First Day of My Life: How a Bright Eyes Song Made Me Decide to Get Divorced

Our writer looks back over the arc of a decade-long marriage.

When I was married, I used to grab my husband by the collar and look deep into his eyes, like I was casting a spell. “You’re the only person I like in the whole world. Everyone else is horrible. We hate them, right?” I’d wrap my arms around him and whisper into his ear, “Never leave me. Promise you’ll never leave me.” 

“I’m not going to leave you,” he’d answer. “You’re the one who’s going to leave me.”

I’ve never been good at guessing the end of books or movies. I guess I’m just not the kind of person who sees things coming.

January 2011

My husband and I don’t talk much lately. I take care of our two young daughters while he works behind the closed door of his home office. He teaches cartooning in the evenings, so the girls and I eat dinner alone. When he’s free on weekend nights, I go out dancing with my friends and sing karaoke into the wee hours of the morning.

I know our marriage is falling apart but I refuse to let myself think about it. My parents’ divorce shattered my world; I always promised myself I’d never do that to my children. So I go to therapy. I join a church. I do yoga. I schedule babysitters and date nights, family outings and vacations.

I feel like a robot doing these things. When I see families who look happy, I swallow back envy that bubbles up in my throat like lava. At my insistence, my husband and I have sex twice a week. Each time, I put a green dot on the calendar. These rows of green dots serve as my proof that we are OK. 

One night after the girls are asleep, I’m drinking wine and scrolling YouTube. My husband is out teaching a late class. I come across the video of the Bright Eyes’ song, “First Day Of My Life.” Maybe you remember it. Couples sit together on a couch as they listen to the song on headphones, cuddling, laughing, kissing, and gazing at each other adoringly. I’m transfixed. By the end, I can’t stop crying.

Yours is the first face that I saw / I think I was blind before I met you / Now I don’t know where I am / I don’t know where I’ve been / But I know where I want to go

I know it’s a dumb thing to do, but I’ve had one too many glasses of wine, so I post the video to my husband’s Facebook page. My mom is the first to “like” it. Then my best friend. Nothing from my husband. A few days later I work up the nerve to ask him about it.

“Did you see the video I put on your Facebook?”

“Yeah. Was that some kind of joke?”

I bite my lip, suddenly aware of my heart thumping in my chest.

“I thought it was nice. Sweet, you know? Those couples. And the song. I liked the song.”

“That video was so sappy. And the song is awful. You liked that?”

The next day, I call my mom. “I’m getting divorced,” I hiccup between sobs.

July 2010

My husband’s oldest friend is visiting. We haven’t seen him since we moved from Colorado to Brooklyn three years ago. He’s finally on the other side of a protracted, painful divorce, and we linger at the table after dinner, drinking wine and catching up. Grave-faced, he tells us how lonely he is. “I’ve been celibate for almost eight years,” he confesses.

My husband laughs. “Eight years! That’s nothing. I could do that kind of time standing on my head,” he scoffs.

I get up fast and clear our plates, hustling to the kitchen so no one will see the humiliation on my face. My husband just told his friend he doesn’t care if we ever have sex again. I rinse the dishes carefully, resisting the urge to smash them into a million pieces.

May 2009

We’ve joined a babysitting co-op and I’m taking care of our friends’ kids. They’re tucked in bed, snoozing soundly. I poke my head into their room and breathe in the peaceful, sleepy smell of musky little-kid sweat and baby powder.

Gently, I close the door and pad downstairs to nose through their huge book collection. The dad is a poet. I find one of his books and page through it. It’s dedicated to his wife, and the heartfelt inscription is blurred by my sudden tears.

I snap the book shut. My husband is about to have a book published. I teased him about dedicating it to me—hoping he would, knowing he wouldn’t, feigning indifference.

After my friends return home, I wander the dark streets of our neighborhood for what feels like hours. I stare up at the moon. I take off my wedding ring and put it in my pocket. Just to see how it feels.

October 2001

My husband and I sit on the floor in a circle of couples: expectant moms cradling giant bellies and dads with nervous faces. They rub each other’s feet and backs, hold hands, beam at each other. We sit stiffly, a wide berth between us.

Our midwife hands out a sheet of labor support positions for us to try. None of them work for me; I can’t relax against my husband’s body. We bicker, each blaming the other for doing it wrong. Other couples are finding favorite positions, collapsing into each other, giggling.

The teacher walks over to us. “I don’t want to be touched when I’m in labor,” I snip. “I can do it myself. I’ll be better off on my own.” She raises an eyebrow and tells us to practice at home. We don’t.

August 2000

We’re sleeping in my apartment for the last time, surrounded by boxes. Tomorrow a van will arrive to move my things into a home I’ll share with my not-yet-husband.

I wake up in the middle of the night gasping for breath, drenched with sweat. I look over at my snoring boyfriend and know, deep in my bones, that this is a mistake. I know he doesn’t love me the way I want to be loved. But maybe no one ever will. Besides, all my stuff is packed. Our friends are coming to help us in the morning. I wouldn’t know how to back out now—and I don’t want to. If I’m alone, everyone will see how unlovable I am. How bad, how broken. How undeserving of love.

Even if my boyfriend isn’t in love with me, moving in together makes it look like he is. And maybe he will be, someday. I’m good at pretending—I have a degree in theater. It will have to be enough.

October 1999

My boyfriend and I have been dating for a few months. I get butterflies when I see him, daydream about kissing him, sing along with every love song that comes on the radio, feeling each word. We’ve gone to Mexico together and done naughty things on the beach, met each other’s families, confessed our deepest secrets to each other. Well, I have anyway. He won’t talk about certain things, bristles when I ask about his past.

At a bar one night, he tells me about an ex-girlfriend who broke his heart. I lean in, eager to catch every word of this rare admission. “I was devastated, couldn’t eat, couldn’t do anything,” he says.

I bat my eyes at him, thinking how cute I look in my new dress. “If I left you, would you be devastated?”

He stares at me, eyes flat. “No.”

I bite my tongue until I taste blood. I’ll show him, I think. He’ll be devastated. Just wait.

February 1999

It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m at an art opening with my sister. She dragged me here, telling me it will be good to get out. I’m sad because the red-headed ski bum I’ve been seeing went to Vail for the weekend and didn’t invite me. I squeeze into a red velvet mini-dress and strap on sky-high sandals even though I can hardly walk in heels.

The artist—a cartoonist who is friends with my sister—is handing out Valentines. I met him recently at the life-drawing class I model for; he gave me a picture he drew of me and I’ve been a little bit in love with him ever since. He’s short, dark, and handsome. He strides over to me with a cocky swagger. 

“What’s your name again?” he asks, then picks out a hand-drawn card with a sexy devil on it and writes “For Elizabeth” in thick gold pen.

Later, as I’m admiring my card, one of his friends sidles up next to me. “You should go give him a little kiss to say thank you,” he whispers in my ear.

I look over at him, laughing. “Seriously?” He smiles at me, nods. I toss back another glass of box wine and wobble my way across the room.

“Your friend just told me to kiss you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He leans in.

And I fall.

A version of this story was originally published on xoJane in 2014.

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