by Diane Rehm
DIANE: Do you believe that since your mother died, you and I have had a closer relationship?
JOHN: I think we have become closer in recent years. Whether there's a causal relationship between her death and our drawing closer, I'm not sure.
DIANE: My guess is that her death finally freed you in some ways to be a fully loving husband, because you no longer felt torn.
JOHN: There's some sense to that. I agree that my preoccupation certainly disappeared. My concern was seeing that she was taken care of and could still lead a reasonably rewarding life. At the same time, I am genuinely sorry that in pursuing that concern, I hurt you so.
Sleep
John
Marital sleep. The very words conjure up in my mind an image of special intimacy. Diane and I are sharing a large and comfortable bed covered by a canopy that creates a snug refuge. With a few words or gestures and a final kiss, I share my descent into sleep with Diane. She, in turn, does the same, and the two of us together yield to sweet fatigue. In fact, until about ten years ago, this was just how we shared our sleep.
How harsh the present reality seems by contrast. I fall asleep quickly, but my sleep is apt to be restless and punctuated by snoring. Diane increasingly finds sleep elusive, and must therefore create a calm and quiet environment. As a result, practical considerations prevail over the romantic, and most of the time Diane and I now sleep apart in separate beds.
This vignette is charged with a number of more than super- ficial feelings on my part. When we try to share the same bed, past failures to fall asleep together leave me anxious. At a time when I should be gradually losing consciousness, I find myself excessively alert. Diane will be sensitive to even a slight shift in my position. This concern prompts an internal debate over whether I should risk the shift. Which should prevail, Diane's repose or my comfort? In short, I'm working to ensure that both of us fall asleep, knowing that this effort will only retard the process. I then feel guilty that I'm depriving Diane not only of sleep but of a shared pleasure. Through no fault of hers, I've unwittingly set out to assure her a good night's rest, yet I'm unable to bring that about.
In this process, I become aware of a feeling of sadness mixed with irritation. I genuinely regret that we can't achieve the romantic image; I know how strongly Diane is drawn to it, as am I. At the same time, her hypersensitivity to motion and sound grates on me. If she weren't such a light sleeper, I tell myself, we would be able to share the bed more often. I have now justified the conclusion that our failure to do so is her fault.
If truth be known, I am ambivalent about sharing a bed with Diane for sleeping. I too am attracted to the romantic image. As I did during my boyhood, though, I do enjoy falling asleep alone, undisturbed by any concern for someone else's comfort and rest. I'm somewhat uncomfortable about this selfish pleasure, particularly when Diane periodically talks about purchasing new twin beds.
Diane
There are few things in this world more deliciously satisfying than a good night's sleep. As I anticipate those hours of peace and rest, I'm immediately calmed, knowing that I will get under soft sheets and comforter, read for a few moments, turn off the light, and drift into ultimate relaxation.
Those feelings represent for me a dramatic change that has taken place in the past few years. For decades I wrestled with insomnia, dreading even the thought of getting into bed, knowing that I would fall asleep quickly and awaken a few hours later. Then, frustrated, I would turn on the light, read, try to go back to sleep, turn off the light, and start the whole process over again. Meanwhile John lay next to me, dreaming the dreams of the peaceful and snoring slightly. I would get up in the morning feeling and looking tired, irritable, and unwell. It took me decades to come to the realization that I simply couldn't sleep well lying in the same bed with John, a thorny issue for me and for him.
As newlyweds, we had no problem sharing a double (not queen- or king-size) bed. Later we purchased a queen-size bed, and for a time all was well. But as the children and we grew older, my sleeping life became increasingly problematic. Every single movement John made in the bed wakened me. Moreover, each time one of the children got up to use the bathroom, or coughed, or sneezed, my eyes would pop open. It was hard on the children because they worried about waking me up. Once awakened, I couldn't fall back to sleep. It became intolerable.
Finally I made the decision to move into an adjoining, quieter room. While I was close by (and “visiting privileges” were understood), I felt guilty. I felt embarrassed. Deep down, I felt I'd somehow abandoned a sacred place in our marital relationship. When friends talked about sleeping in their beds together, I pretended to myself that John and I were together in our bed. I said nothing to make it clear that we were no longer sharing the same bed. It felt like a failure. Why couldn't I manage to overcome this problem? Why was I such a light sleeper?
Well, I wish I knew the answer to that question. What I do know is that many women—and some men—share this problem. I have read first-person articles about the difficulty of sleeping in the same bed with another person. It works for some. It clearly doesn't work for me. In any event, both John and I are now resting comfortably—he, because he no longer has to worry about my sleep or feel guilty about his slight snoring, and I, because I can look forward to a peaceful and restful sleep each and every night.
Dialogue on Sleep
JOHN: As I think about marital sleep, I'm reminded of that old expression: if it weren't so serious, it would be funny. Well, the fact is, marital sleep is both. There are innumerable jokes about couples sleeping together or apart. And many magazine ads and television programs portray happy couples sleeping together. But the thing that puzzles me is why we place this enormous importance on sleeping in the same bed when it's a matter of sharing only a few minutes as we drift off, and perhaps a few more minutes as we awaken. Otherwise we're unconscious and oblivious to each other.
