Archive for September 2013
The Hardest Part About Long Distance Marriage
Once
I asked MM what the hardest part about us living apart is for him. He said it's not
being able to go home and make love to his wife. I should think most men would
say the same thing, and perhaps most women too cos many of my friends asked
what I would do for sex when I told them about the PhD thingy – same question
many asked when I first began talking about the MSc. The thing is, and I’m
strictly speaking for myself here, sex isn’t the worst part of our long
distance marriage. Not that I don’t miss it. Of course, I certainly do. Sure folks like to think married people don’t have that much sex anyway, but I think
they have more than naysayers think they do, although possibly less than the romantics want
them do. I think there is a pretty good chance anyone waiting for marriage to have all the sex they want is going to
be disappointed. There is a very slim chance that you will get a spouse to 'give it to you' whenever you want it. They are going to try, but there are going to many days you're going to get a “not today, honey” and you need not take it too hard. That said, I should think MM and I have enough sex for us to feel like a fish out of water if it is no longer available. Nevertheless, sex isn’t what I miss the most being
apart from MM. For one thing, I was pretty used to going without sex when I was
single. I had many periods of long-term celibacy, so it was something I knew I
could do and it wouldn’t be the end of the world. What I hadn’t been prepared for
was how much I had come to depend on being touched by MM – the “non-sex”
physical ways he expresses his love for me.
MM
and I are quite physically affectionate. No, we are not one of those couples
you see by the train kissing, caressing and basically eating up each other. I'd love us to, but my darling man is too shy for such brazen display. But
we touch a lot. For instance, we hold hands when we are driving. We
hold hands when we walk. We hug a lot. Like, I could be in the kitchen and he
would come and hug me on his way to the balcony to bin something. Or he could
be watching a movie (his taste in movies baffle me, so I usually let him get on
with it while I’m doing something else), and I would give him a quick hug on my
way to the refrigerator to get biscuits. We cuddle too. When we are gisting,
the few times we are interested in the same movie (or one of us is being super
sacrificial), or when we are in bed just before we have to get up – and I’m
usually pressing on my phone. Also, we dance once in a while (rather, I grind against him) and
yes, we squeeze/pat/caress each other’s bums a lot!
And
for the past one year, give or take, distance has denied me these pleasures.
It’s hard. I mean, there are sex toys to take care of one’s urges if they are
that pressed. But, nobody has yet to invent a device to hug you spontaneously,
to periodically gaze lovingly at you, to stroke your back, cuddle you or
sniff your neck. I don’t know, but I kind of feel it is a little difficult to
outsource this part. It's not as easy as outsourcing a quickie, for instance. Now, I’m not one of those women who are said to give sex for
love. Nope. In that regard, I’m built like a man. Sex
is for sex. Most importantly, sex is for good sex. I hate trial and error.
So,
since I’m not missing sex as such and because I feel there is a much more higher
chance you’re going to get crappy sex anyway, I haven’t really been tempted to dip into
other ponds. That’s one. The other is, what I really really crave is the
touching. But for someone to touch you in that ways I described, they need to be in love
with you – or at least “in infatuation”, the type of lust so intense
one confuses it for love. Not that I doubt someone could ever feel that
way for me – nobody does, just so you know – but the stakes are higher with
this. There’s more to lose by falling in love with someone who isn’t your
spouse than merely having extramarital sex. I should imagine marriages survives
after infidelity – especially if it was brief and with someone unknown to the spouse. I don’t know how many do after one partner falls in love with
someone else. I should think that is the ultimate betrayal. I mean, how do you
recover from that?
My
marriage is still very important to me, and therefore I am acutely aware of the
dangers of being touched in the way I crave it by someone other than MM. While
some people can separate what they do with someone else from being as in
love and affectionate with their spouse, I just don’t think I have that
capacity. Even if I do, I don’t want to discover it because it’s not worth it. I
like that I have this thing with my husband, that we love each other, and we
are happy. While things are not perfect – we are two pretty hot-tempered,
for example, so you can imagine we had volcano eruption in our home every once in a while (I am the 'yeller', BTW) – but I believe we are committed to each other. And I want to keep it that
way.
So
there. Friends have asked how do I do it. Well, this is how: by reminding
myself, like Becky said to Ross in the 80s (or is it 90s) Christian soap
Another Life, “what it takes to fulfil me, [they] don’t have.” I love being
loved by MM, and I don’t think there is anyone out there that can love me the
way he does. And even if there is, I don’t want them to. Cos I’m happy with
what I have, and no matter how difficult it’s been, I really don’t want to screw
it up.
