Why Are You Like This?

Have you ever met a slightly neurotic ADHDer raised Catholic in a small Midwestern town? What if you're married to someone kind of like that?

Image/Adobe Stock Photo

“If you don’t get into heaven after you die, then nothing else matters.”

That’s what mom used to say to me all of the time.

I’m not here to challenge anyone’s belief system. If, in fact, everything the adults taught me is capital-T True, then I understand the logic in that statement. I’m not someone who pretends to know the mysteries of the universe and act as if I have all of the answers.

But per the parameters of this belief, it’s a lot to consider. Especially when you’re just a kid.

We’re alive for whatever time we have on earth, which seems pretty long when you’re young, but Real Life begins after we die, they say, and it will last Foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, which is fucking scary to think about even in the best-case scenario.

I started smoking when I was 15. Smoking cigarettes is somehow the worst AND best thing I’ve ever done. It’s insane that we spent all of that money to poison ourselves and smell bad and enslave our bodies to that next seven-minute fix as soon as we’re off the plane, or out of school, or back in the car, or on our next work break.

But also, have you ever smoked? Jesus. It’s great. I’d think about smoking when I woke up, right after breakfast, on the drive to school or work, on the drive home, and as a complement or dessert to anything great like food, or a drink, or an intimate encounter. It’s the first thing I’d do after a couple of hours of doing anything else. You get the idea.

I was intellectually aware that smart people warned us against the dangers of smoking. Certainly, my mother didn’t like it. Whenever mom found a pack stashed somewhere, she’d run them under water and throw them in a conspicuous bathroom wastebasket where I’d be sure to find the carnage.

I’d get really mad about it, even though I now have a 16-year-old, and I’d probably feel like crying if he demonstrated such blatant disregard for his health, since I’ve never loved a thing like I do that kid.

But back then when I was his age, I’d just spend what little money I had replacing them with the cooperation of whatever convenience store clerks I could find who couldn’t care less that it was illegal for me to buy tobacco or that my mom didn’t want me smoking.

We had those in my town.

I didn’t care that smoking was “bad for me.” It was too nebulous of a concept. Like saving for retirement, or estate planning, or dying in a car accident, or reducing my red meat consumption, or saving my virginity for my future wife, there was no way you were going to get my teenage self to give any weight to theoretical shit that might happen in 20 or more years, regardless of how sage the advice.

…

That’s how I always was. Always. I wasn’t a thinker, really. The mere concept of Psychology class escaped me, even as a senior in high school. Who gives a shit what a bunch of ugly old asses have to say about why we think and behave as we do?, I thought. How does that make my life better? I hope I get to smoke soon!

My life was largely about doing things that felt good and avoiding things that felt bad. Which sounds a bit like hedonism, and I suppose that’s what it was. Hedonism, with two scoops of guilt and shame.

“Hey Matt! You were totally raised in a small town and went to Catholic school, weren’t you?”

Obviously.

The way to get to heaven, everyone said, was to periodically confess your sins to a priest. So that’s what us Catholic schoolers did. You’ve seen it on TV if you haven’t done it yourself.

You enter the confessional and offload all the evil things you’ve done. If you didn’t, you were damned to eternal fiery torment where a 100-foot horned monster with a pitchfork would do unspeakable things to you, and everything and everyone around you was just pure suffering—literally everything, everywhere, every second. Punishment. Fear. Pain. Torment. 24/7, even though time won’t exist anymore, into eternity. Just know this is every moment of the rest of your life, sinner.

I want to make it clear, that this wasn’t necessarily—though I’m suspicious—the INTENDED lesson of our parents, Catholic school teachers, priests, etc., but I just want you to understand that this was my takeaway. This was how I thought and felt about life and death as a younger person, and how it set me up for whatever came next. (Cliché shitty husbandry, devoid of emotional intelligence, and relationship skills, and any sense whatsoever that any of this regular adult-life bullshit mattered because “If you don’t get to heaven after you die, then nothing else matters.”)

This might be a good time to point out that the 9/11 hijackers believed almost this exact thing.

I was always so nervous entering the confessional. OMG, this sinless man with the power of God on his side is now going to hear what a wretched, sinful, evil disappointment I’ve been.

Then you tell him all the dirt. (It’s gotta be a him! This is no job for an emotionally intelligent woman!).

It’s the only way to get to heaven.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I use a lot of profanity. I’m not always honest with my parents. Sometimes, I mouth off to mom. I’m probably just mad at her because she doesn’t let me watch R-rated movies and throws away my cigarettes which are not easy or cheap for me to acquire. I had impure thoughts about Sarah in school. And Leah. And my Spanish teacher. Thank you, father, for not asking me what ran through my mind. I drank some beer at the parties. Yes, father, I felt drunk. Yes, it was more than once. Yes, we sometimes smoked pot too. Yes, some sex stuff happened since my last confession. I know you take a vow of celibacy, and this must seem like such a huge, pathetic, weak failing on my part. I deserve eternal punishment, probably.  

But then. Absolution. You say a couple of prayers. The priest offers some repentant instruction. Then “Go now, and sin no more,” and you almost feel like crying because maybe this is the time you’ll remain sinless for the rest of your life, and if you do get hit by a bus upon exiting the church, everything’s going to be okay. Phew.

Seriously, afterward, holy shit, you feel really good. Probably even better than when you’re smoking.

Then while you’re getting in your car, you drop your cigarette before you can get it lit, then you quickly pick it up off the floor mat, put it in your mouth, light it, take that first magical pull, and fuck, I lit the wrong end.

And now it’s totally ruined because smoking a cigarette through the charred end of a lighting mishap is not a thing. It’s like preparing a hot meal, sweeping the kitchen floor, and then sprinkling your plate of food with the contents of the dustpan, and then trying to enjoy eating it. It’s a nonstarter, the scarred-for-life cig.

This is just like when mom throws them away!

And also!

Fuck. I just said “fuck” and now I’m bound for hell again. Hope I don’t die soon!

Then I’d light another cigarette.

…

All of that to say, I had a pretty hard time taking my ex-wife seriously when she tried to tell me how seriously she wanted me to take the conversation about the drinking glass I had left by the sink.

I’m divorced now.

No one taught us how to optimize our behavior to coexist with another human in a healthy long-term committed partnership. It never even came up in conversation one time outside of “Never go to bed angry!”

I went to bed angry all of the time. She probably cried a lot up until she decided to leave.

I cried a lot after that.

In unrelated news, I don’t smoke anymore.

Small wins.

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Matthew Fray is the author of “This is How Your Marriage Ends: A Hopeful Approach to Saving Relationships”, a relationship coach, and formerly the blogger at Must Be This Tall To Ride.

P.S. - I know these things can present really small to some of you in your busy lives and marriages/partnerships. But that’s exactly why developing mindfulness and communication habits around these domestic scenarios is so critical to maintaining peaceful, loving relationships. If you have trust erosion, and/or pain points and frustrations around things like this at home, consider working with me as your relationship coach to develop these skills and habits. This stuff matters. Book your next appointment here. - MF