DIANE: Well, would that we were unconscious and oblivious to each other. We reached a point in our marriage when I could no longer be unconscious and oblivious. So, given that fact and granted that I am clearly a light sleeper, it made sense for the two of us to sleep in separate beds and to enjoy the healing process of sleep. I just felt so guilty moving out of the bedroom after so many years, as though I had deserted the marital bed and were somehow traitorous. And yet we enjoy those moments in the morning, or before we go to sleep at night, lying in the same bed together, talking and chortling and playing together. But during the night, sleep is sleep, and it's a necessity.
JOHN: Yes, but you've just used the word “guilt.” Where does this enormous importance that we attach to sleeping together come from? Is it the bed and mattress manufacturers?
DIANE: [laughter] It's all those sexy movies and television programs!
JOHN: Well, it's certainly part of our culture. But I'm raising a rather serious question, because I think you and I are probably fairly typical, wrestling with the practical need for sleep and, at the same time, pursuing this illusion of the bliss of sleeping together. It does seem as though there's an inordinate importance attached to it.
DIANE: Let's face it: there are lots of people who are heavy sleepers and can enjoy being wrapped around each other during the night. You and I just happen not to be that kind of couple. But for those who can do it, I think it is blissful. I think it's wonderful. A friend told me the other day, because her husband is now at home each morning instead of running off to the office, that he said to her when she got up, “Oh, do you really have to get up? Let's snuggle a little more.” Well, you and I snuggle in the mornings, but we cannot snuggle at night and sleep. That's all there is to it.
JOHN: I think the strength of the illusion of happy, conjoined sleep is part of the problem here. Obviously sleep is vital, and we need it badly. And yet some couples keep chasing this illusion to their harm, because they feel guilty or sad when the illusion isn't realized.
DIANE: When the kids were really young, we'd be so tired from getting
up in the middle of the night and feeding them that we'd fall back into our small double bed, totally exhausted, and go right back to sleep. As we got older, I began to sleep far less heavily. Perhaps it was a matter of habit, listening so carefully for the children's noises at night. But I think you're right, that there's some kind of illusion out there that a happy relationship entails sleeping together in the same bed. If two people happen to move into separate beds or separate rooms, it's as though there's something wrong with them and that they don't share the kind of intimacy that others do.
JOHN: In our case, the combination of my snoring and restless limbs literally drove you from the bedroom. The fact that we do, for the most part, sleep apart, and then come together on mornings when we have more leisure time, for me that rather enhances those times. If I could lay down a new expectation—
DIANE: Oh dear…
JOHN AND DIANE: [laughter]
JOHN: —I would urge people in a serious relationship to understand that there is perhaps—I offer this as a hypothesis— some kind of natural evolution. In the early years of a marriage, for a variety of reasons, physical and otherwise, people can sleep together. And then, later, they may move into separate beds or separate rooms. But we don't have to sit around wringing our hands because we think we don't have an ideal sleeping existence. In short, I'm telling people as they grow older in their relationships, take it easy, and don't lay such a trip on yourself.
DIANE: Well, I think I did lay a trip on myself. But once we created this different kind of arrangement for ourselves, we both came to accept the fact that I felt better, and you felt better because I felt better. We could then more laughingly and enjoyably come together when we did, instead of waking each morning in frustration because I hadn't been able to sleep.
JOHN: Yes, I think another way of putting this is that we were finally able to put happy sleep in the context of the larger relationship. To go on trying to stay together in sleep wouldn't have made much sense. We finally realized it was the larger relationship that counted. And that for the sake of that relationship, we had to make a variety of adjustments. I think this may have been one of the more natural adjustments, one which didn't impair, and, in fact, enhanced, the relationship.
DIANE: But, you know, when we're on vacations, and in twin beds, we manage quite well. So that leads me to wonder whether, at some point, we might come back to sharing the same room, but in separate beds.
JOHN: Well, that would be lovely.
The Third Person
John
Our marriage, like most—I'm tempted to say all—has been vulnerable to attack by both internal and external forces. Internal forces include alienation, dissension, and insensitivity. Among external forces are physical ailments, excessive work demands, and divisive behavior on the part of relatives. Such forces can try a marriage sorely, and even put the couple's love to the test.
Perhaps the most corrosive, in my experience, is the strong attraction that may arise between one of the partners and a third person. In most cases, the degree of attraction will be moderate and tolerable—that is, it will enliven one spouse's relationship with the third person without jeopardizing the spouses' fidelity to each other. In particular, the spouse may feel free to flirt with the third person within bounds acceptable to both spouses.
But what if, as I have experienced, the attraction is both strong and reciprocal? That is, if the third person and I find ourselves drawn to each other to an unexpectedly strong degree? At the same time, we profess no intention of disrupting existing relationships. However naive we may be, we do so in good faith, committed to refraining from overt infidelity. In this situation, I've found myself confronting some fundamental and difficult questions.
