What happens to a dream deferred?

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
and then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

--Langston Hughes


I love this poem.  Rooted in the trials of African Americans in the first half of the 20th century, but crossing over to all of human experience. 

12 years ago today I was married.  Does that make this my 12th wedding anniversary?  What happens to a dead marriage?  These were questions I pondered today.  I sat near the center aisle at church and had flashbacks of walking down the aisle.  For all the hopes and dreams I had that were crushed, some were realized.  Certainly my children are blessings.  My career dreams were realized.  But the marriage.  Oh the marriage....  It went through all of the stages suggested by the poem, so indulge me and I'll break it down.

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
I knew within days of the wedding my marriage would not be what I had hoped.  Tying back in to Mr Hughes' cause, Brad used the "n" word.  I rationalized it away, he had to overcome his upbringing, but part of me broke in a way I didn't know I could break.  Some things can't be unsaid, some things can't be unheard.  There are some words that are simply game changers.  Another word that resulted from our ongoing disagreement about the "n" word was the "b" word.  (rhymes with "itch").  In some ways, though, the raisin is sweet too.  I felt at the time that we grew from our discussions, but looking back it seems like I was trying to move a mountain.

Or fester like a sore
and then run?
There was a huge buildup of animosity and letdown and anger and madness that would build up inside of Brad.  In the early days it was a slow burning abscess.  Once a sore starts to run, it will heal.  Brad would rage for hours, but it was healing to him as lancing a boil, Cathartic.  We'd go for months as a normal couple.

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
For a while I had to rebuild myself, as someone who doesn't mind being treated disrespectfully and called names inside my own home,  I grew a thick skin, but I felt trapped, and Brad would tell me things about myself that aided this process.  He was picky about my appearance, the things I ate, the people with whom we associated.  He took over the finances because he said I was "so bad with money."  This was the stinking phase, but eventually I developed enough denial and had faced the death of my dream.  I was entrenched in the idea that I was causing the mistreatment.  But eventually I did change, and we developed a routine where I would shoulder his outbursts, which were day long rages of hateful vitriol, then I would simply force myself to forget them.  Always always after the rages the honeymoon phase came, and I enjoyed that. It became easy to tune out his attacks.  For many years I would enjoy the honeymoon, then as it wore off and the Rage Day came closer, I would ignore Brad, stay in a different room, go to the library, it was an easy existence from the inside. 

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Later in my marriage I learned to manage these Rage Days and could arrange them as needed.  For example, If we had an upcoming vacation and I wanted to have it over with early to have a pleasant time, I could pick the fight and goad him until he blew up.  Which led back to the idea that it was my fault.  It was a vicious cycle of codependence.  It was a heavy load, but I had to bear it.  I chose the marriage. 

Or does it explode?
Well, I exploded.  All I have to say about that is don't mess with my kids...

So my burning question today was...  Knowing all this, what do I DO with this relic of a day?  This defunct anniversary?  I was inclined towards making a Grand Gesture.  I thought about getting a tattoo, but I hate the "victim" label and all I wanted was the domestic abuse survivor's infinity symbol in purple.  I talked myself out of that.  Then I though I would buy myself a simple ring for my right hand and have engraved a hash mark each year I was free from abuse.  Instead I ate cake, drank coke, watched reruns of Star Trek, and made a donation to Hope's Door, the local domestic violence shelter.  Acknowledgement without dwelling.  I want to do this yearly, it felt great.  What do I do about this day?  Help someone else get out and move on about my business.