The only flaw in my wedding day was the lack of tissues, a friend told me the following day. And God, did we need them. Our speeches and vows detailed the emotional assault course that was our nine-year relationship, having supported each other through various mental illnesses (including the eating disorder that put me in hospital). We told our guests of our unique, unbreakable bond, and how we’d never regret our shared challenges; they brought us closer together. He said he wished I saw myself the way he saw me, and I wrote a charming list of 20 idiosyncrasies I loved about him. The guests declared it the most heart-wrenching wedding they’d ever attended.
We had a blissful honeymoon in our beloved Italian countryside, and we stopped using contraception. My future was decided. Only, unbeknownst to me, my new husband wasn’t so sure. Six months after we became legally tethered to one another, he announced – out of nowhere – that, actually, this marriage stuff wasn’t for him. Or, more accurately, I wasn’t.
