Murmurs of a MadWoman

I slept soundly the night before my wedding. My bridesmaids buzzed around me, giggling and primping. I can’t recall primping. I had no idea what my hair or make up would look like, in fact, my dress was still being sewn together moments before it was time to leave and head to the wedding site. Yet, I was calm. I did not begin to feel tense until I realized we were running far behind schedule and I could not bear the thought of our guests waiting. In the moment, I interpreted my composed demeanor as sign of certainty about my decision to get married, and in many ways it was. Looking back I realize that I was certain the man waiting for me on a beach in Malibu, California, at the end of a rose covered aisle of sand, was a man with integrity, creativity, a strong sense of community, and loyalty. I was certain that this man loved me. What I was uncertain of was whether or not I loved myself. No one envisions separation while holding hands before friends and family, while inhaling the fragrance of youth and seeing each other through the stardust of unrealistic vows and promises so heavy with idealism the future cannot stand beneath the weight of them. It was with a full heart and all the physical strength I could muster, that I spoke vows to him, solid gold in my conviction, but ignorant of their costs to us both. I realize now that I am not alone. There is an entire society of us, fixers and hopeless romantics, walking down millions of aisles towards a love we are certain will fill the holes in our hearts that we are either unaware of, or too ashamed to acknowledge that they exist.