“Next year,” I think at each wedding anniversary. “Next year may be the last one—I’m not sure how much more of this relationship stuff I can take…” This past weekend was our 9th. We spent a few days in Portland, ME, taking long walks in the sunshine, eating at amazing restaurants (go Hugo’s), and staying in bed for a long time. Nine years of marriage. I never dreamt it could be this way: this wonderful, this awful, this empowering, this restrictive, this profound, this stupid—this ongoing. I know that 9 years (13, including pre-marriage) isn’t like the longest relationship of all time, but still it’s a pretty long time, certainly longer than I ever thought I’d last. Not because I didn’t want love, but I didn’t really trust that anyone would love me for real. Truth be told, I didn’t trust myself to love without later finding out I had been mistaken all along and it was time to run away. I guess I thought I’d get bored, he’d get bored, one of us would tire of something essential and unchangeable about the other: too needy, too messy, too distant, too here, too gone.

Interestingly, all these fears came true. I can’t trust either of us to remain loving in the right way. We did get bored with each other. We’ve become exhausted to the point of comatose about certain attributes in the other. I see him as clingy, demanding, in my face. He always wants to talk about things. He wants to spend time with me, doing things together. (What?! Why does he try to control me like this??) To him, I spend too much time on other priorities and he asks himself: Aren’t I important to her? Why does she avoid working on our relationship? (“Our relationship is the most important thing is my life,” he says. “YOU are the most important thing in your life.”)

Once again, all true. I do want to spend more time apart. He does want to spend more time together. I love working more than being at home and he feels the opposite. I often get more enjoyment out of doing things alone; he from doing them together. And it’s not just about how we are with each other, there are complaints about the other’s very personhood. Me: I live with a bossy packrat who needs unheard-of amounts of attention and doesn’t understand my needs. I feel so alone. Him: How did I end up with a self-absorbed helpless person who leaves all the details of life up to me and runs away at the first sign of trouble? I feel so alone.

We came into marriage with particular wishes and personalities and, nine years hence, we remain fully sequestered with them, pretty much in solitary confinement.

Here’s the funny part. So what. It totally doesn’t matter because while we bounce from hissy fit to hissy fit, there’s something else going on. It’s very mysterious. There’s a current of energy between us, carrying us. When we become utterly despairing or sleepy, the current shifts in our best interest. A fight or an issue or a mood arise that makes us reopen to each other. Painful as it can be, I can’t help but notice that each ferocious wave that drags us out to sea and almost drowns us, then throws us back ashore, leaving us someplace a little further inland than before. Until the next wave of whatever—anger, disappointment, crankiness, ridiculousity—drags us out again, we gasp for air, and are tossed back on our asses, looking around going what the hell just happened.

No one ever answers that question. But somehow, the next wave brings another clue. We just wait for it and when it crashes on us, try to let it carry us out, far from shore, buoyed by trust until we find ourselves back on dry land. This is how it works. If we try to create conditions to prevent ourselves from ever being overwhelmed, we fail. S*@t happens. If in the midst of the overwhelm, we try to tell stories about why it happened or whose fault it is, we drown for sure. The only thing that can hold us together is to hold on to each other and hope that neither one gives up and lets the other drown.

A good relationship has little tension. When there is a fight, the pair kisses and makes up. A great relationship can weather enormous tension that, once gone, leaves a couple, not more in love, but more entwined. This is what happens with us. It doesn’t always feel good, but I am quite impressed by it.

Although it lacks rhyme, there is something very trustworthy and sane about this rhythm. Unfortunately, we don’t believe it until after the fact and instead keep hoping that the other one will achieve some serious personal growth to prevent this from ever happening again. But no amount of relationship strategies, “I statements,” or self-help can control for discomfort. Whatever you think will solve your relationship problem—compromise, setting boundaries, selflessness—is rarely sufficient. He and I aren’t in control. Love is. Each of us has to figure out what this means.

The only bankable truth I’ve discovered is that the gate to love is always open, but the entry is secret. If the secret were to be whispered in our ear, we’d each be told something different. All we can do is listen for it as we would to a symphony in which interest in individual movements has been sacrificed for curiosity about the whole. At least for one more year.