Til Death Do Us Part

I had a terrible dream last night. You know the type, I’m sure, though i wish you didn’t. It was a very realistic alternative version of my real life. No flying or aliens or monsters.

Just my real marriage. My real husband doing some atypically horrible things to me. It was gutwrenching and nervewracking and I can still now in the becoming dawn taste the sickness in my throat as the dreamt me tore His clothes out of His closet ad kicked Him out of my life.

His nonchalance. His uncharacteristic demeanor.

It was so real that I woke up confused and of course then relieved. As I recalled the nightmare, though, I realized how different that same scenario would have actually played out if He’d made the same mistakes in the waking hours.

Because we said it twice. Till death do us part.

Once when we we married. Once during our Ceremony of Roses.

“We’ll be together forever, climb out of any valley, fix it if it’s broken instead of throwing us away.”

In the vanilla understanding, in the vanilla “marriage,” it’s commended. It’s applauded. Millions of couples are living like this, many without really knowing their partner well enough, none with an exit strategy, living “til death do us part” with no safe word.

So why is the M/s relationship so taboo?

When the relationship is lived in power exchange instead of being power neutral, why does it suddenly become dangerous? Or to be questioned? Or judged.

It’s the same shit. “I wanna live like this forever. With you.

Sickness and health.
Richer or poorer.
Good times and the bad.
Til death do us part.

I’ve been this committed to this Man in this way well before we lived M/s.

Guess what happened the first time we told everybody we were going to be living together, I’d be wearing a circular metal symbol of being His every day of my life, and no word could ever separate us again?

People clapped and ate wedding cake.

So as I pull away at the cobwebs of my horrible, inaccurate dream, I for the first time feel good about “til death do us part.”

When I was with the wrong man, it had seemed so incredibly impossibly infinite.
Once I was with the right man, it would make me sniffle in sadness, knowing one day we’d be forced to part.

But now it’s a cloak of safety, shielding me from the falsehood of the possibility of us ending prematurely, knowing that each day alive with Him, with us, is a pure blessing. That no matter how far we fall or fuck up there is one person in the world that will always have our back. Always.

Just because He decides what is for dinner tonight (okay, every night) doesn’t make this marriage less healthy, or happy, or fulfilling for all parties.

It just means I cook a lot of meat and potatoes.

Kind Regards,
Mrs. Darling

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