It's not you, it's marriage
Some dirty laundry
Hi friends. This week’s essay is a personal one, which is why you’ll see a paywall. I am committed to keeping Mad Woman accessible, but this is not a story I’m ready to open up to the whole internet, which includes alt-right misogynists who have come for me before. This essay is, however, about the inner reaches of private life, which are always tangled with our public selves. That’s why I’m sharing it with you. Thanks as always for supporting me and my work. It means more than I can say, especially right now.
When I started thinking about how to write this essay, I wanted to be sure it wasn’t from a defensive crouch. I wanted to avoid that position because it is familiar to me. I have taken it on numerous occasions.
I took it right after I quit drinking, whenever I tried to explain the reasons I had done so. I took it in school when I spoke up. I sometimes still take it teaching, reflexively. For a long time, I took it regularly among friends, especially women, to the detriment of many relationships I wish I had let have their own life. And I have taken it so many times as a mother, in every setting, at every turn.
Unsurprisingly, I have taken it a lot in my twelve-year marriage, which is now ending.