The Hydra
In Greek mythology, the Hydra is a serpent-like monster who guards the entrance to hell. Her special talent is regenerating two heads for every one that is cut off making her incredibly hard to kill. Less iconic, but more important to this story, is the acidic blood her heads contained. After finally slaying her for good, Hercules saved a reserve of the deadly alchemy to defeat monsters he encountered later on.
As a kid, I went pretty hard on Greek mythology. My mother gifted me a big orange book with beautiful illustrations and straightforward versions of these ancient stories. I would pore over the pages for hours, reading and rereading about these larger than life goddesses. I like to think she did this to preserve our culture and teach me who I came from, but if I’m being honest, it was probably just an effort to buy some alone time.
There are many lessons you can learn from Hercules’ battle with the Hydra, but the most overlooked one is that defeating her grants you access to a place you should have never wanted to visit. There’s nothing beyond her but punishing darkness. I wish I had remembered that before I married you.
In a few short hours, my name will be off our house. Logistically, this was a pretty tidy way to untangle our largest asset. We elected to refinance, allowing you to keep the house, and me to establish myself with my half of our shared equity. After that, we’ll use the same lawyer to file irreconcilable differences, and legally divorce. I’m proud of us for handling it like such grown ups.
Emotionally though, it’s not so tidy and today I’ve been aggressive and moody, battle scars breaking open without my permission. I picked two fights already over issues I don’t feel strongly about to see if I could win. If I had to evaluate my actions, I’d say I did that because I can’t control what’s happening later today, what needs to happen later today, because I couldn’t control how we ended up here in the first place.
Every relationship has a Hydra. Something that regenerates itself again and again even after you try to cut the head off. When I was still brimming with hope, I thought we were battling her together. I’d tell you how I felt and you’d listen and promise to do better. Two more heads would grow, and I’d patiently cut them off. Every three months on a loop I’d dredge up the same concerns, the same requests and accept the same feeling of defeat. I did this for six years, believing we wanted access to the same place. To think back on the things I was asking you for so desperately, so many times, while believing we were on the same team is baffling to me now. You were guarding yourself, trust in me long dead.
When we moved in, trust in you heavily outweighed my concerns. When we bought the house I was a little less sure but still believed in us. And on our wedding day when you refused to get out of bed and come to the ceremony, I still pushed our relationship along thinking what mattered was me showing up for you, not you showing up for me. At every single one of those milestones, and for every opportunity in between, I was convinced if I proved committed to this fight you’d drop your guard.
Do you remember the pivotal battle when I begged you to look at me? A decision before you, to meet my gaze, and see I was still here. To see I wished I hadn’t left, that I wanted to stay. Instead, you looked away and said “it doesn’t come naturally anymore.” That was the beginning of the end for me. Conflict after conflict, you told me you needed more time and swore it could change. When you stopped making such hopeful claims, and started saying “this is just how I am,” I realized the Hydra was you.
Sometimes, though rarely, I still want to fight. I want to say, give me the things I need, and we can be the people we want to be for one another. Rarer still, I bait you to fight and watch my suspicion be confirmed. Just a few weeks ago we were standing in what I think of as our backyard but is really just yours now, under a heat lamp that my aunt gave us for our wedding, that you kept. I take stock of what’s mine and what’s yours more than I’m proud of now, consolation prizes from when what was mine was yours. We had just finished a beer, and decided to split a second. The backyard, cloaked in snow and adorned with twinkle lights, was looking its best. I was feeling sentimental. We retrieved the beer, warm from the counter, and intended to use the snow to cool it off. I laid the can down on the snowy table and buried it, horizontal. You scoffed and grew a head. You insisted that was an asinine way to cover a beer, and stood it up, exposing half of it to the observably warmer air. It didn’t matter that physics and common sense would suggest having the entire thing covered would make it colder than having half of it out. What mattered was trusting me, and you couldn’t do it. Big or small, decisions are not mine to make. At seventeen I chose wrong and look at what we lost because of it.
I did the same quick calculation I had been doing at every clash. I knew I could battle you to value me, my intuition, and my ideas alongside yours, and spend the next however long advocating, justifying, reasoning, and ultimately pleading with you to trust me. Or I could swallow those parts of myself and do it your way, maintain peace with the Hydra and protect the place you guard so carefully. It must be disorienting for you to hear me so loud, so defiant, so certain in what I believe lately. It’s a fucking workout let me tell you, to choose me over you, guilt being all that fed me for so long. Over a can of beer I chose the latter, knowing I’d need my strength for more significant battles in the coming months.
Like today when I insisted we go together, even after you and the lawyer you hired, assured me it wasn’t necessary. Time and space have a tendency to make me forget who I’m fighting. Again and again, I reach out to you and stick my finger into the electrical socket of our broken little algorithm and pray for light. Maybe it’s to remind myself the place I remember is nothing but punishing darkness now. Or maybe it’s because we used to burn so bright. Either way, when I sit across from you at that sterile table, next to some escrow agent named Greg, I’ll lift my sword again. This time, to protect the vow I made to myself, and undo the ones I made to you. I want to feel you near me, like I did at the altar, and dare you to meet my eyes. And when you don’t, because you never do, I’ll dip my pen into the still warm blood pooled inside your severed neck, and sign.