When I was 22, I married a man. He was tall, goofy and relatively sedentary (which isn’t unusual for a man in South Carolina). He had a nice car and health insurance and he made me laugh.
The problem was… He was a man.
I tried to look past it, I really and truly did (that’s how I know praying the gay away doesn’t really work). I tried to focus on the good times and there were plenty of good times. He liked The Big Bang Theory and I liked The Big Bang Theory. He liked food and I liked food.
But there was never any real romance. There was never any faux romance, either. He wanted to have sex. I wanted to watch TV and make fun of people… And the hole in my soul was growing. Luckily, even bad sex can result in a baby or two, and two babies can really take your mind off of that chasm widening in your subconscious.
Until you walk slam into your soul made and realize that you’ve been bailing out a sinking ship with a spoon and if you don’t leap out into the abyss, the whale of your future will swallow you whole.
After six years of trying and smiling and cooking and flipping channels, I decided to end my marriage by inadvertently blurting out “I really only like girls,” over an Applebee’s Two for Twenty.
I haven’t looked back since.
Nine years after that first marriage, to which I wore the pristine cream-colored tea-length dress, I married that soul mate I bumped into that time – the woman I left a straight marriage for, the woman I had been living with for two years, raising two kids and four dogs.. The woman whose ring I ordered especially from a metallurgist in Texas. And I knew when I heard, “By the power vested in me by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,” that every decision I made, every bump in this road of ours, every sleepless night and every cent I may spend on therapy in the future… Was well fucking worth it.
This? This is the rest of that journey.