Inside the Bubble

"You doing okay, buddy?"

After one minute on the phone, Husband knows something is wrong. He claims he can’t read my mind, but the Marriage Mind Meld makes him dangerous enough.

The answer to his question, “no,” lacks all evidence to support it. Nobody died. Nothing went wrong at work. There was no call from home with drama. I am not hurt, or sick, or crying, or worried. But I’m not okay.

Nothing’s wrong. But something’s not right.

Numbness crept back in where I thought I had beaten it back. I found myself in that dark bubble, where time moves slower, food tastes muted, and all ties between me and the world dissolves. My existence distilled down to the couch and a subscription to Hulu.

I’m letting Husband down. I’m letting myself down. Vaguely, I worry about falling into old habits. In the end, though, I don’t care enough to do anything.

You doing okay, buddy?

"No. Yes...I don't know." It comes out petulant, like a seven-year-old girl stamping her Mary Janes.

"Okay. We'll talk when I get home. Do you need anything?" Like what? A new brain? A fucking time machine? Food? I can’t be bothered.

Then Husband is walking into the dark house, finding me on the couch, dimly illuminated by the glow of the television screen. He offers me his hand and pulls me up. I stand, immediately folded into a hug.

"Scientists say that hugging releases dopamine. Or endorphins. Let’s say endopamines. They make you happy, but you need twenty seconds for the hug to work.”

“One Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…” he whispers in my ear.

I sink into him. We stay like that, him supporting me and counting softly, for a full twenty Mississippis. Finally, he pulls away, kisses me on the forehead, and sits us down on the couch.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

No judgment. No admonishment. No you-should-do-thises. Instead, he sits and listens. I tell him the everything and the nothing of it all. He says, “Whatever this is—if it’s work, if it’s me, whatever—we’ll figure it out.” Eyes brimming with tears, not trusting myself with any more words, I nod, then sink my head down onto his chest.

He loves me. So much.

He’s not here to charge in and chase anything away, or even shine a light on it. Depression, the sneaky bastard, doesn’t work like that, and he knows it. Rather than stand outside the boundaries of that darkness, taking shots at it, he sneaks inside the bubble with me. He sits. He takes it in. He’s here.

He shares it all with me.

Already, I feel lighter for it.

Movie Night

Last night was Movie Night.

The movie in question was “Julie and Julia,” the new movie with Meryl Streep playing Julia Child and Amy Adams her willing disciple. I thought I would come out of the movie hungry. Instead I came out feeling uplifted, optimistic, and in dire need of a certain cookbook. This movie is more than one about food and where it takes us; it’s a movie about marriage: the good and the bad. But mostly the good.

We learn through both Julie and Julia the importance and joy of having someone in our lives to support and encourage us. Both real-life women had husbands that opened their wives’ eyes to new ideas that led to new dreams. Both real-life husbands were there to cheer on their wives, indulge their passion, and sing their praises. In turn, both women had to understand when to put their husbands first and consider their lives together. This story is one that shows all that marriage is and all that it can be.

I am reminded of a trip I took a few years ago, when Charles and I were engaged. I stayed with a couple friend of ours at one of their parents’ home. The mom is a professional quilter—something that I envy and aspire to be. We all went on a tour of her studio: my friends, the mom and her husband, and me. As we walked around her drool-worthy studio in the ground floor of their beautiful home, her husband interjected with anecdotes about the time they acquired the mondo spool of invisible thread, or on which trip abroad they had found a certain piece of fabric. “Did you see this?” or “Let me show you something,” he would say, leading me away to see an annex for batting, or a cabinet for nothing but family heirloom quilts.

Along the way, I saw the tiny corner of an office he inhabited. “You can see who gets the priority around here!” he said. “But, how much space do I really need? This way, we can work on our own things, but still yell across at each other.” I looked at this adorable man and saw all the love he had for his wife written on his face, the delight he took in her career/hobby and her aspirations plain as day shining through his eyes.

All I could think of was my Charles. My Charles, who’s made my dreams his dreams, found new ways for me to follow them, championed my successes, and supported me if I failed. I have pursued different dreams in our time together, and he got behind each and every one of them with the same zeal. I looked at this friend’s dad and saw my future with Charles. And it looked good.

It still looks good.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to someone about a certain cookbook.