At the back of my mind, I knew what had to be done.
There’s always a part of us that knows what needs to be done, but sometimes it takes a final jolt to elucidate that. My aha moment was still hidden below the horizon, and I felt it only as a gentle gnawing at my soul. I figured we all have that.
Was I blind somehow? Going through life a little bit blind is probably the only way to stay sane. Can you imagine knowing all the intricacies of even your own mind? Fully experiencing the bombardment of the billions of beliefs, connections, and moods of just your own mind would ensure you’d never even get your shoes on in the morning. And then there are the infinite vagaries that comprise other people’s minds and the endless minutiae of their beliefs, histories, and desires. No; it’s too much. We’re horses with really narrow blinders.
Look, I loved my wife. I did. And eventually I realized we had to split. So did she.
Several years after our split, I read an article on relationships by an author (let’s call him Richards) who suggested most people end up being three different people during their adulthoods. We’re not mono-minded stagnant beings—so Richards’ argument goes. We’re as variable as a tornado with an attitude; life’s whims whip us in perpetually spastic directions.
In his article, Richards makes the claim we’re one person from our twenties until our forties, then a second person from our forties until our sixties, and then a third person from our sixties until the grave. When you fall in love with someone in your twenties, you fall in love with their “first person,” and they fall in love with yours. It’s not an exact science when we turn into that “second person.” For some people, it begins in their early thirties; for others, in their late forties. Desires change. Hopes and dreams evolve. Priorities shift. New outlooks materialize. It is only natural that we follow these. I mean, in my twenties I never liked anything but classic rock, and no one could convince me anything else was worth listening to. I never conceived that I would like instrumental Latin guitar music. Now in my late forties, I love it. That’s an innocuous example.
What about when someone decides they want to live in a different country? Or start a new career? Or have an open relationship? “Wait!” cries their partner. “That’s not who I fell in love with! I fell in love with the person who wants to live here forever, with the steady career and with monogamy. I cannot possibly love this new person.”
But Richards suggests you have to fall in love with your spouse all over again. You have to fall in love with their “second person.” And if you think that’s tricky, they have to fall in love with you all over again—your “second person”—and then, twenty years later, you have to do it all over again when your “third people” come along.
There are those who grip to their “first person” personality like a life preserver in the North Atlantic. They hold on with all their might, and you can imagine their inner tension from gripping so tightly. Chiropractors, massage therapists, counsellors, and neurologists have built their professions on these tight grippers.
But I didn’t know any of this at the time of the split with my wife. Obliviously, I went through life convinced that even though things were hard in the relationship, we weren’t fractured. I believed that eventually we would work it out. Maybe when the kids were older or when things weren’t so busy at work.
One morning, I said to my wife, “Honey, I’m heading over to Langley to run an errand or two. Need anything?”
“Sorry, what?” she replied.
“I’m heading out. Do you need anything?”
“I don’t think so. Uh, maybe a couple veggies for dinner. I just woke up. I don’t know right now.”
“See you in a few hours,” I said over my shoulder.
Traffic was exactly how the oil and gas companies would have wanted it. Driving home much later than I anticipated, I called my wife.
“Whereabouts are you?” she asked.
“In the car,” I said. (Sometimes my sardonic inner adolescent reigned supreme. I made a mental note to grab a Slurpee at the gas station to placate him.)
“I can hear you’re in the car,” she said. “How far away are you?”
“From where?”
“From home.”
“Oh, probably twenty minutes,” I said. “Do you need anything?”
“Did you get the veggies I asked for?”
“Oh, so you do need something,” I replied.
Look, I get it. It was a microaggression, but still an aggression. Why did I do it? I don’t know; I’m no saint.
These were the kind of exchanges we were having. It was like we were brother and sister all of a sudden.
We fell in love in our twenties because we were both foreigners in Egypt. We loved eating the food, exploring the country, and meeting the locals. We were young, attractive, and the sex was good. Really good. Was it enough to build a life on? It could have been.
