She is my wife; I am her husband.
She’s the yin to my yang,
an anchor on a drifting boat sometimes,
a rock to a lonely albatross
a drink to a wino,
luck to a leprechaun who has lost his charm.
She listens to country; I rock and roll.
She was born and raised in ONE place all her life. I’ve traveled halfway around the world and back. Not just once, but several times.
She’s a farmer’s daughter who’s family has always been tilling the same old ground for centuries. I was born a warrior and raised a military man.
She dropped out of school early and barely got her GED. I have been through so many years of school, and studied in so many fields that I have trouble keeping up with mine.
She thought the broiler was good for toasting and nothing else. I can gourmet cook.
I can visualize. She can’t.
I do art. She takes photographs.
She was raised here. I was raised everywhere. Anywhere. Nowhere at all.
She has a hometown. I have none.
She has family – an extended one, sprinkled all around like dust and pepper. I can count all my family members on the fingers of one hand.
She works. I stay at home.
She likes things clean with uncluttered lines; I like intricacy and curious things. My cabinets and office are littered with trinkets, souvenirs, and specimens collected during a lifetime. Her kitchen counters are vast smooth plains, without a single instrument or appliance on them.
When it comes to interior decorating and paint schemes, she likes “blend” while I like contrast and outline.
Her tastes run country Southern; mine modernest, surrealistic, and strange. (We have one room: murals of mountains; a sky – another with thousands of glow in the dark stars on the ceiling; things like that . . .)
When it comes to art, she is the Queen of Tacky and I am the King of Fine.
She like those big doe-eyed paintings. I just want to poke out their eyes.
I like indoor animals. She can’t see the sense of having an animal that won’t give you something back – like beef, butter, eggs or a fresh glass of milk. (I did point out about the cats to her . . . put some milking machines on some . . .)
I am highly creative (she says); she has a focused mind.
I’m a speed demon, she drives slow.
She can get wildly jealous. I don’t have a jealous bone.
She was loved in her childhood; I was abused in mine.
I am DID/MPD; she is a mono-mind.
She will drop someone in a heartbeat over a perceived slight or inclination. I am more apt to forgive, hanging onto that friendship (or family member) a little longer, if not for all time.
She pretty much drove away all my friends; I’ve always let her keep hers. But to be fair, some of mine have died.
She has kids. I have one.
She likes babies; I love children.
I would like to have another kid to teach and raise; she says that she is done.
I don’t understand her commitment to this marriage; but I am committed to keeping her happy all the time.
I don’t understand what she see’s in me; but I know what I see in her (a tough – and yet towards me a compassionate and tender woman; one who is self-responsible, she can be fair and kind).
We accept each other’s weaknesses, and I guess that’s part of the clue; why me and her are sort of a mutual ‘you’ (when dealing with our friends and all).
And yet despite these differences:
we are committed to one another, and (apparently) still deeply in love,
and (it appears) still struggling to understand one another here after almost twenty-six years,
but like Yin,
putting their faith in their love and trust in one another . . .