Marriage, Guilt and Martyrdom
Guilt.
I’m feeling it right now--for not talking to my wife before I accepted this assignment. Because guilt is one of those little secrets in every long-term relationship, part of the unspoken code that dictates the give-and-take, behind-the-scenes maneuvering that makes a partnership work. And to talk about it, well, it’s tantamount to breaking that code.
This isn’t about the creeping, cancerous guilt that comes with breaches of trust or other serious crimes. I’m talking about knowing someone so well that you can map their hidden reservoirs of guilt, and know when to step gingerly around them--or tap them to get something you want.
If that sounds nefarious, take this little Cosmo-style quiz:
You had been hoping to spend a little quiet time at home with your partner, but he/she calls and says that plans have changed, and he/she has decided to step out with friends for the evening. Do you:
A) Tell your partner, firmly, that you expect your original plans to be honored?
B) Tell your partner to go on and have a good time--but say it in a disappointed tone of voice?
If you chose B--if you ever choose B--you are obviously acquainted with the joys of martyrdom, tapping guilt for fun and profit. Join the club. It’s a big one.
Of course, such manipulations can be taken to dark extremes. Destructive relationships are littered with tales of one partner exploiting the secret weakness of the other, be it guilt or insecurity or a hopelessly intertwined combination of the two. The motivations can vary from domination or revenge to a first-strike defense of our own weaknesses.
I like to think that real relationships can rise above the occasional impulse to vindictiveness, that areas of psychological vulnerability--such as real, deep-seated guilt--should be rallying points for support and not potential weapons. But I’ll also be the first to admit that guilt can play a role even in healthy relationships, a role that I would argue is benign.
(Still, my wife was so concerned about what I would end up writing here that she asked me not to use her name, preferring to remain an anonymous source. So please forgive the impersonal tone. Guilt is a touchy subject.)
The trick, as always, is coming to some understanding (spoken or unspoken) about the rules. In my 10-year marriage, guilt is usually used not to control but to goad acknowledgment of a sacrifice. If I take care of a normally shared household task, for instance, but I don’t get what I think is sufficient thanks, I’ll drop subtle guilt-provoking reminders until I do. Petty but true.
Or take going out.
We used to go to rock concerts frequently, but since buying a home last year, our entertainment budget has plummeted to the point where each ticket-buying decision becomes much more critical. Still, I’m able to go because I have several pop-critic friends who often have an extra ticket. I end up going without my wife.
Our exchange has become fairly ritualized:
“Um, do you mind if I go to a concert tonight?”
“No, no, go on ahead without me, have a great time, don’t worry about me.”
It’s all played for fun, but with an edge. The between-the-lines message isn’t “Don’t go”; it’s: “Go, but at least admit this isn’t quite fair.” OK, I admit it--it isn’t quite fair.
The intensity escalates depending on how badly she wants to see the show. Recently, Lou Reed, Los Lobos and Chris Isaak played a benefit at the Shrine Auditorium. We are big fans of Reed but had never seen him, we rarely miss a chance to catch Los Lobos, and we were both curious about Isaak. But after agonizing when tickets went on sale, we decided we couldn’t justify the expense.
Of course, the day before the performance, a friend who was reviewing the show invited me along. This called for a full-court press: Not content with her own efforts, my wife called mutual friends to make sure they razzed me. And it worked--I went, but felt vaguely chagrined about the turn of events.
It was a great show, though.
*
As with most things in life, guilt can be bought, in an exchange that might be described as a combination of tithe and penance. An example came up a couple of years ago when I decided to spend a month on a solo journey through Guatemala. We’ve often taken trips apart (distributed fairly between us, I should add), but a month was longer than usual, and it came at a time when my wife was tied to work and school commitments.
She agreed that this was an exciting opportunity. I should go. I spent months working overtime to pay for the trip, and once there, I traveled on the cheap, staying in $3 hotel rooms, subsisting on $1 plates of black beans and fried plantains (and 50-cent beers), and rattling around on retired U.S. school buses that were too cramped for my long legs even when I was a fourth-grader.
Still, the fact remained that I was having an adventure and she wasn’t. She offered an elegant way to ease my guilt: Buy me something good.
That was easy enough in Guatemala, especially given my wife’s interest in textiles. I stuffed an empty duffel bag in my backpack, and slowly filled it as I shopped the Mayan markets that dot the Western Highlands. I came home a hero.
A recent development has changed our cozy and time-tested guilt relationships, however: pregnancy. All advantages now go to my wife by default, and I am more than happy to concede them. She, after all, will have to live with the morning sickness, the body changes, the hormonal surges and the actual delivery. She’s the one who has to interrupt her schoolwork and her professional life.
It’s only right that I at least feel a little guilt, that I pick up the housekeeping slack where I can and cater to her needs (and whims and fancies) without complaint.
She often wishes out loud, partly in jest, that I carry the baby at least part time. I reassure her that I would if I could--a safe enough promise given that if science ever perfects this scenario, I will be well beyond my child-bearing years.
Her other fantasy is that she brings a cattle prod into the delivery room so that I may come closer to sharing the true joys of birth. Apparently, there are instances when an admission of guilt is not enough.