always come.

Despite my “oneness” with my sweet husband, there is a place, a time, a context in which I am still one.  Singular.  By myself.  And as that individual, I want to be tethered to nobody but myself.  When the hard knocks come, I want to be grounded within myself and in my faith.  It will hurt and it won’t make sense.  But it won’t shake me.  So I have been getting to know myself again.  I figure, getting to know myself will build trust in myself.  It will allow me to sink into myself, like several inches of cement.  Being tethered to myself will keep me focused and complete in the face of chaos, and damage, and painful conversations.  And when that next big blow comes?  It won’t send me sailing.  I will be tethered.  To myself.  And myself is a pretty good place.