Forever Hold Your Peace

“It’s not too late to call this off,” my best friend Amanda says, as she finishes zipping up my wedding dress. “I mean I’ve got your back if shit goes sideways, but it might be easier to just prevent this disaster altogether.” This is her way of reminding me that she’s on my side no matter what and that she’s one of Atlanta’s preeminent divorce attorneys. I’m not sure what to say as I look at our reflection in the mirror, focusing on her concerned expression so I don’t have to stare too long and hard at the little bit of back fat that spills out of the top of the strapless white gown. My makeup is flawless. I love my long black lashes and my bright red lips, the way my dark brown hair frames my face and reflects tiny bits of red-gold in the natural sunlight. It almost distracts from the slight silhouette of my belly, held in tightly by the compression undergarments I’m wearing underneath the dress. Or as my mother reminded me before leaving me alone with Amanda to finish getting dressed, “Don’t forget your girdle, Jessica,” brandishing the thing at me, looking surprised that I’ve actually decided to wear something this uncomfortable.

I glance over at the partially eaten slice of chocolate cake sitting on the armoire next to Amanda’s empty plate containing just a few crumbs. She had insisted that I at least have one slice of chocolate cake that I’m actually going to enjoy today. She already knows how self-conscious I feel eating cake in front of Aaron. “I know he’s not overweight, but how could he say something like that to you? I mean, have you looked in a mirror lately, man?” was her reaction to his comments right after our hiatus earlier this year. She’s made no secret of her dislike for him. And deep down, I can’t help but feel like she’s right. How the hell did I let things get this far? Dozens of our friends and family are gathered in the church, which his parents spent thousands of dollars to have decorated for the occasion. We have the rings, the cake, and a trip to Hawaii booked. Father Paul is waiting at the altar to officiate the ceremony, which is about to commence.

If there’s one item of clothing I dread more than the fluffy white dress that I’m currently trussed up in, girdle and all, it has to be the white lace babydoll with matching panties and garter belt gifted to me by my friend Crystal at my bridal shower. Why couldn’t she have just gotten me a damn blender? I’m hoping that Aaron doesn’t want to do anything tonight. There’s a decent chance that he won’t, as he’s currently well-medicated for his bipolar disorder, and some of the mood stabilizers that the psychiatrist prescribed him tend to kill his sex drive. He’s really only in the mood on occasion when he’s hypomanic, and even then his body doesn’t work. How are we even getting married if we sleep in separate bedrooms this often?

Things weren’t always this bad. We met five years ago at work, before he was bipolar. We used to be friends. Then we decided to date. We just got used to being together, I guess. Fell into a routine and never got out of it. We even had some fun at the beginning. We loved traveling and socializing with our friends. Neither of us had a particularly high sex drive, but we did try a few times, although his body never would seem to cooperate.

I do have a bit of an embarrassing confession. Here I am on my wedding day, twenty-nine years old, and I have only been with a man maybe a handful of times in my life. My soon-to-be husband is impotent, and I’m not sure it bothers me. I have known since high school that I am different. I only feel physical attraction to someone maybe once every few years. And I have to know the person, feel close to them. I am even more turned on by personalities than I am by bodies, and it takes me a while to develop chemistry and desire. I’ve never experienced lust at first sight. Admiring a toned, attractive man is like admiring a work of art in a museum for me. I can appreciate that it is beautiful in form, but there is no excitement, no craving. Most people know by the third date if they want to hook up. Sometimes, I don’t know if I am attracted to someone for months. Most men don’t stick around long enough for me to figure it out. I tried to date and eventually just got tired of being called a prude, a tease, weird. I eventually discovered a word for what I am: demisexual. There are others like me even, an entire online community of people who identify somewhere along the asexuality spectrum. There are those who experience desire rarely, those who have to have a strong bond before it appears, and those who never experience it at all. It’s comforting to at least have a word to describe what I am. Instead of just being messed up or broken, I have an orientation. I accept myself as I am, but it’s still hard to say it aloud, to come out. Even though I never spoke the word asexuality with Aaron, he knew something was off, but we never really talked about it. And we seemed fine for a while.

Then I came home from work a couple of years ago to find him wandering around the backyard in his bathrobe in the rain, hallucinating. I left him alone for two minutes because I had to pee, and in that time, he smashed out several of the living room windows and tried to light a chair on fire. Finally, I called 911. The paramedics took him away in restraints with the entirety of our quiet suburban neighborhood watching.

