Joy in Captivity

Finding freedom in the stuck (and suck) of life.

Last Saturday, I had the distinct pleasure (intentional word…IYKYK) of attending Esther Perel’s live conversation here in DC. Our stop was one of only 8 cities on her tour, and I was curious what an evening in person would be like with the queen of storytelling. My husband dutifully purchased these tickets for my birthday and assigned himself as my date, having no idea who Esther is nor what the topic of conversation might be. Once we were snugly settled in our seats, I spilled the tea on Esther. Watching my husband vacillate between excitement and trepidation at the thought of listening to a sex therapist AND couples therapist was both laughable and predictable.

I REALLY want this suit…STUNNING! And…click the photo to find the remaining dates for Esther’s tour.

Esther started the night by inviting the audience in to an “erotic experience”. Those two words together send my insides clashing in a cacophony of curiosity, doubt, and fear. Experience is my love language; it’s one of the key pillars of our family and something my husband and I have vowed to spend money, time, and resources pursuing. But “erotic”, now that’s a word I haven’t spent time with in a hot minute. It feels foreign, distant, maybe even dangerous.

Over the course of the evening, Esther invited questions from the audience. It is embarrassing how many people do not understand what a question is. It is not a diatribe about your own love, loss, lust, or any other “l” word. It’s a freaking question! Fortunately, Esther understands the definition of this word perfectly and how much people paid to hear her answer questions not entertain run on sentences from people who clearly need their own therapist, so she was quick to cut to the chase. One of these questions came from the lone gentleman standing in line at the mic. Slightly overweight, balding, late 40’s, he stepped up and introduced himself as Steve. Steve’s question was this “Did you ever consider naming your book something other than ‘Mating in Captivity’ because it’s really hard to give that book to your wife and tell her to read it without causing a fight.” 😳

I feel confident everyone in the audience except Steve was thinking some version of “Ummmm, Steve, that book is an international bestseller. Think the name might be working out just peachy.”

But the question and Esther’s characteristically direct response got me thinking about captivity. Or, more astutely, all of the places and spaces where we are held captive in our own lives. Steve clearly feels like a hostage in his marriage. That’s kinda, sorta the point of the title, Steve. Guessing your wife might feel a bit like a detainee too, so, as Esther suggested, perhaps you actually need to talk about that, whether or not the book gets read (🎤 drop).

While I’m ragging on Steve, I feel his conundrum. I’ve felt like a captive in my own marriage. First, when we pulled up to our new “home” rented sight unseen across from a 7-Eleven that would become our Sunday spot to get quarters for laundry and a bag of chips and something that resembled dip for a scintillating day of lugging clothes back and forth between NFL games. And then as the wife of a deployed soldier, left behind to change out every….single…electrical socket in the new 1970’s fab house we bought but only lived in for 18 hours together before my husband deployed. And then again after having our daughter and finding myself utterly alone to manage parenting, working, and this larger thing we call adulting. And finally as my husband’s caregiver as he throat barfed esophageal slime on to my face while I changed his trach tube after a horrific motorcycle accident. Each time, I vividly recall moments where I physically forced my feet to stay put, the draw of a car, a credit card, and California overwhelming. I am married to a deeply committed, wonderful man but there is no escaping the mundane nor the trauma life inflicts on a marriage and the resulting panic of knowing there’s no easy or temporary path to freedom.

I wasn’t exaggerating 🙄

In Esther’s domain of marriage and relationship, I most certainly understand captivity (and mating, to be clear). But there are so many other places and spaces in my life where I’ve been held down, held on to, held captive. I understand my mother’s restlessness so much more now that I’m a parent. As a single mom, she must have existed in captivity, liable for not just our survival, but seemingly for our happiness, intelligence, respectfulness, satisfaction, and success. How crushing to have the weight of all of that holding you in place, incapable of breaking free from the suffocation of all of that responsibility.

And let’s talk about work. I have spent the better part of my adult life bound to a paycheck, my job changes somewhat akin to hostage negotiations where I bartered their money, benefits, and title for all my time, energy, and sanity. The jobs I’ve held that allowed wandering off the reservation infused me with a false sense of freedom, ripped away by the next captor who felt it their duty to remind me how little I controlled and how much I owed them for the right to work at their feet.

✅ Marriage

✅ Parenting

✅ Work

Check! The three areas of our lives meant to be the most rewarding, and yet, often those that threaten to strangle out the very essence of our being.

Beyond the obvious, there are other prisons that go deeper, cover more territory, and can be even more insidious. Authors more eloquent than I describe being held “emotionally hostage” by disability, anxiety, and depression.

And once you’re done caring for your own children and perhaps escape to that elusive “beyond 18” place that I’m pretty sure is a wonderland accessed only via psychedelics, you get back on the merry-go-round to do it again for your parents, your spouse, or even yourself. Caregiving is its own special version of captivity where self-gaslighting is necessary to keep going and relief is almost always convergent with death.

The obvious question here is somewhat akin to Steve’s. “Why would you give this piece the title Joy in Captivity?” There’s no joy here, just frustration, anguish, pain. Or is there? The word “captive” is just a stone’s throw away from “captivating”, capable of holding and attracting interest. As Esther explains in her seemingly-appropriately named book, eroticism desires excitement, unpredictability, and danger. We can’t have both, so we choose security. And security is never captivating. It’s constant, steady, certain in its steadfastness even when its uncertain in the moment. It will stick around, yes, but it will also suffocate and silence you. It will hold you hostage.

But there is nothing more captivating than unpredictability and danger. That’s the basic script for every B+ action flick you’ve ever consumed. There are entire scores of music advertised as “Danger/Tension/Threatening/Action pending underscores” because our lust for captivating kicks in the second we hear this music, our sympathetic nervous system alert to the uncertainty and danger about to play out.

When my husband was in the hospital, it was still COVID times, so I was only allowed to visit for fours hours a day. I was always rushing to leave because my daughter had to be picked up, the dogs let out, a plan for dinner formed, and, well, all the things. But on the way there, I’d often stop at this coffee shop/brewery. Sometimes I’d get some ridiculously expensive latte but sometimes…I’d get a beer. I’d sip my beer at 12:30pm on a Tuesday outside on their patio, sweating my ass off in the middle of June, and slow rolling my sassy little secret. In those moments, the unpredictable ones, I felt captivating to myself. I surprised myself, and whether I chose beer out of defiance or desperation, who knows, but it felt dangerous to do so. It was my joy raising a glass from inside its cell.

Please don’t misunderstand me. Freedom puts makeup on captivating, dolling her up for a night of erotic experiences. But sometimes freedom is unavailable. And security feels like wearing the same yoga pants for four days and not remembering when you last showered. There must be something in the middle though. Some small defiance whose fleeting danger slips through the bars for a sip of freedom. Some space between destitute and delirious where defiance dances and the shackles fall from our feet. Be captivating…if only for a moment…if only to yourself. And when joy shows up in the middle of hell, raise a glass and join her.