This is the first section about my relationship with my ex-partner, Jason. His name has been changed.
When we first meet someone and we are unwell, it can be hard to recognize that they aren’t well either.
We look for common values, habits and interests. We have a mental checklist of ‘must haves’ such as: “must love dogs,” “must love the outdoors,” “must love music,” and “must be dark and brooding.”
Perhaps we don’t actually seek ”dark and brooding,” but we unconsciously recognize their melancholy. It’s almost attractive. We harmonize with depression’s sad melody—the powerful siren song of shared experience.
After I returned from the retreat, where I decided to leave the business, I knew my relationship with Jason might be next. Everything in my life was up for close examination.
Looking back, I’m sure many people can identify when signs of trouble cropped up in their former relationships. But we’re never afforded this hindsight at the outset. Past trauma, mental health, and life experiences can play an outsized role in who we choose as our life partners or spouses.
Jason and I had been together for about nine years. We wrestled with some of the usual ‘couple issues’ of shared housework, finances and interests. Life offered up a few extraordinary events, too.
When I met Jason in late 2009, he ticked all the right boxes. He had two large, goofy dogs; we enjoyed going to concerts, wineries or drives in the country. He was a romantic. He dreamt up lovely getaways AND made all the arrangements. He had a positivity and sweetness about him that I fell in love with.
I was treasured, loved…needed. But I felt an ever-present weight on my chest. I experienced this in other areas of my life, too. That pressure was there among colleagues, family and friends. I didn’t understand it. I felt anxious when there was nothing to fear. I wanted to flee, hide.
That sensation would lift briefly on holidays. Sunrises on far-flung beaches. Walking in nature. Silence. Sitting with our dogs on a peak we’d climbed together. Breathing in fresh air and unplugging from my work life for a while.
My memories of beautiful holidays in Hawai’i, Barbados and Sint Maarten are foggy. Trips to Europe were punctuated with stupid things I did while blindly inebriated—hundreds of photos posed with cocktails and unfocused eyes. Vast quantities of alcohol were purchased and consumed. If I’m honest, I don’t remember as much as I’d like. We spent so much money not to have clear memories afterward.
I recall being in remarkable far-flung places, fighting a hangover or with Jason instead of enjoying the moment. We argued like other couples on holiday over perceived slights, impatience, exhaustion, cross-wires and incompatible interests. I also clashed with Jason when I felt unprepared. I feared being trapped somewhere, being a burden, unable to fend for myself.
Jason loved to set out on adventures, and I tried to anticipate what we needed to bring with us. The Girl Guide in me was hardwired to “be prepared” with towels, water, sunscreen, a range of hats and footwear, blankets, first-aid, snacks, swimsuits, utensils, a wine opener, etcetera.
Jason worked physically all day, climbing ladders and lugging heavy materials on the job site. He was always up for a spontaneous marathon of activity. I sat behind a desk for a living and was packing a good thirty to fifty extra pounds. To set out unprepared for a scramble up a slippery mountain trail was profoundly unappealing to me.
He was, and is, horrendous at gauging how long a hike will take. Jason’s estimate of a ‘two-hour hike’ invariably turned into six. He’s a mountain goat; I’m a slow and steady, shimmy-down-a-slope kind of person. Coupled with a mere 500 ml bottle of water to share between us after a night of celebratory drinking made me an ‘unpleasant’ companion. He tried to reassure me that “we’d be fine.” I’d feel angry and guilty because I was plodding, fearful and increasingly irrational.
I recall a long hike in a rainforest, up a mountain in Hawaii where I was a miserable bitch, nursing another hangover. The humidity was heavy as a wet wool sweater, and the red clay trail was steep and formidably slick after the rainy season.
We’d left late for this hike, and I worried the whole way through this garden paradise that we wouldn’t get back to our car before dark. We walked past exquisite orchids dangling from trees, tropical birds singing to us, and the air was pure oxygen. When we finally reached the summit, the vista was breathtaking - the mountain, the rainforest, the ocean in the distance. I wasn’t present. I heaved from the exertion and an angry loop of resentments ran in my head — mostly against Jason. I burst into tears from the beauty and shame.
Jason was overjoyed that I was moved to tears while I wept for being so selfish and hard on him through the hours to get there. I blubbered apologies and gratitude.
After a few moments, we trudged down the mountain in plenty of time before sunset. I flayed myself anew for my fears.
Fighting in a beautiful place sucks the joy out of those moments. I hated him for “making me angry.” I hated myself for being such an ungrateful bitch. Why couldn’t I just be happy?
I felt ashamed; I felt resentment and unworthy of where I was.
Regret. It’s here with me as I write this. I wish it were different. I wish I had been able to fully appreciate those incredible moments. We had some wonderful getaways and holidays together.
I learned over time that Jason’s enthusiasm for ‘getaways’ was about escape—from the realities of his life, upbringing, and family. We tried to keep that at bay, but family relationships, mine and his, had a way of making their way into our carefully curated lives.
To be continued…
Thank you for your authenticity and your vulnerability here Linda. And sadly, there’s much I can relate to - having married not one, but 2 alcoholics. Thanks for spitting it out onto the page.
Oh wow, thank you for sharing such a poignant and personal story, Linda. Sending love, you awesome lady.