The most immediate and perhaps most challenging question is whether—and to what extent—I should tell Diane about my relationship with the third person. In the abstract, the answer seems simple. If our relationship is to be honest and vital, it demands openness, particularly when it may be challenged by an outside force. Diane and I can't preserve our relationship if one withholds pertinent information from the other. Anything less than candor can only weaken the bonds between us.
In fact, however, the abstract answer proves all the more glib because it doesn't take into account my fragility and perhaps Diane's as well. I approach the question weighed down by both guilt and fear. My guilt springs from a troubling sense of inadequacy. If I were wholly and truly faithful to Diane, I wouldn't be so drawn to the third person in the first place. It must be some deficiency in me that makes me vulnerable.
I'm also afraid that my disclosure to Diane will provoke harsh words and bitter feelings on her part. Diane sets great store by loyalty, and she will regard my dalliance as an act of blatant infidelity. Nor will I be able to plead innocent, since the effect of my actions—viewed in even the most sympathetic light—is undeniably subversive. Thus, without defense, I will fearfully bear and deserve her condemnation.
Whether I should tell Diane also bears on her sensitivity. That is, if my relationship with the third person seems under control, why not spare Diane the pain of disclosure? Maintaining her ignorance, however, may prove difficult. She will almost certainly have the opportunity to observe the interaction between the third person and me. If, as is likely, she senses the attraction, then the failure to disclose it will only add insult to injury.
Wrestling with my conflicting feelings, I settled on a ragged compromise. On the one hand, I did disclose or, rather, acknowledge the relationship to Diane, since she already had inklings of it. On the other hand, I didn't try to explore with her the reasons for the attraction and what I—and we—might learn from it. In retrospect, I think it would have caused less harm to our marriage if I had been able to share the experience with Diane, instead of confronting her with it.
The unavoidable question, of course, is why I was so drawn to the third person. Although I have given this question considerable thought, I have no firm answer. I can, however, see certain aspects of the genesis of the attraction. First, it was truly irrational in the psychiatric sense of the word—that is, it had no perceptible connection whatsoever with my current state of mind. Second, the attraction was puerile, in that it seemed to relate to an early stage in my life. The third person somehow stirred childhood memories, remote and indistinct. Third, the attraction involved my mother. It was as if the third person was promising to provide some precious and missing part of my childhood. I don't know what part. I do know, however, that as a middle-aged man, I suddenly became my mother's child again, with the opportunity to renew that experience, free from all adult preoccupations and responsibilities. With the third person, I could imagine myself as playfully boyish and newly flirtatious in the company of an attractive younger woman.
In time, the attraction ebbed and died, primarily as a result of Diane's pain and my shame. Did the experience strengthen our marriage? I am not sure that survival is a form of strengthening. I do believe, however, that sooner or later, most spouses must deal, as best they can, with the presence and potential threat of a third person. If possible, it is better for both to do so together than one alone.
Diane
Secrets. They can kill a relationship. They undermine that fragile fabric that two people attempt to create together. Secrets begin as tiny points in the mind, but slowly they expand, taking up more and more space, time, thought, and energy.
I have postponed writing this essay as long as possible. It's so hard to acknowledge both the pain and the shame that the subject brings to my heart and mind. Pain, because I felt betrayed by John's strong feelings of attraction to another woman. Shame, because I betrayed my husband by my strong feelings for another man. Why did it happen in my own case? Why did it happen in his?
Perhaps there's no rational way to explain such feelings. For myself, I believe they arose out of a need for attention, warmth, affection, and excitement that was not being satisfied in the primary relationship. John's work life seemed to draw him
further and further away from me. I turned to outside volunteer activities to satisfy my desire for companionship, laughter, and friendship. But right from the beginning, I had a sense that my initially innocent flirtation with a friend (is any flirtation truly innocent?) would become increasingly important to me. I couldn't wait to see him, and sought out every opportunity to do so, always within the safety of a group. We made frequent eye contact, moved toward each other, and gently touched hands when chance allowed. He became my secret, mine alone, my moment to dream, to imagine, to create a different existence for myself.
It was a lovely secret inside me that began to spill over and turn into a potentially lethal poison affecting my relationship with John. He knew something was different. He could sense that I had turned inward, away from him and toward the other man. And yet we never spoke of it, as if it did not exist. We fought bitterly, never mentioning a name. Most of the time, we did not speak at all.
I look back on this period in our lives realizing that I was struggling to grow, to find a way to be myself. I had allowed myself to be defined by my marriage, not because John had insisted on it but because I thought that was the way it should be. Then, realizing that John could not or would not satisfy all of my emotional needs, I began to act out a kind of rebellion against him. After all, I said to myself, for years I'd been striving to be the perfect mate, and he wasn't being perfect back! Finally, I concluded, the marriage was never going to be enough—either for me or for him. Looking for myself in a relationship with another man did not make sense either, but it gave me a sense of myself as a separate person, not just a wife, not just a mother, and not one to be taken for granted.
For every action, there is a reaction. I know that my behavior caused hurt and even grief. Whether it led—directly or other-wise—to John's own attraction to another woman, I cannot know. I do know that we are about to have a conversation on this subject that we should have had years ago.