I got engaged when I was 20 years old, the day after I got out of the psychiatric hospital. When most people hear this, they usually laugh in that way typically reserved for darkly ironic situations. This is followed by an “aw” and a pat on the shoulder. Don’t get me wrong, I had dreams of a lavish engagement. Flowers, a photographer, and a beautiful destination. Maybe a beach or the top of a mountain. Instead, I got a ring presented to me in the palm of a hand at a Cheesecake Factory. I got married 6 months later and divorced 4 years after that. In retrospect, the pairing of mental health struggles and marriage might seem incongruous, even absurd. The laughter that often follows the revelation of my engagement story is a testament to the societal norms that dictate how such life events should unfold. However, where I grew up, they were normal.  According to my childhood God, a woman should not have her own identity, her life should be devoted to her family. The man should be the head of the household. His dreams are all that his woman would have access to. Her feelings are a dangerous and seductive creature not to be trusted. So, I became that and I did what was expected of me. Dutiful daughter turned dutiful housewife. 

I met a boy when I was 18 years old. He was sweet, kind and had just finished his freshman year of college. He was going to be an engineer. He was tall with fluffy brown hair and big tortoiseshell glasses. We both loved dogs, the music of Phil Collins and Thai food. He loved my long blonde hair and the way I took care of people. I loved his jokes and the safety he provided. I loved that he was not part of my world before, but could fit in nicely. He asked me out in a beautifully normal way. He said, “Would you like to get dinner sometime?” 

Quickly, we became best friends. In his college apartment, I had many firsts. The first time I got drunk, the first time I got hungover, the first time I cussed, the first time I got naked in front of someone else. He encouraged me to apply for college, he took me to my orientation, and helped me move into my dorm room. Every weekend, I would drive my rickety 1997 Ford Taurus the hour-and-a-half from my college to his. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted but I knew him and he was good. I could rebel with him and still be accepted by God and my family. 

He was the only aspect of myself that felt good. I would wear men’s clothes as a “joke” and I would make out with girls at parties as a “joke”. I was good at lying to myself, yet deep down, I feared being exposed by others. I withdrew into isolation, seeking solace only in his presence. Everyone else seemed like a potential danger to my fragile façade. I ended up dropping out of school and moving in with his mom. I was struggling to go on as normal while my mental health continued to decline. 

It was at this point I started pressuring him to propose. I believed if we got married, God would forgive me for my lustful and sinful actions and he might, if I was lucky, make me attracted to this boy I loved so much. He thought it was too soon, I could tell but I was desperate. I wanted him to save me from myself. I wore him down until he agreed. We bought a ring and decided on a day to make it happen. I told him it didn’t matter how because we did together. 

Over the months leading up to the engagement, I started to panic. I felt the shame and guilt weighing on me. I wanted so badly to be different than I was. I couldn’t eat or sleep and I prayed so hard that God would release me from the feelings I was having.  During one of the more difficult moments, I drove myself to the emergency room. I don’t remember what happened there exactly, just fragments. I remember the nurse trying to stick an IV in my arm while I fought and being in an ambulance. That’s about it. 

I ended up being in the trauma unit of the psychiatric hospital for about 10 days. When I got out, It just so happened to be the day before the chosen engagement. Everyone told me it was a bad idea. Even my mom, who desperately wanted me to get married. Of course, I didn’t listen and I convinced the boy we should continue as normal. So, we did it. We got engaged and started planning the wedding. 

We ended up getting eloped in Rocky Mountain National Park, the week after he graduated college. It was beautiful. We headed back home, got an apartment and settled in. We made it through the pandemic, relatively unscathed although my poor mental health continuted. In late 2020, he got a new job and we moved across the country. 

Away from my family and church, I started deconstructing my belief system. I got a therapist and found medication that worked. I got a job and made a wide array of friendships. I met people who loved me for who I was. They helped me come to terms with the fact that I was non-binary and queer. I finally began to realize that I was worth more than what my life at became. I realized that I deserved romance and happiness, even if it went against everything I was taught growing up. 

The man I married was accepting and kind as I started to grow. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand that I couldn’t stay. I thought that we could continue to be friends and walk through life together, just in a different capacity. Sadly, he couldn’t handle that and I had to respect it, no matter how painful. 

I am 26 now and have started my life again. I allow myself to be exactly who I am and I am happy. The irony of my love story with him is not lost on me. The laughter and sympathetic pats on the shoulder serve as a reminder that my narrative did not align with conventional tales of romance and commitment. Little did they know that within the contours of my engagement story lay a deeper narrative of navigating religion, societal expectations, and the delicate balance between conformity and self-discovery. Looking back, no matter how fucked up the situation was and no matter how much I wish it was different, I love and miss him to this day. I hate that I hurt him, but I knew it was the only way I could be free.