“Tears of joy; Tears of laughter; Tears of happily ever after.”
There is a myth concerning rain and weddings, and what better day to address it than today: my anniversary. There are a multitude of versions, but the one I’ve always heard is, “Rain on the wedding day means tears in the marriage.” Having married on a rainy day, I have found the myth to be entirely true and entirely false.
My husband and I had both been married before, both to other people that we had neither really loved, even from the first day. It goes without saying that marrying someone you don’t truly love is bound to end disastrously. However, both my husband and I come from dysfunctional homes where we weren’t loved as children should be loved. We weren’t honored as unique individuals who have contributions to make to the family and society. Most of all, we weren’t respected because no one in our immediate families knew and understood the definition of that word.
Some say that when choose a mate, you marry your parents. I was attempting to avoid that at all costs by marrying someone the first round who was caring and considerate of my feelings, who was respectful of women, and who valued my opinion. These were attributes that my father did not possess. But no matter how you slice it, my first husband was very egotistical. He was very amiable until his rightful place as Lord and Master was threatened; he resorted to pouting and sulking when his ego was not stroked just the right way.
My first husband and I never fought. He counted on me making all the decisions from travel plans to home decor to the content of meals. He was content as long the constant reminder or his superiority was stage center. He wanted to be the best at everything, and sought for moments or opportunities for me to reinforce his belief system that he was the best and the brightest. I could have easily made a living at writing commercials for the United States Military with the creativeness that I had to employ to keep him “happy” because he was the man of my dreams.
I was okay with that because of my sense of obligation to him. He married me, a broken and scarred individual, and gave me a chance at normalcy. And I didn’t even love him. Guilt forced me into a life dutiful servitude in that marriage. When I no longer abided the enslavement, as any human being would, I rebelled. This challenged his manhood, and made his life a living hell. Needless to say, the union was dissolved one month shy of twelve years.
It rained on the day I married my first husband. There were very little tears in the marriage, but after it was over, there was an enormous exhaling of all that I kept inside: the feelings, the secrets, the questions. On the day of my second marriage, three years ago today, it also rained. We’ve had plenty of tears as we’ve grown to know each other, shared our feelings, and yes, even our secrets. And the tears have flowed.
My second husband is not like my parents. He is flawed, like me. He’s not always considerate and respectful, but he understands his limitations as a man. He’s not perfect, nor does he want to be. He doesn’t want to save me, be my hero, or be my father. He just wants to know about me, how I feel, what I love, and what my needs are. If he is able, he will fulfill them. He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. And he loves the real me. That’s all I can ask for.
Rain on the wedding day simply means the atmosphere was sufficiently unstable to support enough rising air, naturally and consequently, precipitation. It’s the constant giving of yourself, the disappointments, the heartache that cause the tears. Without experiencing those things, I would not be experiencing my life. Three years ago today, I did not marry the man of my dreams, but I married the love of my life. And even with an abundance of tears, I couldn’t be happier.