This is the latest installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, and Part Eleven
By 2016 I was still reeling from the band breakup, Jacob Liepshutz breaking my heart again, and the crushing weight of not immediately becoming a roaring success of a writer after graduation, as I had planned, among a multitude of other things that were heavy on my mind. I fled to Florida for a few months, then reconvened back in Michigan, where I decided I needed something different.
I needed Jesus.
I figured where better to find Him than at the church of my youth? So I went back to the church I’d attended as a teenager and weaseled my way into the young adult group. And that’s where I met Josh.
Josh was a scrawny kid no taller than me, with large brown eyes and a big nose that suited his face surprisingly well. He had longish hair that brushed his shoulders and dressed in skinny jeans and band tees like I liked on a man at the time. We’d known each other in high school, but we became close friends after I joined the worship team, where he played bass. We gravitate toward each other because we were the odd ones out — everyone on the team was stereotypically attractive and “cool,” and we were kind of the dweebs of the group.
I quickly learned that Josh had never had a girlfriend before, and something about that was oddly refreshing to me. A man with no baggage. No expectations. I was growing disillusioned with the dating scene, and Josh was a breath of fresh air. So when he meekly asked me to be his girlfriend, I had to accept.
Dating Josh was a whole different world. You see, his family was very strict and conservative, something I was not used to. They prayed before meals and didn’t listen to rock music and voted Republican because they were against abortion. Josh was a little less uppity, but he was a virgin and was waiting until marriage. I couldn’t live with him or even sleep in the same bed until we were married. It was charming at first, but it got grating quickly. I really did like Josh, a lot, but I wanted an adult relationship with him. I was sick of dating like a teenager while I was well into my 20s. So when he asked me to marry him a mere six months into our relationship, I said yes.
The wedding itself was far from my dream wedding. It was rushed, just like everything else in the relationship. I hastily chose decor and cakes and all that, and my dress was a pastry-shaped hand-me-down from Josh’s sister, who was way too skinny for it to fit her well. The reception was less than ideal — I couldn’t even dance at my own party because we held it at Josh’s family’s church, and they were the villains from Footloose and prohibited such sinful acts. So I bawled my eyes out and definitely came off as a bridezilla.
(I think I was justified.)
We bought a little condo in my hometown, a relatively nice two-story home with wood paneling like I liked, and plenty of storage space. That’s when I fell into a nice little routine. Go to work at the pharmacy I’d found a job at, maybe attend a church event, come home and clean (usually while sneaking a bottle of wine that Josh didn’t approve of), and go to bed, only to do it all again the next day.
I put on my shiniest, happiest face, like I was actually enjoying the life I’d made for myself, but I wasn’t actually happy. Even the kitten Josh bought me didn’t bring me enough joy to justify my sad existence. Every day I’d go to work and drive across the Detroit River, and every day I’d be half-tempted to drive my car off the damn bridge. It wasn’t anything Josh was doing wrong, to be fair. It was me. The problem was always me. I was making myself miserable by forcing myself into a box I didn’t feel comfortable in. I wasn’t a good little church wife, and I knew it.
I felt like I was stagnating, so I fought my depression the only way I knew how — by throwing myself into academics. I signed up for music therapy classes for the second time. What was the other option, have a baby? All my friends were getting married and making babies, but I couldn’t see myself having a family with Josh. As much as I loved him, I didn’t like him like that. And I finally admitted that to myself one day while I was walking across campus. I called my mom, who encouraged me to call my brother, who immediately swept me up and took me for a ride, just to talk.
Your Uncle Jason is not a saint. We don’t even talk any more. But I have to credit him for saving my life that day, because he’s the one who talked me down from throwing myself into that river.
I didn’t have a plan. I wasn’t even sure how people get divorced. But I wrote a letter to Josh, a painful one that hurt me to write. I knew I’d made a mistake in rushing into marriage with him, though. I left it for him, and went to stay with my parents for the night.
The divorce process was somber, as expected, and way more drawn out than it should have been. He chased me down and tried his hardest to win me back, which only made things hurt more in the long run, both for him and for me. He even recorded a CD full of him playing songs for me, a desperate serenade in hopes I’d stop the process and come back to him. But my heart was never in the marriage in the first place. I was in a hurry to grow up and have that adult relationship I wanted, and he happened to be in the crosshairs of my own recklessness.
Finally, the dust settled and I moved out to Ypsilanti to be closer to my school and job. I’d thankfully started working in Ann Arbor a little bit before everything went down. I think I started planning my escape long before I consciously decided to divorce Josh. My heart wasn’t with Josh, or in that church, or in my hometown. I left my heart behind in the music therapy program at Eastern, and that’s where I needed to be.
I guess the moral of this story is to not be in such a hurry to grow up. When you try to rush things, you hurt people and lose sight of what you really want out of life. I regret marrying Josh, not because I never loved him, but because I did love him, and I hated having to hurt him the way I did. I’m big enough to admit I was the bad guy, and he didn’t deserve what I did to him. But I had to do what was right for me. You only live one time, and life’s too short to be stuck somewhere you don’t truly want to be.
As of writing, I never did get that dream wedding to someone I actually want to be with forever, but I’m praying that changes. And if that time ever comes, I’m going to dance my damn heart out.
JESSA JOYCE 