Aaron came home medicated, and the next few months were fine. But like many bipolar people, he eventually arrived at the conclusion that he was doing so well that he didn’t need the meds anymore. By the time I realized he was flushing his pills, it was too late, and he was in the middle of another full-blown mania, wandering down our street half-dressed screaming at God. When I tried to cajole him back into the house, he told me he didn’t love me as much as he had loved his ex-wife and that I looked like a fat whale. It didn’t help that I found some old pictures of the two of them together while he was in the hospital this second time. While searching for Aaron’s health insurance card, wallet, and keys, all of which he had lost in his mania, I was confronted with dozens of photos of the man I loved and the slim, conventionally attractive woman who used to be his wife. Christmas photos, the two of them holding a golden retriever puppy, the happy couple on their honeymoon in Fiji.

I tried to convince myself that it was just the illness talking, but the images were burned into my brain, along with the words fat whale. When Aaron came home, once again medicated and lucid, I asked him if he thought I looked like a whale. He stared at me nonplussed for a moment, trying to figure out what I meant before it dawned on him. Finally, he spoke, carefully choosing his words. “No, I don’t think you look like a whale, Jessica. You and the animal look nothing alike.”

“But are you attracted to me?”

He pauses, looking at the floor. “You aren’t my image of perfection,” he finally says.

I don’t know why I stayed with him for several months after that. Maybe I didn’t feel like I was the sort of person who could leave a sick partner. No one chooses to be bipolar. After a particularly ugly discussion about the photos of his ex-wife that he couldn’t seem to relinquish, we broke up. I took our anniversary trip to the beach alone.

I wasn’t expecting to meet Jonathan when I wandered down to the hotel bar to distract myself from my recent breakup by immersing myself in tequila. My head was spinning slightly when he started a conversation. I was a little surprised he even wanted to talk to me, as he’s easily the most handsome man to ever express interest in me. He’s muscular, clean-cut, and has the most incredible smile. It doesn’t hurt that he’s super smart, adventurous, and quite the conversationalist. I thought maybe the tequila was playing tricks on me. But after a few hours sitting outside in front of the ocean talking about anything and everything, I am convinced that he actually likes me. I have never talked this freely with another person this soon after meeting them, but something about him sets me at ease. He’s a bit unusual himself and not at all judgy. It’s only after we find ourselves upstairs in my hotel room making out that I tell him I’m mostly asexual and have no clue what I’m doing. Sensing how nervous I am, he lies back in bed with me, rubbing my back and talking to me until we both fall asleep. It’s what I’ve always wanted and never gotten. We wake up several hours later and finally hook up, and I’m not anxious at all. I want him so much I can’t stand it. This is what desire feels like. I didn’t know it was physically possible to want someone this much, for it to feel so good, or for someone to want me just as I am as much as he does. We have an amazing week together, before we both return home. We still talk, and we’re good friends, but we are so far apart. And who moves across the country to be with their vacation hookup? Aaron calls me and asks me to take him back several weeks after I come home. I don’t know why, but I do. And now here I am, in this ridiculous white dress.

I walk towards the altar on autopilot. Most brides remember the look of pride and love in the groom’s eyes. I look instead at Amanda, waiting in the front of the church with Father Paul, Aaron, and Aaron’s best friend Tony, trying not to think about the fact that I’m actually getting married. I don’t even remember half of what Father Paul says, as I stare fixedly at the wall behind my soon-to-be-husband. As Father Paul recites the traditional words, “Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace,” I wonder if someone will speak up. I hardly recognize my own voice as the words “I can’t do this,” escape me almost of their own volition with no conscious thought behind them. I can’t believe I have just spoken now, and neither can anyone else in the church, maybe with the exception of Amanda, who takes my hand and leads me back down the aisle. My father looks a little relieved, my mother is stunned, and my almost-mother-in-law looks like she is about to faint.

A week later, Amanda and I are lounging on a beach in Maui, on what was to have been my honeymoon, me in my red two-piece swimsuit, the first bikini I have ever worn, when I hear someone call my name. I turn to see Jonathan. He grins, looking me up and down appreciatively. “Your best friend here told me you’d had a bad day.”