Ciao.
Living With Depression & Anxeity
When my sister heard I gone to see a
psychiatrist, she was flabbergasted. “How can you be seeing a
psychiatrist, nothing is wrong with you?” she asked (or something around that
line). She seemed really pissed off that I had become so Oyibo to the extent of
consulting a mental health specialist. But then, of course, us Naija people
don’t see head doctors unless we are raving mad, which I’m not. So why am I
seeing a psychiatrist? For starters, I got referred to one. The counsellor I
had been seeing thought since I have had a long history of depression, maybe
the specialist needed to shine his torch into my mind. Maybe with diagnosis, I
could receive appropriate treatment. You all know the psychologist had
suspected bipolar disorder, right? Well, that was quickly ruled out. What I
have does not a name. The first psycharist thought it was unexplained depression. The second, who got referred by the community mental health service, after a telephone assessment, thought it's anxiety disorder. But, I would be getting an extended evaluation from them in about a week or so, then I suppose I will get a proper name given to it. Then we begin worrying about treatment, first under NHS (the long waiting list means I might wait a while for
that though) and then when I come back to Nigeria. But, let's worry about that later.
So, what is it like to live with unexplained
depression or perhaps anxiety disorder? Pretty much like normal life when things are normal. Although I don't know how 'normal' normal is when, if you're like me, you're constantly anxious about everything. Anxious that you'll fail, and so you do everything to prevent failure. And then anxious that no matter what you do, you'll still fail nonetheless. So you despair and despair and try to do more things to prevent that. So yeah, that's pretty much as normal as my life is when it's normal. And when it's not normal? Well, that's like living
like shit. Thankfully, like the first psychiatrist noted, I am more
‘not-depressed’ than ‘depressed’, though the depression is pretty regular and
constant to warrant attention and not dismissal. But on a general note, when I’m fine, I’m sort of
jovial (meanwhile, it turns out I have been mistaken for an extrovert. Ha! But
I’ll come back to that later). And when I’m not fine – which lasts about a week
or so – I’m really not fine. It’s difficult for me to recapture what it feels
like exactly, because right now I’m fine. But let me have a go.
Let’s assume that I have been having a rather busy
week. Mentally tasking, requires active interactions with people, and all that.
Yeah, I said I was going to say something about being confused for an
extrovert. This is what is it. I’m very very comfortable with the virtual
world, so that’s pretty understandable. In the normal world, I can psyche myself
into being very friendly and out there. The thing is, it’s such a stress.
Because what I’d really want to do is keep by myself – that’s my comfort zone
(if you overlook a sizeable amount of time I spend worrying that in doing so
I’ve made myself quite unlikeable). Anyway, I hope you can appreciate why a
week interacting with people would drain me. Cos by doing the grown up thing in
putting myself out there, I’m basically moving against the tide and that’s not
easy.
Now, it’s a Saturday after the busy week. I wake up
with a dark cloud over me. I am sapped of very desire to see another human
being. I want to stay in bed and never wake up. If I think about stepping out
of the house or talking to someone, I actually feel physically sick. And for
one week straight, all my thoughts are dark. I think about suicide. I think
about all the nasty things I’d done before. My life feels like complete shit to
me. It’s less about thinking that nobody loves me – it’s more like I don’t love
anybody, including myself. You know, all those dreams and aspirations I always
go on and on about, I just utterly hate them at this point. They taunt me. I’m
convinced they would amount to nothing. Like I have them for the sole purpose
to fail at them. I’m usually highly irritable – the sight of MM and bomboy,
which normally brings me pleasure, just pisses me off. I hate it that they need
me; I hate it that they love me. I just want to be left the fuck alone. But I
can't. I have to find a way to be in this state of mind and yet function
normally – be a wife, a mother, a student, an employee, you name it. I can't
pause the rest of my life while I go through this phase. I have to
self-management it without completely loosing my shit.
Every month, like clockwork, I’ve gone through this
period for years and years. Even when I’m fine, it’s always at the back of my
mind that I could fall into this deep hole again at any day. What’s worse, once
I’m in it, I can’t get out. I fight it and fight it. I cry. MM worries about
me. Fears I’m going to leave him, or harm bomboy. I have never attempted
suicide, no matter how much I think about it. I just look at my son – I hate
that I push him away when am in that state, and I tell myself “just hang in
there, you’ll be fine soon and you make up for it.” But it’s difficult. It’s
difficult living like this. I wonder, would I one day not be able to hold back?
