Freda Payne’s “Band of Gold,” one of my favorite songs of the ’70s, is about a woman’s pain and disappointment after marrying a closeted homosexual. The true meaning of its lyrics escaped some listeners in 1970, and if you heard it on the radio without knowing the artist, you might momently confuse it for a Jackson 5 tune. Its Motown sound is unmistakable for good reason: it was pseudonymously written by Holland-Dozier-Holland and Ron Dunbar for the legendary songwriting trio’s new label, Invictus.
I thought of “Band of Gold” last night, as I decamped to the guest room due not to illness (though that continues) but marital mishigas. Crankenstein and I exchanged matching silicone bands in silver as a symbol of our commitment, and wore them until ‘Niles,’ as I call her anxiety, intervened during the pandemic. That’s when her rings came off — wedding and engagement — and she abruptly removed from her wardrobe various items of clothing, including some gifts from me. An extravagantly warm and cozy new robe, a hoodie from her alma mater, a fleece jacket and untold pairs of socks disappeared into the black hole of her neurosis, due to fears involving a rash.
Her initial rejection of those things was easy enough to accept, despite how illogical it was, because ‘Niles’ had all but consumed her life then. That she continues to avoid contact with those objects now, almost a year after the conclusion of exposure therapy — and despite her assurances that she’s over those particular fears — hasn’t gone unnoticed. Considered on its own, or alongside her habit of absentmindedly misplacing things (sometimes permanently) that I either gave her or she borrowed from me, it’s upsetting. It doesn’t matter how much time, thought or hard-earned money went into a purchase; if she’s distracted, impatient or afraid, there’s little of ours that isn’t disposable to her.
Attempting to discuss it is an exercise in frustration. In the end we return to the same place we started from: my feelings aren’t quite as important, or valid, or whatever you want to call it, as hers. I can explain as eloquently or unsparingly as possible the frustrations and loneliness you endure when you devote your life to someone with significant mental health challenges, and the injury you feel when they develop another gargantuan challenge and ignore your pleas to address it, and… it doesn’t matter, because none of it’s as meaningful in size or scope to Crankenstein as her trauma or her urgent need to know that her comfort, previously neglected by her parents, is never jeopardized again.*
My engagement ring, loose after a Crohn’s flare, was safely stashed away after the wedding, but that silver band rarely left my hand until sometime in 2022, when it was misplaced or fell from my pocket during a hectic day of home renovations. We selected silicone because we knew Crankenstein would periodically lose hers and it would be easy and affordable to replace. There’s probably another spare floating around here somewhere, but what’s the point in finding it when her anxiety will again compel her to discard it? I replaced my ring right away, but stopped wearing it when hers never reappeared, even once her phobias were supposedly conquered.
Every morning I see mine when I walk into my office; it’s on a tray atop my desk. And every morning I wonder if I’ll ever put it back on. There’s a line in “One Step Up,” a Springsteen song about a marriage on the rocks, that often comes to mind in these moments: “There’s a girl across the bar/I get the message she’s sendin’/Mmm, she ain’t lookin’ too married/And me, well, honey, I’m pretending.” I love Crankenstein and hate the idea of separation or divorce. But I’m so sick of pretending to be married to someone who doesn’t seem too married to me.
When I didn’t want to share a bedroom last night, uncomfortable with how a simple disagreement emotionally escalated earlier that morning, I retired to the guest room — logistically, I had to: ‘Niles’ avoids that room for various reasons. If I wasn’t sad and exhausted, it would’ve made me laugh. Almost every issue we have seems to go back to control. If there’s a mutually acceptable way to resolve it, I’ve not yet stumbled across it. How do you ‘win’ a deeply personal, easily weaponized battle against someone who has, historically, found as much solace in harming herself as Crankenstein? I’m as unlikely to prevail there as I was with an ex who’d blow herself up if it would hurt her target.
There are plenty of fights I don’t need to win and tables at which I don’t require a seat. But there are aspects of my life, and especially my marriage, that are non-negotiable to me. Suspecting your partner gets more of her emotional needs met by staying in dark places than she could ever get from your relationship, is a depressing place to be. And it feels dangerous, too, when you sense that pushing back too hard against anything you find manipulative might result in your addition to the list of the people who’ve traumatized her.
As vague as some of this is, I still worry it feels like a ‘subtweet,’ or whatever it’s called when you call someone out online. But I think that way of looking at things has contributed to some of our problems; it’s an Elliott Smith “Bottle Up and Explode” sort of thing. Crankenstein and I have discussed this ourselves, so it isn’t new to her. I think it’s OK to say I fell asleep last night thinking of Freda Payne. It was either mention it here or tell Muriel, presently immersed in her own struggles, like growling at the interlopers who are noisily doing God knows what in her basement while I uselessly sit here, allowing it to happen.
* It ends up being more complicated than that, since her idea of maintaining comfort sometimes results in situations that aren’t actually comfortable for her, which deepens the madness of it all. That’s what frustrates me, but it’s hard to convey when we’re already exasperated with each other about other things. Also, don’t worry, Crankenstein kvetches about me, too, she just doesn’t do it here.