Letting Go of the Dream of Domestic Bliss

As it turns out, happily ever after isn’t that happy…

As I looked at the calendar today, it occurred to me that it’s almost been exactly ten years to the day since my last partner and I moved in together. You might say that anniversary is not a big deal, considering the fact that he is no longer in my life. But to me, it is a significant date in time, a tug of memory, a gentle reminder that some of our romantic illusions are just that — illusions.

We were two years into our relationship, though the previous years had been riddled with breakups and separations. He was so commitment-phobic that every time we took a step forward, he would retreat in a sprint, and we’d have to backtrack to find our ground again.

It wasn’t the first time I had moved in with a man, but it was his first experience of cohabitation, so I tried to remain patient as we debated when to make the move.

We finally took the plunge in October 2009 and at the time, it was the most joyful experience of my life. Scary, yes. Frustrating, for sure. (My god, he had so many computers and video game consoles, I felt like I was tripping on unsightly cords for weeks.)

But I was certain he was my guy, my lifelong partner. I was certain we’d be happy together.

I really can’t explain the bliss of those first three or four months. October is my favorite time of year and we took every opportunity to “hardcore couple.” No, I’m not talking about sex (though we did that, too). I’m talking about doing all those cutesy things you do with someone when you’re about to become engaged or after you’ve got a ring on your finger or in the early days of marriage. You know, things like going to the local pumpkin patch, taking walks while holding hands, carving pumpkins together, making a snuggle pile with the dog on the living room floor, and deciding what kind of candy to buy for the trick-or-treaters.

I was still pretty young back then — just 33 — and my fantasies about being a wife and mother were almost as unrealistic and aggrandized as they had been when I was 23. It’s sold to us in such a pretty package — the constant adoration by a man who only has desires for his one woman, the laughing baby running into your arms in slow motion, the holiday cards that make your family look like you stepped out of a J. Crew catalog.

Of course, we don’t really acknowledge that he leaves his dirty laundry everywhere or that he doesn’t do his fair share of the chores. We don’t really talk about how her romantic expectations end up crippling him with resentment or driving a wedge between the two of them that no one wants to talk about. We don’t discuss how easy it is to center a romantic relationship so intensely in our lives that our friendships start to suffer, leading us to lean on our partners more and more. We don’t really share the fact that partnerships do not relieve the condition of loneliness that is just part of the human experience.

I was still pretty young back then — just 33 — and my fantasies about being a wife and mother were almost as unrealistic and aggrandized as they had been when I was 23.

No, we — women in particular — remain firmly embedded in the belief that once we move in together, once we say “I do,” once we pop out a kid or two…everything will be okay. Finally.

Our “honeymoon” period in the new house was blissful, just as it was meant to be. We had sex in every room, on every surface — kitchen counters, bathroom sinks, on top of the washing machine, on the floor in front of the fireplace… He’d grab me in bear hugs and sweet kisses when I walked across the room. When I asked him to help me build a raised bed so I could grow vegetables, he drove straight to his dad’s house, and brought home dozens of tools and a table saw in the back of a pickup truck.

I made him knitted hats. I created a menu plan every week so we’d always have something to eat for dinner and he’d always have leftovers to take to work. That first Christmas, I suggested a few holiday traditions we could start — something we could pass on to our children.

Beneath all of that, though, I was squirming. Early on, I was tired of doing all the chores. It drove me insane that he never pushed in his chair after getting up from the table. And before moving in together, I had never realized that he literally spent hours every night playing video games. It was overwhelmingly frustrating.

I could see he was annoyed with me, as well. He didn’t seem interested in the holiday traditions. I knew he felt suffocated by my expectations and annoyed with my “momager of the household” attitude when we didn’t even have kids.

We didn’t talk about our struggles much. I don’t think we knew how. He just thought I was annoying, in general, and I was determined not to let go of my domestic fantasies.

Over time, though, reality could not be ignored. His commitment phobia kept him pulling away again and again. The more he pulled away, the more clingy and tenacious I became. The more clingy and tenacious I became, the more he pulled away. And… You get the picture.

I knew he felt suffocated by my expectations…

We ended up being two very lonely people in a very lonely, empty house.

I started to see glimpses of other people’s romantic illusions falling away as my relationship disintegrated. Friends got divorced and from time to time, they would open up about their disappointments, their loneliness (even before they left their marriage), their struggles. And yet most of the conclusions drawn from these separations was that it was simply a bad match. Within months of their divorces, most of them met a new partner and started the whole process all over again.

I began to wonder, though: Is this about a bad match? Or are we all just fucked up humans making messes with one another — messes that are worse because we’re striving for some strangely perfect romantic ideal?

Eventually, my partner left — also to start the whole process over with a new person — and I spent the next few years treading water in a sea of disillusionment.

I started to see glimpses of other people’s romantic illusions falling away as my relationship disintegrated.

The dream had failed me. And not just me — so many people I knew. Most people seemed to think the failure rested in the fact that the wrong ingredients had been added to the recipe. I, on the other hand, felt somewhat convinced that the recipe, itself, was inherently flawed.

The whole rose-colored, dewy vision of domestic bliss began to dry out and crack. It started to feel so heavy and burdensome — an impossible chase, not unlike my decades of struggling to achieve a perfect body.

What kind of Kool-Aid had we been drinking?

Over time, my disillusionment started to turn into desire — a desire to let go of the weight of that dream. I know most of my friends still believe in it, even at our age, but I am not sure I do. That’s not to say I don’t believe in marriage or motherhood or a happy family life or monogamy or… I believe in anything and everything.

But I don’t believe in them with the same fervor I once did.

Sure, I would love to get married someday, but that is no longer a driving force in my life. Yes, I always wanted to have a daughter, and I hold on to the dream that I might still have one, but I no longer feel an insistent need to become a mother.

Today, I’m more interested in the chair that never gets pushed in. I’m more interested in the dirty laundry all over the floor. I’m interested in the flaws, the annoyances, the fights. I want to know someone’s pain. I want a challenge. I want to be broken open.

I don’t care about the J. Crew holiday cards.

There is beauty in the mess. And interestingly, there’s so much less mess when we can let go of our insanely unrealistic domestic dreams.

In this case, disillusionment did me a favor. It’s helped me find more freedom. I don’t have to be a perfect wife anymore. I can just be myself.

© Yael Wolfe 2019