At one point, I thought I was something. I mean, Jen will tell you I am something, have always been something, but she’s like that. Always has been, even when we were kids and I was paralyzed by feeling less than — less than my sister, who owns every space she walks into, fills it up safe in the knowledge that she is worth paying attention to (and usually everyone pays attention to Rachel); less than Jenn, whipsmart at 12, killingly witty now at 34, taker of no prisoners and teller of uncomfortable truths; less than my mom, who balanced Rachel and me and my sainted father sufficiently well to finish med school at my age and go on to start her own practice while we we were still in grade school; less than Jen (who always dismissed these fears, who was the only one I dared even tell), patient and kind and cautious, where I was always tumbling forwards in search of myself.
And I did think I was something — I was 25, in love with my best friend, settled in a house I was striving to make a home with the careful application of throw pillows and Farrow & Ball paint (Slipper Satin in the living room, Lulworth Blue in the dining room). I was aching with the promise of life at times, and it seemed with all the money we had, there was very little I couldn’t reach if I wanted it.
Money? Oh yeah, there was always money. It helped Julian feel less guilty about leaving me alone for weeks at a time with little to do. Cash does much to smooth out so many useless feelings, he told me more than once. If at first it seemed a burden to accept his open pockets, increasingly I found myself dipping into them for just about any fancy I wished. Why not have a new wine cellar installed and stocked? Non-fiction writing workshops, “write a novel in a weekend!” and feminist poetry collectives that needed to be funded. Clothes and bags and makeup and the other markers of feminine indulgence and vanity. Flowers, always fresh flowers — hydrangeas and ranunculus and peace lilies, dahlias and peonies and tulips. Hot yoga, pilates, SoulCycle. I practically lived at the GOOP pop-up in Brentwood in 2014 and bought so much… stuff. Useless, perfectly curated dreams of a life I could afford but which could not give me a husband, I mean, the husband I thought Julian was going to be.
Our story was much like other tales of well-meant marriages that crumble away. There’s nothing singular about neglect and distrust. Nothing special about when one partner strays outside the confines of a marriage. I mean, it’s a story Jen could tell too after her sad two years with Mack. Rachel was the one outside looking into another marriage, so it’s her tale, as well.
It’s boring, but at one point, I thought I was something. There was one point I bared my wild rages and self-doubt to the world, tore open my life and let the world in. For a moment, a few brief months, I had a blog. I won’t link it here — best let it be. Past may be prologue, but that prologue was to another book, one that never ended up being written the way I anticipated. And for a short time, I had strangers cracking the surface of my relationship, commenting on my mental health, the suitability of my fiance as a husband, and whether I was turning into an alcoholic. It wasn’t very nice. Yet I craved every comment, whether in support or mockery. Every hit on the page was a validation of my existence: You are still here.
Because some days in the lead-up to what was supposed to be my happily-ever-after with my handsome English prince, I wasn’t completely sure that I was there. I seemed so insubstantial that any errant wind might blow me off course, that a person might pass through me because there was no physical substance left. Some days I felt I was made up of only fear and white wine, having subsumed whatever of me existed before I met Julian into a belief that I must place him above all others, even (and especially) above myself. I was Julian’s fiancee, and then his bride and wife in quick succession, and I defined myself first as these roles, beyond whoever Melissa had ever been before and whatever it was that she had wanted for her own self.
What happened to me after I shut the door on the world and my marriage isn’t that original. Nor is my reconnection — however tenuous that may be — with my identity so novel. But it’s time for me to talk about what happened to us after our wedding. And Alex’s wedding to Minty. (What a mess!)
It didn’t have to be this way for us, for Julian and Alex and me. I’m just trying to piece together why it did.
meandering again 