Would I jump into that coming train and get it over with? Yeah, there’s some
comfort I take in knowing that there is a pattern to this. Three weeks out of
four, I’m my usual bubbly self. One very miserable week of depression, yes it
feel awful, but it’s really just for a relatively short time. “I’ll be fine,
I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine,” that’s what I keep reminding myself. And yeah, I
eventually am. Only for it to happen again, but you know.
So, in a nutshell, that’s what living with depression and anxiety is. No, it is not something you snap out it. It helps to talk to friends and
family if they are sensitive and understanding. Although, there’s mostly no
talking involved. Cos once I’m fine, it’s embarrassing to think something like
that actually happened to me – I want to forget it and be normal. And when I’m
in that state, talking is the last thing I want to do. So yeah. I don’t know
about those who say this is part of being a writer. That creative people are
screwed up in the head so they can create. Anyway …
Ciao
Negotiating Equality In Marriage
I
love how 'broken' was defined in a training I was once a part of – a home where
the spouses are in acrimony, whether they live together or apart. We tend to
associate broken homes with divorce, thus the kids are all right so long the
parents somehow manage to keep it together without going nuclear on themselves.
But, that’s not quite the truth. Ask anyone from a broken home and they will
tell you they never quite overcome the psychological damage it’s had on them.
And I don't mean girls having daddy issues or boys growing up to become the
abusive partners they saw their daddies were. I mean, for normal supposedly
well-adjusted people, you carry these scars around like battle wounds.
So
anyway, my mom had one of her old friends over at the house. The woman was in
the UK on holiday and one night she talked about her marriage. I knew enough of
my mom's friends back in the day to know what to expect, as they were a cohort
of women in terrible marriages. I remember how dad used to jeer at mom, saying
she is a magnet for women who are not living happily with their husbands. That
she specifically chooses these women because – misery loves company, yes –
mostly because she didn’t want to learn what happy wives do to keep a
flourishing home. So, I wasn't entirely surprised by the story the woman told.
Besides, she was religious in a way that told you she’s had some pretty awful
experience. And she had, a lot worse than mom. I always used to hate how mom
let my dad get away with shit. But compared to her friend, mom was a
tigress. Hearing the woman talk brought memories of how I had made up my
mind I wasn't “less” than a man. This was long before I ever heard of the word
“feminism.” The things I saw in our house growing up – my mom needing my dad's
permission for everything, probably including taking a dump. Dad proudly
declaring, when he confiscated my mom's properties after a huge fight, that mom
had nothing on her own. Everything she owned belonged to him. What’s more, this
didn't go the other way. I said, hell no!
Of
course education and exposure has strengthen those rudimentary passions for
equality, and given me – hmmm, you could say backbone – to insist that men and
women are equal, and no one is more important than the other. This has been my
mantra and one my husband has heard far more times than he cares for, I'm sure.
Whenever he goes, “I'm your husband” I immediately counter with, “and I'm your
wife.” I do this, not in defence of equality really, it's more a reflex
reaction to memories of what “I'm your husband” stood for when they had come
from my dad. So I fight it. I fight it with all my might. I shall not become
that woman who has no say in her own home. I shall not become that woman who is
left penniless by a man. A woman who is shouted down by her man, as he demands
for respect, completely ignorant of the irony. I shall not become that woman
who stays in a marriage because she is financially dependent on her husband to
take care of their children. Feminism is the last thing on my mind at those
times. I am merely fighting the demons of the past – self-preserving, you could
say.
I’m
supposed to be talking about how I negotiate equality in my marriage. I
honestly don't know if I have successfully done that. I know I insist on my
right as an individual. I know MM has been very understanding of the baggage I
brought into the marriage. He knows it is less of a theory for me than it is
about me making sure I never have the sort of marriage my mom had. And I think
him knowing helped him make changes. He used to be a bit of a “hard man” when
we first married – the first year, quite difficult one, I must say. A number of
times he’d demanded for his “rights as a husband” that the Igbo culture
supposedly ascribed to men. I fought him on it. I remember one day shouting
back at him when he raised his voice, “I'm not your daughter! If you want to
talk to me, you talk to me with respect!” (Yes, I see the irony).
