Breaking Down the Wall

Romantic relationships were always challenging for me. I was determined not to become dependent on anyone, in any sense of the word. The idea of really needing someone

and then losing them terrified me. The thought of letting someone in, of allowing myself to be truly vulnerable, only to be rejected, was too scary. I was also frightened by the thought of losing my independence, of losing myself. I didn’t want to be absorbed into someone else and lose my voice, my thoughts, my dreams. If I was always completely self-sufficient and never let anyone in, I couldn’t get hurt. I wouldn’t end up lost or broken. I had a few real relationships, but even then, I kept a small part of me closed off. Mostly, I stuck to casual relationships. I preferred it that way. Lots of fun and minimal risk. This also allowed me the freedom to concentrate on achieving my goals without having to consider the needs of someone else. Of course, I could never completely avoid hurt or rejection, but the injuries were always minor. I recovered quite quickly. It was manageable.

When I met my husband, I knew he would be a big challenge. It was going to be a true test for me to keep him at an arm’s length. I felt comfortable with him immediately. I felt like I could say anything and he wouldn’t judge me. I felt safe with him, which is something I hadn’t felt with anyone before. He was extremely open and honest with me right from the start. I was intrigued, I wanted to know more. I wanted to know him. And what scared me the most was I wanted him to know me. Like actually know me. I had to resist the urge to let my guard down. Lucky, I had had a lot of practice by that point, so I was able to keep the wall pretty much intact. Initially at least.

Knowing what I know about myself now, I see that while I was definitely protecting myself from getting hurt and trying to preserve my independence, there was more to it. There was also a fear of failure. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to give him (or anyone) what they needed. If I let him in and he saw the real me, he would see that I wasn’t enough. I was afraid that I would never be able to live up to the expectation of what a true partner should be. Or perhaps, I didn’t think I would be able to live up to my perception of what was expected. Maybe I didn’t want the pressure of having to live up to it. I didn’t want to risk the potential failure.

As our relationship continued, my wall was being slowly chipped away. Sometimes pieces would crumble, and at first, I wouldn’t even notice. When I eventually saw that more of me was exposed, my gut reaction was panic. My initial instinct was to rebuild. But for some reason, I didn’t. I still felt safe with him, even with the new exposure. This realization was both liberating and terrifying. The more the wall fell apart, the more power he had over me. We had only been dating for a year when he moved in. Having never lived with a boyfriend before, (and having only ever had one roommate in general), I didn’t really know what to expect. I definitely didn’t expect it to be so easy, so comfortable.

I didn’t think I had what it took to be someone’s wife. I never thought I would get married. I had watched marriages fall apart more often than I had seen them succeed. I had been tangled up in the middle of two failed marriages and I had no desire to be part of a third. I was always vocal about my aversion to marriage. So when he proposed, I was completely shocked. It took several seconds for my brain to catch up to what was happening. (When he tells the story, it took me several minutes to give him an answer). But then this strange moment of clarity came over me and my fear of marriage just sort of melted away. Of course I’d marry him. There was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, so what had I been so afraid of?

During our engagement and early on in our marriage, I struggled to find a balance. I wanted to be the partner he needed, the one he deserved, but I also wanted to be my own person. It was hard for me to figure out how to be fully committed to someone while also maintaining my independence. I felt guilty if I put my own needs in front of his, but I felt lost and insecure if I made him the center of my world. My counselor pointed out that I had put him on a pedestal and by doing so made myself appear unworthy. She was absolutely right. A successful, healthy partnership requires two equals. I needed to hold myself in as high regard as I held him. It seemed that when I allowed my wall to completely crumble, I had somehow bypassed solid ground and dug myself a hole; my self-esteem and self-worth buried somewhere beside me. He always made me feel safe and took such good care of me. I wanted so badly to do the same for him, but I didn’t feel strong enough. How was I supposed to take care of someone else’s needs when I couldn’t even figure out what I needed? How could I build him up when I wasn’t even standing on solid ground myself? I knew I needed to dedicate some time to taking care of myself and building myself up, but I felt that by doing so, I was letting him down.

I felt so disengaged from the outside world. I had always loved meeting new people and being social. But suddenly, that interest was gone. It was like I didn’t understand how to act around people anymore. Like it required too much effort. Like I was putting on a performance. It was exhausting. I felt so worn out all the time that I didn’t have enough energy left over to be friendly and outgoing anymore. My craving for socialization was replaced by a craving for solitude. I dreaded small talk. I mostly just wanted to be left alone. Maybe this shift occurred in part because my wall had always been up protecting me. It gave me confidence, made me feel strong. Without it I felt vulnerable, timid, fragile. I couldn’t figure out how to keep the wall down with him, but then put it back up when I was with others. I also believe it had to do with cohabitating. I had lived alone for so many years that I had become accustomed to having alone time whenever I wanted or needed it. Living with a partner, alone time was no longer guaranteed. I had to actively seek it out and often I had to be patient and wait for it. I hadn’t realized how important solitude was for decompressing, for recharging, until it was no longer part of my day to day. Realizing this was one thing, but figuring out how to obtain adequate alone time while still being a present and supportive partner was entirely another. Luckily, my husband is incredibly supportive and really understands my need for solitude. This has helped immensely, but ultimately it is up to me to find the right balance and it is something I continue to actively work on.

It is often said that the key to a successful relationship is open and honest communication. It has taken me a long time to truly understand the magnitude of this statement. I see now that this doesn’t just mean being open and honest about the things that directly affect the other person. It also means sharing your most personal and messiest thoughts. It has taken some getting used to. When I’m struggling, my instinct is to keep it to myself and figure it out on my own, because that's what I have been conditioned to do. In my younger years, I was convinced my survival depended on it. More recently, I kept my hurt to myself because I didn’t want to burden him. I knew he had his own issues, and I didn’t want to give him more to deal with. This line of thinking is relationship suicide. It’s not that he needs to know all of the nitty gritty details but pretending that nothing is wrong can have detrimental consequences. Sometimes it’s even as simple as saying, “This is what I’m struggling with right now. I’m working on it and if I need your help, I will let you know.” At the end of the day, if something is off with one of us, the other one can tell. If we aren’t upfront about it, the others’ mind tends to wander. We are forced to draw our own conclusions, which are often worse than the real thing. We can avoid a lot of unnecessary worry or drama by just acknowledging it. Being open with him about my most personal thoughts also makes things feel less daunting. Pretending to be ok when I’m not ok is exhausting. Once I have acknowledged it, I can focus that energy on dealing with my issues instead of trying to hide them. I truly believe that being vulnerable and leaning on each other has not only made our relationship stronger, it has also helped me understand myself better as an individual. We cannot expect the other to solve everything for us, nor can they. I don’t need him to take on my problems as his own or to fix them. I just need to know that I’m loved and supported. Just as he needs to know that I’m working on it and that he isn’t being left in the dark.

I spent all those years diligently avoiding dependency, or at least my narrow-minded view of what dependency means. It never occurred to me that dependency can take on many forms, that it can hold many different meanings. As it turns out, the version of dependency that I have found with my husband is exactly what I need. I know I can be completely open, be completely myself and I can depend on him to support me without judgment. He is my safe place. Being dependent on him hasn’t stifled me, as I always feared dependency would. Depending on him has allowed me to grow.