Turns Out My Idiot Husband Isn't the Idiot. I Am.

I came thisclose to walking away from my marriage this past weekend. A bit surprising, for sure. Two days ago, things were fine.
But over dinner Saturday night, with my family and friend of my son gathered around the table, talk turned to the various #MeToo allegations. We discussed a well-known movie star, beloved by so many, including us. "Did more than one woman accuse him?" my husband asked.
In a movie version of that moment, there would be a pause. The camera would pan to my face, my 20-year-old daughter's face. And then the stricken face of my husband who realized what he'd said too late.
We piled on.
He doubled down.
What, to me, was an important discussion about the way we talk about sexual harassment and assault was, to him, lecturing and attacking.
He was still furious the next day.
Which infuriated me.
He told me he was sick of being lectured by me, that he said nothing wrong. I tried to explain to him the frustration of a lifetime of moments where I'd been silenced, where I'd felt threatened, and including a night when I'd been sexually assaulted. "Does that only count if there's an army of women who can confirm I'm telling the truth?" I demanded.
We talked about privilege. He – get this – honestly doesn't think that, as a white man who grew up as a 1 percenter, that he's had privilege. Though he admitted, "I've just never thought about it."
"Not having to think about it is the definition of privilege," I said.
I walked away frustrated. My thoughts went something like this:
I can't believe I'm married to this idiot. How can anyone be so UN-self-aware? What am I doing with him? We clearly don't share a value system. And so on.
I quickly moved to plotting my escape. The kids were getting older. I could easily leave the marriage. Imagine how great it would be to be with a man who listened, who didn't get defensive, who wasn't blind to his own privilege, who was a true feminist.
In the meantime, my husband has put the leashes on our two dogs and gone for a walk. I vaguely imagined that he, too, was plotting his escape from this marriage.
And then, he came home.
"Can I talk to you?" he asked, ducking into an empty bedroom so that the ears of our children, my father, and various of our kids' friends couldn't overhear.
I was still fuming but fear was growing in my belly. What if he really was going to tell me he wanted out?
"I"m sorry," he said. "I'm trying to understand what you're telling me but I don't. But, really, I'm trying."
And with that, my anger (almost) vanished.
My mind, having swung wildly in the direction of he's an idiot found equilibrium somewhere closer to the he's human part of the spectrum.
And, well, I hadn't exactly conducted myself with compassion or a genuine curiosity about his point of view, preferring instead of bludgeon him into acquiescence.
All of which is to say, all I've ever really needed in a relationship is someone who's willing to try and hear my point of view. And, I suppose, someone to call me out when my own behaviour could use a makeover.
He and I have come a long way but this weekend reminded me that, when tensions are high and self-regulation is low (I had been feeling resentful all last week about all the preparation I've been doing for houseguests we have coming, which is a sure sign that I'm violating my own boundaries and not practicing enough self-care), we'll too often fall back into our old, unhealthy patterns of engagement. Me chastising, him defending. My the mother, him the errant child.
Thanks to his ability to step out of that pattern, to examine it and to come to me as a mature adult, we got ourselves back on track.
So, I won't be leaving my husband after all.