I
don't know what exactly he had in mind going into our marriage, the ideal
marital relationship he envisioned. I feel he didn't quite get what he
bargained for, though. Sometimes, he says I marketed myself as this very
difficult person but I am not. Sometimes, he accuses me of turning everything
into women empowerment. Sometimes, he says things like “am I not enough for
you?” when I'm recounting my grand career plans and he fears this woman is too
ambitious. But I think overall he’s coming to grips with who his wife is, and
he loves her nonetheless. He really reassures me of that and often. You see,
the thing is, I'm constantly on flight mode – mentally preparing myself to land
on my feet should any man leave me. My mom was left by her husband, and that
shit ain’t going to happen to me – or at least catch me unawares. Well, dad did
eventually bring mom back again, but then she finally left and has remarried
now and very happy.
I
believe today is a good day to blog about negotiating equality in marriage
because today I officially stop being a student. This time last year, MM was
sulking because I made him come to UK. I made him leave his son
behind with me while I pursued my dreams. This time last year, I was really
scared all those prophets of doom were right when they said my going for my
master’s would ruin my marriage. But this had been a battle I fought for a very
long time. From the time I applied for the programme, to the time MM was pissed
cos I wasn’t contributing jack to the
house but was instead saving every kobo so I could pay for my tuition fees, to
the time it looked like I was going to have to travel without Bomboy cos I
needed MM to apply for visa along with us to be allowed to take him as a
dependent. It had been a very long battle, and I had steadfastly refused to
give up. But, I shall write more about that in a minute.
I love MM. I love that despite the extra requirement I have of him to go beyond what I see as the typical Nigerian husband, he is not sitting on his high throne going, “woman, you behave or you'll be replaced.” I, on a general principle, let him run his race. So you hardly find us disagreeing over something he wants to do. I may not understand it, but I mostly don’t interfere. He’s very stubborn – he’d probably go ahead and do it – or not do it, depending on the circumstances – at any rate, anyway. Where we sometimes have issues is in things that I want that he doesn’t. Sometimes our negotiation is smooth – he 'yields' to me even before I ask. Or we amicably reach a consensus that pleases both partners. Other times, I press and press and press and we argue and argue and argue, and finally he surrenders. Yes, it is indeed surrender. It's quite clear he hadn't wanted bomboy and I moving to the UK. It wasn’t his idea of an ideal family setting: a cozy family unit where everyone is all under the same roof. But I needed to give my career a kick in the butt, so I was going for the programme whether he liked it or not. But I wanted him to like it – to want it for me. I wanted us to be in it together. So I didn't let him rest until he said, “fine! Go and get this out of your system!” He was probably thinking if he didn’t let this woman go, she was going to file for divorce or something. That wasn’t good enough for me, however. I needed him to be excited with me, to plan with me, despair with me. It hasn’t been easy this past year, especially surviving an incredibly stressful dissertation when I was in a rotten mood 80% of the thing. But somehow we managed to stay happy and have very little fights.
I
am proud of myself for sticking to my guns, for insisting that what I wanted
mattered – although it was viewed as selfish, but nonetheless it
mattered because it was important to me. When women get married, they are often
required to stop being selfish – i.e. give up all your dreams and
aspirations, live now according to the wishes of your husband. But I wasn't
that sort of a person, and I wouldn't be cowed by the threat of the loss of a
marriage. Mostly because that threat didn't come from the person I was actually
married to. So yeah, I have a lot to appreciate MM for sticking around even
when I ‘disobeyed’ him. Honestly, I don’t know what I would have done
if he was one of those men who insist their wives must submit or be gone. Truth
be told, I would rather be gone. Why, because there would always be something
else I want to do that he wouldn’t agree with, and then we're back to square
one. How would I continue to be with someone whose very intent is to subdue me?
I'm too much a fighter to take it lying down. But I don’t know if I have the
energy to keep on fighting for so long a time. That would make for a very toxic
environment, and I’m not strong enough to strive in such.
Finally, I think equality – or its
closest cousin, because really I don’t believe any relationship is truly equal
– is something that is possible when one has a willing partner. So, here my
advice for the day: dudes, it’s no use marrying a ‘women empowerment’ type of
girl with the intention to change her. There are two things that can happen.
You break her, and she will forever resent you for it. Or you break her and she
leaves your ass. And if you’re going to have kids with her, well you’re not
doing those children any favours with such agenda. And women, dare to stand up
for what you want in your marriage!
Ciao