I think I'm a crone now, and furthermore...

I won't say I'm sorry for things I'm not sorry for

30 December 2023.

I spent Tuesday night and most of Wednesday morning believing that Geranium and I, per his ultimatum, were headed for divorce. I believed he was serious. And I was not going to apologize.

Then his ultimatum crumbled. We talked. He mustered a modicum of curiosity about my Christmastime behavior, and took me out for a lovely birthday dinner.

But I had not been craving a reversal. So I didn’t feel relief.

Yesterday—Friday—I wondered: Does he actually get to do that? Issue an ultimatum, then abandon it? Will I continue to allow that?

Maybe not. Maybe the next time he issues an ultimatum I’ll uphold it. Even if he lets it go.

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For decades I’d defaulted, when reprimanded, to panicking, groveling, fixing.

Approaching forty-seven, I began to focus on croning.

I’d been looking forward to it for years.

To me, a crone is a woman in full possession of herself, who doesn’t give a fuck about other people’s judgments. I know that in truth reaching this state has little to do with age—a woman could quit people-pleasing in her twenties, or keep doing it till she dies. Still, I liked the idea of linking this passage to turning forty-seven. So I did.

With stunning results.

At least four times, in the past couple weeks, I’ve fielded reprimands without apologizing.

The first time: Geranium purchased a paid subscription to Everything Is Compostable, then freaked out over a post concerning him. He left an angry comment, sent an angry email. I did call him right away—to assure him that what he’d just read had been drafted weeks earlier, that I could only compost my own experience, that I was writing about our relationship because I cared. However: I felt no impulse to apologize for having written or published the piece, and no desire to stop.

The second time: At the Yankee Swap, on Christmas, at Geranium’s mother’s house, his cousin told me I should have pretended to like my gift, instead of declaring I didn’t want it and trying to pass it on. I disagreed. Without apology.

The third time: Geranium insisted I apologize to him and his mother for not speaking to her during our Christmas visit. I didn’t.

The fourth time: This morning I shared, on Facebook, X, and Instagram, my blurb for this blog. It mentions that when I felt trapped in my marriage I had an affair. I’m guessing that’s the bit that inspired Geranium to send me a screen shot of the post and demand that I remove it. I didn’t. I won’t.

Perhaps he’ll issue another ultimatum.

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This last refusal raises an interesting question: What stories are mine to tell?

Till recently, I’d semi-consciously answered, “None that includes intimate details of my life with my husband.”

Why? Who benefits when I, the wife, keep my mouth shut?

No one does. No living being.

What benefits is the dynamic of the angry dude locked in combat with the woman seeking peace through placation. While telling herself that his anger is her fault.

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Last summer, at Earthaven, a friend who was also struggling in partnership broached the idea of marriage as laboratory, in which the researchers try experiments, and share their findings. I love that idea. And neither experiments nor findings make sense without detail. Without the full story of what happened in this mind, this heart, this soul.

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For some reason, I’ve been granted—or granted myself—the gift of release from knee-jerk apology. I intend to embrace it. Receive it. Find out who I am—and how my marriage goes—when I let my fellowbeings compost their judgments of me on their own.