Aegis
“Families stay together!”
The French customs agent barked at my husband, when in that moment of transatlantic tired-and-wired honeymoon travel, my bridegroom thought he had to stay in line and didn’t join me at the counter. That Gallic “Families stay together!” brought him to my side and has echoed through my head ever since.
Acceptance after a lifetime of being a disappointment is a heady thing. I luxuriated in his love. I marveled that my depression and anxiety were a part of me to tend and manage instead of something that could be fixed by yet another yelling session. I tried new things. I stopped being so frightened of the world. He was a safe, just person and I finally understood.
The world didn’t have to be a cold, hard place with nails bitten to nubs, cuticles waving like bloody white flags. That all the times I’d heard “Be small and quiet and meek,” were lies. That I only deserved happiness if I checked the boxes of “pretty, but not too pretty” and “smart, but not too smart” and “not like those other girls.” His quiet, “I hate the way you shittalk yourself,” like I had insulted one of his favorite people in the world. I suppose I had.
I didn’t realize how much I’d internalized until, safe under his aegis, I could be vulnerable enough to just be me.
I’ve worked to shed the sharp, brittle strength of façades, and replace it with the nurturing, flexible strength of encouragement and shelter.
Which is not to say we have a perfect relationship or that I’m perfect. Hardly. It’s work. It’s frustrating, messy, “Oh my God, why is this still in the fridge?! He eats my leftovers, but leaves this for me to find?” daily life. We decide to grow and protect each other. “Families stay together!” echoes through my head. And I don’t think I’d change any of it.
