When I was a small child, I received a large complex puzzle as a gift. The puzzle featured two Persian cats dressed in eighteenth-century clothing, standing in front of an ornate garden. This was certainly a big challenge for someone so young. I was intimidated, but at the same time, I was determined to complete the mammoth puzzle on my own.
Days passed, and I worked on the cat puzzle. The work was slow going, and my mother repeatedly asked me why I refused to allow anyone to help me, even a little bit. I replied that I just wanted to do it on my own. I didn’t have a clear idea of why self-sufficiency was so important to me at such a young age but the seed of a lifelong tendency had already been planted. Incidentally, I did finish the puzzle.
In October 2021 I entered my first marriage. I was forty-six years old at the time of the ceremony. I had been in relationships in my twenties and thirties, but had only lived with a man once, and only for two years. My very early obsession with self-sufficiency had bloomed into a full-blown commitment phobia that lasted well into my forties.
There was more to the story. A deep trauma in my early twenties left me feeling alienated and depressed. Commitment phobia is common among people who have experienced trauma. At the time of my wedding, I had spent almost my entire adult life leaving people.
My husband and I had dated for just over four years before finally deciding to get married. I had somewhat organically overcome my fear of commitment with the realization that this man understood me on a level that nobody else had. This man understood me on the level of my trauma. I understood that the chances of meeting anyone else who could come close to that level of intimacy with me were slim to none.
Suddenly, I saw a light on the horizon that represented a better life complete with companionship, emotional and physical intimacy, and a true partnership. But really, this man opened a tiny window in my heart and snuck in like a thief in the night. The true cause of my deep change was as much a mystery as the source of love itself. Somehow this man reached in and found me. I was beginning to find myself, too.
Just as the deepest truths cannot be expressed in words, the most profound experiences are only clouded by analysis. I did not question why I was leaving my fear of commitment behind, I simply closed my eyes and leaped headfirst into the abyss.
In 1623, the English metaphysical poet John Donne wrote :
‘No Man is an Island’ is often quoted as a comment on the interconnectedness of all beings and the impossibility of total self-sufficiency. The death of any man affects all of us as we are all part of a deeply interwoven web of life, according to Donne. Yet, for most of my life, I thought I was an island, even in the first years following my trauma when I had to rely on my parents for support. Even in the first weeks of my marriage.
It wasn’t that I was ever totally self-sufficient. I just couldn’t acknowledge that I needed other people.
When he wrote ‘No man is an island’, Donne was suffering from a serious illness with an unknown cause. Donne then believed in illness as a visitation from God and a reflection of sinfulness in the sufferer. The work is part of Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, a meditation on spiritual growth through the experience of a physical trial.
Two months into my first marriage, I slipped on a patch of ice and broke my left arm. And so my physical trial began…
I broke my arm during our regular morning walk. The day was clear and crisp, with temperatures well below freezing. I had lived in Vermont for most of my life at that point and had not fallen on the ice for at least fifteen years. My parents had put me on ice skates when I was two years old. I always had great balance and even if I slipped, I could catch myself and avoid a fall. I had never broken a bone before.
I blame overconfidence for my accident. Just as I had been so sure for so many years that I didn’t need a life partner, I was sure that I would never slip on the ice again. In both cases I was wrong. Something deep in my consciousness had been calling for companionship and love for my entire life. I had just refused to hear it.
Just as I had stubbornly refused any help with the ornate puzzle when I was a small child, I had stubbornly refused to admit that there would be times that I wouldn’t be able to do everything on my own. The illusion of myself as an island was my own worst enemy, along with my pride.
The x-rays from the day of my fall showed a distinct crack in the radial head of my left arm. I had limited range of motion and severe pain when I tried to place my left hand over my heart or reach over my ear. Pain is both an ugly monster and a source of great clarity. I forgot about my projects for that day and let my husband drive me to urgent care.
At first, I resisted, but that was pride talking. This was the first time in married life that I was learning to truly lean on my husband. As it turned out, it would also be a deep lesson in intimacy.
The afternoon of the break felt like a litany of things that I suddenly could not do without help: tying my shoes, putting a bra on, opening a bottle of ibuprofen, pouring from a heavy container, buttoning my pants…Anything requiring two hands suddenly became difficult or impossible.
My husband was generous and kind without fail. He cooked for me, did all the dishes and cleaning, helped me to bathe without getting my splint wet, and encouraged me with all the stories of injuries that he had survived without incurring permanent damage or disability.
For the first time in our relationship, I had to let my guard down fully and completely. I had to let him nurture me. I had to accept all of this not only intellectually but emotionally as well. I had to be vulnerable and I had to trust him completely. For the first time, I had to let go of control.
Intimacy feels like a form of surrender. In order to get close to someone else, you sometimes need to give up your illusions of pride, self-sufficiency, and control. Recovery from commitment phobia is an ongoing process, even after the wedding vows have been spoken. What drives progress is the large and small rewards along the way.
The first night after my fall, my husband studied a video on how to sleep with a broken arm and deftly arranged my pillows so that I could sleep in the right position. That night I kissed him goodnight and slept peacefully until morning.
Living with someone you love is like dancing in the rain. You might get cold and wet, but you’re so busy kicking your heels that you hardly notice.
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This post was previously published on Hello, Love.
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The post What a Broken Arm Taught Me About Intimacy appeared first on The Good Men Project.