Now in our forties, we were both busy becoming the second versions of ourselves, totally oblivious to the other person’s experiences. Drifting apart? It’s cliché, but clichés persevere for a reason. I was spending my spare time playing sports and reading early twentieth century psychology. My pickleball skills were deadly. I was one spicy pickle. And in the psychology realm, Carl Jung and I would have got along famously, but then again, he was a consummate conversationalist.
My wife, on the other hand, was learning to blow glass. Within a year, she had learned many of the complexities of the craft and returned home with several pieces that captured guests’ attention far more than my framed Carl Jung quotes. Her talent was real.
While I was working on body and mind, she was becoming an artist. On the surface we were just learning, growing, and evolving. Nothing wrong with that; am I right? But really, we were becoming new people.
I tried talking to her about Jung. What a life he led! I know of no one else who so dedicated himself to his inner journey—to following the desires of his heart and mind—and to hell with people who didn’t like it. He wasn’t just a psychologist and academic; he was a mystic of the highest order. What better way to know the intricacies of the human mind and soul than to know thyself intimately? But perhaps that is why he suffered from his own psychotic breaks, too. Did he dig too deep and uncover the raving lunatic within?
I’d also read Sebastian Faulks’ Human Traces which explores similar themes. It is a beautiful and uncomfortable book. Brave. Set in an asylum high in the Alps, it doesn’t shy away from the hard topics of mental anguish.
I asked my wife to read it so we could converse about its themes. She read perhaps a quarter of it before tossing it aside like a bruised banana peel.
“It’s too disturbing,” she said.
“Life is disturbing,” I grinned.
“Depends who you’re married to, I guess,” she said.
I was disappointed. I didn’t take her comment too seriously, though I probably should have. My disappointment stemmed from wanting to explore the themes of the book with her. What does it mean to have such rampant emotions? Why are humans saddled with anguish and despair? Why are some people more susceptible than others?
She left for the glass studio. I sat down with a green tea and Jung’s The Red Book.
Later that week my wife brought home a glass piece. Multiple colours radiated through its breadth. I commented how much I liked the colours.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Um, it looks quite abstract,” I said.
“Mmm hmm,” she mumbled.
“I really like the colours,” I reiterated.
How was I to know that the piece was the culmination of several techniques and that even some professionals struggled to achieve what she had? She didn’t tell me. Over the months, I had been listening as she told me about each session and what she was learning. I just didn’t make the connection to the learning and the piece now adorning our kitchen counter. It would be years before she told me how much that crushed her.
Our relationship was the proverbial frog in the pot. Looking back now, how did I not see it happening? How was it possible to go from thinking God had bestowed an angel on me to hoping she got stuck in traffic? Or worse? “Normal marital hatred.” That was another term I’d read recently. Wait, so it was normal to feel hatred for your spouse? Well, then, I was the most normal guy in the world.
But my aha moment (and maybe hers, too) was recognizing that we had real hatred for each other. At the time it felt sad. Not anymore. Ironically, if we’d known how normal it was, maybe we would have laughed about it and taken a second honeymoon back to Egypt.
And so, I wonder what would have been if I had read some of the things I’ve read since we split up. Could we have fallen in love with each other’s second person? Could our relationship have been a continued celebration? From what I’ve read, it sounds like people have to continue dating their spouses long after they’re married. Dating is exhausting. Relationships are exhausting. I suppose life is.
Some people might call me a pessimist. My best friend calls me a realist.
I’m still in the infancy of my adult “second person,” and discovering who he is.
And life takes effort. That means even if we’re doing life half right, it’s exhausting. Even meditating in a quiet room takes effort. Don’t believe me? Try it.
Early in my “first person” adult experience, I never could have guessed who my “second person” would be, and so I wonder what’s in store for my “third person.” Maybe he’ll like K-Pop and reading romance novels. I hope not, but what if that’s what brings him joy?
So, I put one foot in front of the other, invite the universe to reveal its beauty and its mystery, and with a cheeky grin, I whisper, “Who is this guy?”
