Being a wife is hard, you guys.
Seriously, it's hard. Or maybe it's just hard for me because I'm kind of a huge jerk and things like caring about someones thoughts and feelings about black dress socks when I'm tired and just want to watch Judge Judy seems somehow overwhelming. I'm not sure.
The problem is I do care about his feelings. I do love the hell out of him, more even than cheese. And as I've mentioned as recently as yesterday, I really love me some cheese.
Thus when I finally finished the book that I wrote about the relationship that I had/have with him? My first thought probably should have been "I guess I'll see what Jason thinks". But it wasn't. My first thought was, "OH THANK YOU BABY JESUS I AM FINALLY DONE WITH THIS HORSECRAP!" Because seriously. I'm not the most patient person in the world and it took me like two years. I'm OVER IT.
But I can't be over it. Because he hasn't read it. And I had this terrible, horrible thought the other day about how I would really hate it if someone wrote a book about me and times during which I've behaved less than, um, politely. I don't know how I would feel if my spouse made me a character in a book. I made myself into a character in a book and I'm still not over it.
Mel wrote a great blog post today about how many people use social media to create the myth of the perfect life. I personally have friends on my Facebook page that I know for a proven fact don't look anything at all like the majority of the pictures they post. We all do that, I guess. I know I was mortified recently when I discovered a photograph of me taken at a writers conference in Kentucky. I looked like I had fourteen chins. I only had like, six. I swear.
I would have never posted that online. Similarly, I would never, ever post any photograph that my dad takes of me online. For some reason he never TELLS you he's taking a picture so you don't have an opportunity to prepare. Which is why 99% of the pictures my dad snaps feature someone with their mouth open. My family also never shuts up. Shocking.
Other than that, which is totally understandable, I really do try to keep it real. Not only in my life, but also in my writing. Anyone who has laughed and/or cringed at my use of the phrases "asshat" and "bag of dick hair" knows that.
The thing is?
It's harder, MUCH harder, to tell the truth.
See, most people don't like the truth. The truth sucks. Seeing in print what you did to another person (even if that person is yourself. Hollah!) sucks. Admitting your own faults and failings is darn near impossible for some people. Not for me, as I admit to things that I'm not even responsible for. But for some people it really is. It's nicer, prettier and cleaner to live in a super swell little world of your own making. Where you always look pretty in your picture and your kids never misbehave and your farts smell like fresh baked cinnamon rolls.
Then there are the other people, the ones who take pleasure in my pain. If you don't believe this is true, please note that anytime I write about any trouble in my marriage? I get way, way more comments than usual. Most of them are supportive (and very much appreciated), but others are from people who are not so secretly pleased that I'm not perfect. They are from people who read my blog every time I post and never, ever comment. They are from people who email my close friends and ask questions about what's really going on, instead of just asking me. They are gleeful when I get a bad review and say to everyone they know, "I could write a better book than that!" (to which I say, please. Help yourself. I'm running out of things to read) They are people who are miserable and happy when other people share that misery. People like that? Suck. Sadly, they far outnumber most other people on the planet.
It pains me sometimes to tell the truth. It hurts me that I am flawed and I married someone equally flawed. That sometimes entire years of my life were so bad that I wish I could just erase them. That I have made and sometimes continue to make horrible, horrible life choices. That I'm an emotional eater and struggle with almost every relationship I've ever had. That I am not only not perfect, I am fully and blatantly not perfect and put my own special brand of crazy out there on the front porch for everyone to see.
Somehow it's harder to share with Jason than anyone else. I know how crazy that is. He lived it along with me, true, but I'm keenly aware that we all have our own version of reality. We remember things differently (he never remembers anything at all. Thanks brain injury!). It's harder for me too because, if I'm being honest, it's hard for me to admit to him how much he hurt me. It's hard for me to admit that I loved him so much it literally made my heart hurt sometimes. It's super hard for me to admit that loving him scared the hell out of me, because I never had anything like it before, ever, and I had no idea that it was supposed to feel that way. It's hard, still, for me to admit that loving him meant giving up on certain things that I always wanted, like a mother-in-law who adored me and a family who would want to make my children part of their fold.
I'm still sad about some of these things. I regret not being able to say them before.
He knows I'm not perfect. He's seen me at my absolute worst and still loves me. My mom said to me yesterday, "Jason revolves around you" and I think that's true in a lot of ways, not in gross or weird ways, but in ways I've never experienced. I've never been the light of someones world and I rather like it. He takes marriage more seriously than anyone I've ever met and considering the number of Southern Baptists I know, that's saying a whole lot.
Tonight we are reading.
I hope, sincerely, that this book comes out sometime this year or early next year and I hope, sincerely, that people read it and understand and like it. I hope people laugh when they are supposed to, and cry along with me in the sad bits. I hope it sells a whole lot of copies and I hope that I'm able, finally, to release whatever it is in me that makes it impossible to just walk away from this big old bag-o-nonsense.
But, really? Tonight the only person whose feelings really matter will be reading it. The only, only one.