Some day, perhaps years or decades from now, I hope to retell the story of my marriage- whether over lemonade or wine, whether in inspiration or despair, whether to a new friend, an old friend, or someone I barely know.  I hope to be able to tell some young wife or old wife that not only has my marriage been hard, it has been devastating, but that I was always proud of the choices I made day after day, and that I believed in the Universe for guiding me down my path.

That it has taken every cell of belief in not only myself and my husband, but mostly in the Universe, to know that what I did was the right thing at the time.  Even the days that I said horrible things, I accept them.  The days I made my own bad decisions, I accept them.  The ways I let my husband off so easily, never demanding respect or love from him, I accept my role in his neglect of my needs.

I hope to tell that the devastation of the bad times, the deceit, the betrayal somehow was worth it though in the long run, that the first decade of my marriage was a joke.  More like it was living a nightmare of having totally unmet needs with no intimate or emotional connection, but really, when I woke up from that and my eyes were opened, the real nightmare only began.  The truth, the secrets, those were the part that was the worst.

Then I can tell about the pain of learning of my husband’s sexual indiscretions, withholding of love and sex and intimacy and desire.  Refusal to build me up, refusal to seek help or even attempt to stop his loathesome actions on his own.  Disgust may rise in my throat when I speak of it, when I speak of the hurts, the ultimate betrayal and pain of it all.

I hope to be able to tell though, that although it has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, to stay with him, it was the right choice to make.

I will remember yesterday.  I will remember going in to the bathroom, letting my hair down, looking in the mirror and feeling good about how I looked.  Going into my jewelry box and getting 3 rings out.  Taking them out to him, opening my hand and saying “Let’s just do this.”

Putting our rings back on.  Not a happy moment.  One of relief maybe, just to have gotten it over with.  To take one more step on the outside of being a couple again, of working it out.

I’ve known in my heart that we’d probably end up working through this.  I knew I had it in me to keep trying, but to admit it out loud, to tell strangers, acquaintances, the world that we are “together.”  With no “buuuut” and no uncertainty in my voice – that is different.

I called off the divorce that night around 11 pm.  After cleaning up a shitload of hot dog vomit and reading the email that my lawyer had the mediation hearing with my husband.  I decided not to waste everyone’s time.  I knew I wanted to call it off but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Now I’ve done it.

I have no regrets.

People tell me “don’t waste the pretty” and I find that quite miserable.  And honestly, not reality based.  When anyonoe makes a *choice* to do something and chooses their path set before them, it is never really a waste.  I feel good about this.  I feel good about him.  I will let the conveyor go by and will stay.

And when I retell the story of the fear and anger and uncertainties and lies and deceit and pain in my body, I will take comfort knowing that I did all I could, I believed in him, in myself, in what was put in my path and in my heart.  This is the choice I am making, as much as I can, I am making it an “all the way” choice.

I’m wearing my rings like a married woman.  There are no divorce proceeds under way.  We are working it out.