So, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a guest post for Ben for a while now. I actually started one, and then deleted half of it and started over, and then I got hit with some writers’ block. It’s still sitting, half-written on my laptop. But then Mark posted, questioning why more wives don’t talk about the issues inherent in being married to a bisexual man, and whether he intended it or not, I felt like it was a kick in the ass. So while I obviously can’t speak for everyone, I can at least share why I will blog about my kid and my friends and the fun parts of my relationship with my husband, but I won’t blog about this.

For one, if I talk about it, it means admitting that this is not something that will go away. Obviously, I know that it’s not going away, whether I talk about it or not. But putting it out there for everyone to see, so that everyone knows about my private pains, makes it somehow more real. It means that for the time I spend committing words to paper, and for as long as people read those words and comment on them, I am reminded that my marriage is no longer what I thought it was, and that I’m still struggling to define what it is now.

Secondly, as Nate so eloquently put it, what is read cannot be unread. And there are times when my thoughts towards my husband are not particularly charitable. Yet, I know that he is struggling, as many of you are. So, while, yes, I deserve an outlet just as much as he does, I don’t want to hurt him by putting something out there that will make him feel any worse than he already does. I have to consider that what I say has a lasting impact on him and where we go from here.

Then there is the fact that while I learn a lot from your blogs, I don’t know what you could learn from me. You know that when we find out that you’re bisexual, we’re hurt, and confused, and tortured about what this will mean to the lives we thought we were building with you. You know that when you cheat on us, you’re doing something that you can’t take back and which will likely hurt us more than the fact of your bisexuality. You know that when you lie to us and hide from us, you risk causing more damage to the relationship than if you were honest with us and dealt with the consequences up front. You don’t need me to tell you that. So I don’t know if I really have any new insights for you.

And finally, sometimes the wound is just too raw to be dragged out and discussed, particularly when you’re unsure of the reception. I have spoken with some of the readers of Ben’s blog via e-mail or instant message, and they understand my feelings, as I understand theirs. But speaking with someone one-on-one is a very different thing from opening up to the general public about issues of sexuality within a marriage. I don’t feel comfortable talking about something that has caused me more than one sleepless night, knowing that there are some people who will judge me and how I am handling this marital rough spot. This has been difficult enough without having a bunch of people weighing in on how well/poorly I am dealing with it.

So while I understand why getting the wives’ perspectives out there is so important, I don’t know that I’m up to the task. I want to be. I want to help, particularly if it means one other couple can navigate this more easily than Ben and I have done. But for now, I’m doing what I can.

Original post by Ben and software by Elliott Back

For those of you that haven’t seen this touching story as yet, here’s a link to Mark’s post about it. The circumstances surrounding the event are magical, and truly inspirational. And it’s close to my hometown. So it has a more personal aspect for me.

So I started thinking about the lives we lead, and as I could feel the tears come to my eyes, I realized that I once had a moment that was similar.

I was 11 or 12. I can’t remember the year exactly, but the moment itself is permanently etched into my synapses. I was playing baseball during the summer in the town league. It was my 2nd year with this team, after a miserable previous year under a coach that was as clueless as he was unfair. So my view of baseball had been shaded. (One of the few times that’s it’s happened in my life.)

We had been blessed by the league & by the many irritated parents to get a coach that still influences me & who I am. As well as how I play ball. He was a renowned high school varsity coach that had moved from another city, and his coaching was far better than any of us could have hoped for. I can still hear his exclamations of, “Garsh, darn it!”

Anyhow, per my usual (at that age), I had struggled a bit with my batting skills. I’d get into a bit of a “slump”, and then overthink every time at bat. Thus, making my slump worse. And no matter how much my father attempted to get me out of my funk, it never helped. (I understand why a lot more now, and my skills have vastly improved.)

Anyhow, I can remember the harshness of the later afternoon weekend game. The smell of the cut grass that almost seems like it’s starting to singe from the heat. The mingling scent of sweat with MY uniform after being in the humidity for almost 2 hours. The almost electric feel of the air, touched with the intoxication smell of glove leather.

It had been a tough game. We fought, and we fought hard. It was against a team that had won last time, and we wanted to right the wrong. Our 6-inning game had come down to our last at bat. The score 6-5. Yes, I believe there were 2 outs, although part of me thinks there was only 1. And as cliché as it may sound, the bases were loaded. For most ball players, this is the dream…

…and I’m up.

