The First Seven Years

When you would dress for school in the morning, you would iron your work clothes on the end of the bed, pushing my short feet aside to make space. Half-asleep, somewhat improbably, with the bedroom light on, I would half-worry that you would burn me. If I happened to be awake, you would steam the iron at me, smiling. "That's the sound a Shark makes" you would say. I would always laugh. Laugh for real, not to placate you. It was always funny.

When you would leave, there was a warm spot in the bed. I'd put my feet directly over it, and drift back off for a few minutes or more.

This is us.

***

In those days, you were working two jobs. Teaching during the day, Wal-Mart at night. You were always tired, and apologetically so. I would go to the lab, go to the gym, come home and shower. Make dinner. We would eat at 10 or 11 and fall asleep. For months, we were too tired to have sex. Between us, we worked more than 100 hours a week. We were almost always gone from more more than 12 hours in the day.

If you were home earlier, you would fall asleep before dinner. Once, you fell asleep while I was making sweet potatoes, and when I brought yours to the bed, you simply mumbled sleep potatoes and dropped back into the abyss that is your sleep. Sweet potatoes have been sleep potatoes since. This is our language, peppered with secret words and phrases.

Kisses have been "kithes" since 2003. Nothing calms me like, "I love you, ok." And I will always love you mostest plus 11.

Some days, I am exhausted with the weight of our history. The weight of all the things said and done between us -- good, bad, neutral. We recently went to the birthday party of woman who has been married to her husband for 72 years. I could spend 72 years with you.

It wouldn't be enough.

We have history, like my parents have history, like your parents have history. When my parents talk about living in Indiana, the one year my dad was in grad school, when my parents were 23 and I was a newborn -- we have that kind of history. First apartment where we couldn't do laundry after 10 PM history. Remember when you bought our first toaster history. Nights of drinking or fucking or laughing or crying or cuddling or sleeping on someone else's couch kind of history. Hell or high water history. Me and you history.

***

Three weeks ago, I started crying and I didn't stop. For the first time since 2007. It was scary. It scared the hell out of me, but not half as much as it scared the hell out of you. I don't know how to let you in through the cracks in my brain. I don't know how to explain to you that it will be ok, that I will crawl into bed sad and lurch out days later, eyes blurry at the sudden brightness of a world filled with light. I can only give you my promise that I will tell the right people, that I will continue to sit in offices with no windows and shitty lamps and scratchy off-brand tissues. My first therapist told me that I would do this for myself, but I was as honest then as I am now -- this is for you. These new bigger verging-on-horsepills medicines, these hours spent talking to a stranger about my mood -- this was always only for you.

I want there to always be an even trade-off, though I'm not sure it always is. For your incredible strength in the face of all the heart-breaking pain my mental illness inflicted on us, I want to give you love and joy, ease from hurt and unending laughter. I am a terrible housekeeper, an uncommitted chef, a forced workaholic who goes to listen to Radiohead and sit in front of a microscope at 2 AM on a Wednesday.

But I will always drive the car while you sleep for hours in the passenger seat. And I will make you butternut soup in August, even though that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard (but admittedly delicious and healthy, blah blah blah). And I will roll over into your side of the bed the minute you get up -- and when you just go to the bathroom or just stand up to cut off the alarm --just to soak up your warm smell before I have to wake up. And I will get a thousand sunburns as I change your car battery and let you have the umbrella and take you to brunch and ride with your Jimi-Hendrix-costumed drunk ass home early from parties and not hold it against you too much when you barf on my feet.

I can only promise you that the first seven years will be justified by the second seven years, and every seven after that. Until seven times ten. Past seven times ten. To 72, at least.