Brief History of Toxic Nostalgia

I often recall a line from a truly great poem called ‘Liar’ by Lynne Crosbie in which she notes that ‘expectation is synonymous with the worst arrogance.’

This is something I often think of when I recall my innocent, totally secure, married self.

I assumed that my long term, contented happiness was static – I expected it. I’m still ashamed, embarrassed; but don’t all people who are in love feel that way and especially when that love has expanded and grown even stronger over the years? I do see now that it really was a kind of arrogance and unfortunately I can never think this way again or feel so safe.

And safe is the perfect word.

Steaming, milky cups of coffee served on a tray in bed just because it was Saturday; vehicles and houses financed together; slow cookers loaded with wine laden stews waiting for me as my key turned in the lock; beloved pets who had shared their brief time on earth with us would eventually die in our arms – together – at the vet; our boys singing in the Christmas choir at school, or music recitals where I would return his hand squeeze in a mutual expression of pride; even more painful to recall were the late car rides home often after a party, listening to music in companionable silence and then a firm hand on my thigh that predicted the rest of the evening when we got home.

Yes. I was very conscious of appreciating everything that I had and often reviewed and marvelled at the abundance of it all. I believe now that I viewed this appreciation as a kind of superstitious insurance policy. I was so lucky! But I knew it so I would be spared – and therefore safe. Now I find my naïveté touching but faintly silly; I’m so different now and yet a big part of me doesn’t want to be and I’m so uncomfortable with the anger I sometimes feel. My best friend tells me I am a far superior version of myself and because she is an honest and stellar human being I hope her opinion is accurate.

Not long after he left, I consulted a support person who had also experienced a husband “coming out” in midlife and poured out to her how exceptionally happy my life had been for so long and how I was therefore struggling to deal with it, make sense of it, how I was torturing myself every hour with questions.

She paused and then said bluntly “Well to be clear, you never had a happy marriage – otherwise your husband would not now be living with a man.”

Nothing has helped me less than hearing this piercingly cruel summary statement.

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