Open Letter to My Wife on Her Birthday
Don't read this unless you still have a heart.
Dear (censored for privacy reasons):
I don’t know why I’m doing this in such a public manner. I guess a private email that only you read while you’re away on a work trip isn’t special enough. As a proud introvert, you might hate me for this, but I’m sure you’ll be surprised at least—and I owe you a good surprise.
It’s no secret that the last few years have been tough on not only us but just about everyone else in our orbit. I always complain that people are colder, less connected, less interesting, less engaged, less inspired, less focused, and less competent than they were pre-pandemic. You always point out that the only person I can control is myself—mad, though, I may be.
While this rings true, it’s unsatisfying. Sometimes I wish you had a magic wand that could transform me into the person I used to be before my health and hope went south and my job prospects thinned. (In short, before I started this Substack as an obvious attempt at transference.) I also wish you could take away all the big-picture setbacks, which include just about everything going on in this country politically and economically. (You could start by overturning the last election.)
But marriage isn’t about magic or escapism.
When I proposed to you on New Year’s Eve in 2021, I had tremendous hope. I knew we could overcome or accomplish anything reasonable—because we’re reasonable people (mostly you), and we’re far better at overcoming things together than by ourselves. I knew we could navigate the dynamics of our respective families while continuing to work on ourselves and our relationship. We had already been through a lot together—but I had no idea what we were in for once we got engaged.
The year we got married was the same year I got sick. I spiraled into disability, which led to severe depression, and no one knew how to help. I mark 2022 as the year I became fully “mad” in both senses of the word. I never lost hope in you, but I lost all hope in myself. There were days, weeks, even months where I thought the end was coming for me. I lost a family member. I lost friends. I lost jobs. The day I lost the last job was one of the proudest days of my life—but that was at the end of 2023, and there have been few proud days since.
My sense of pride is slowly returning, though—and my health along with it—thanks to you. Few things stick in my life, but you have. You’ve been there through everything—heaven, hell, and everyday tedium. Through pain and hardship that I didn’t know was possible. Through job rejections that cut so deep I was ready to kill myself just to get back at the hiring people. (I doubt they would have cared, though.)
Because of you, I found the confidence to pursue two career changes since we met in 2019. Because of you, I finished my first book and found the balls to pitch it to agents and publishers (who actually liked it). Because of you, I force myself out of bed in the morning even when my mind and body tell me it’s a wrap (and it helps that you’re always up first, and I miss your face even overnight).
Because of you, I’m going to continue on this difficult, creative path toward what is meaningful, even if it doesn’t go smoothly, grant me respect, or pay me six figures.
Because of you, the world is a place I can get used to despite all the things I hate (and write/complain about often). I can get used to it even if I can’t control it—as long as you’re in it with me.
Happy birthday!
MMM
P.S.- I would say “I love you,” but it’s off-brand for the Madman.
Huge Smile! ❤️