Welcome to the reality show of my dad and stepmother’s marriage—and this week, the anniversary special! Of course, reality TV wasn’t part of our culture back in the 70s, but if it had been, my parents’ relationship could have provided material for a popular season or two before viewers would come to their senses.
Since 1978, they’ve separated a total of eight times, and subsequently reconciled. On three of those occasions they actually started divorce proceedings which almost—but never quite—became final. Endless (usually one-sided) arguments and couples counseling just prolonged the agony. Finally, one or the other would decide enough is enough and then—that’s it, I’m outta here—resulting in expensive, ill-considered relocations.
They would typically experience, along with the pain and drama, a brief moment of relief. The initial elation would be followed by periods of increasing loneliness, some tentative phone conversations…and finally, after saying they now realized what the problem was, they’d move back in together and reactivate the whole cycle without actually addressing the problem.
When this back and forth had been going on for roughly 5 years, a good friend of mine predicted that they’d keep doing the same thing until finally getting too old and tired, when they would just call a truce. She proved to be right on target. The last reconciliation took place around 1991, and while things have been rocky at times, they’ve apparently decided that the pain of being alone would be still worse. Even so, I was shocked when my stepmother recently told me (we’d been talking about the incidence of domestic violence that occurs on Superbowl Sunday) how one time my father was so angry that, screaming his first wife’s name, he actually hit her. The thought of my passive, pacifist father striking anyone is more troubling to me than the event itself seemed to my stepmother. “That was the only time he hit me,” she remarked casually, and apparently she was willing to let it go.
At its heart, the problem in my parents’ relationship is fairly straightforward—and just as insoluble. My father is both chronically depressed and repressed; he told me at one point that he was “resigned—no, resolved” to never feel anything—presumably meaning pain or vulnerability. And for her part, my stepmother is emotionally needy: jealous, insecure and always hungry for attention. Their opposite natures could be a big part of what has driven them apart and drawn them back together over the years. Then again, it’s possible that they just couldn’t stand being alone.
I’ve always scoffed at the belief so many people seem to share—that a bad relationship is preferable to none at all. It smacks of character weakness, of inadequacy and fear. While I enjoy being partnered and feel lucky to have that intimacy and support, I always managed pretty well as a single person and have trouble understanding why others seem unable to do so.
I maintain this attitude as an active, relatively healthy adult, and hope that even as I grow older I’ll feel the same way—but who knows? The thought of long, silent afternoons and dinners alone, with nothing to look forward to except an occasional movie or the nightly news might cause me to re-evaluate. Imagining myself sick or dying, with nobody to hold my hand and comfort me, could make for a pretty easy “almost anyone is better than nobody” conversion experience.
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