I can’t remember every emotion in my head from that day, but I know a lot of it was, “Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck!” I was afraid that I’d fail. Hopeful that I’d at least move a runner. Wishful that some God, any God, would just let me walk, saving my dignity for another day.

I remember getting into the box. “Digging in” as I was inclined to do at that age. Hefting the weight of the bat, which for all intents & purposes could have been an iron girder. But hold it aloft I did, with tremulous hands.

And if there was ever a point in my baseball experience that time stood still, it seemed to be that moment. I’ve had a few afterwards, but up ’til then… never.

I waited for the pitcher, and his motion. I can almost imagine my labored breathing in the heavy, humid air. Forgotten within my task. Buried in my fears.

When the first pitch came in, it seemed to float, or dance on the air. But the Gods heard my silent prayer, pushing it into that little vortex of nirvana, commonly referred to as the “grapefruit zone”. The best way to describe it to those that don’t play ball religiously, is like hitting a wiffle ball with that comical plastic bat in your fledging childhood years.

In my minds eye, I can count the stitches on the ball, slowly trace the rotation, and point to the exact spot in which I connected. My being took all of my teaching up to that point, and focused it on one moment in time. My step was precise, my arms synchronized, my eyes never wavering from the ball. I even remember that I was looking down when I connected. No turned head, hoping to see the ball leave. Instead it was attached to the focal-space of impact. I don’t even remember seeing the ball leave, or exactly which direction it left. It was a perfect swing.

I remember having to struggle to bring the bat around to my other shoulder where long-time practice would dislodge it from my tightened grasp. It was like that iron, turned feather, had rematerialized as lead.

And as I scampered to first base, I performed a common act of heresy. I turned my head to look where I hit the ball. Afraid that I’d see the ball effortlessly sail into the outfielder’s glove…

(I’m sure you’re expecting to hear the ever clichéd phrase “home run”. But you have to understand, I’ve never been a power hitter. I was a contact hitter. Destined for an upper-lineup role with a keen eye for the strike zone. And fast enough to attempt a stolen base.)

…, yet I was rewarded (thank you benevolent Gods of baseball) to see a baseball, my baseball, glide over the left fielder’s head, watching the numbers on the back of his jersey bounce in frenetic pursuit.

As I coasted into second base, and my head started to clear from the pounding rush of excitement at gettind a double… dawn awakened behind my eyes.

I looked down, and confirmed I was standing on second base.
Second base.
I’m on second base.
I’m on second base!

I glanced at the scoreboard, and confirmed that we were a run down.
I’m on second base.
Loaded bases preceeded me.
Now partially empty.
Two runners just scored.
And we were the home team.

For once & maybe the only time in my life I leaped. I’d like to think like a gazelle, but probably more like a crazed lunatic. I continued to leap on a lazy path towards third base. My teammate on third started waving me back towards second, afraid of impending doom in the hands of our opponents. And then I saw dawn erupt in his eyes as well.

Before I knew it, I was surrounded. Crushed. Beaten even. But pain & humiliation were not my friends.

I was receiving adulation that I’m gifted to have experienced at least once. I was a “hero”. I was a game winner.

————————————

As I related this story to you, I fought back tears several times. Not because I miss that, but because I feel truly blessed to have enjoyed that… at least once. And if you couldn’t tell, my life since the rough age of six has been surrounded by baseball, but not in the expected fashion.

I’ve never filled my brain with statistics & numbers. Names & factoids. Hell, to this day, I still have to scratch my head & try to remember where the Diamondbacks are in the division.

No, my immersion in ball is the true glory & freedom that I feel while on those hallowed grounds, marked out by a chain-link fence, green grass, redish clay-encrusted dirt, and white, crisp lines of…

Right & wrong.
Fair & foul.
Ball & strike.
Safe & out.

Thank you for reliving this with me, and sharing one of my moments of glory.

Original post by Ben and software by Elliott Back

Just a quick post to let you all know that as of this evening’s post, I have upgraded from the standard blogger comments to HaloScan. It ultimately will give me more control over how they display, along with some other cool features that I’ve been wanting to muddle with.

So never fear. The comments that you had in previous posts are not gone, but just need to be linked back in… which I will be doing slowly in the coming days.

But feel free to add a new comment at any time. Cheers!

Original post by Ben and software by Elliott Back