I’d been married four months, and my life had been caving in around me. We weren’t prepared for the uncommonly heavy problems that emerged in our newlywed life. Were they uncommon? Probably less so than my martyr-bound self was willing to admit. I took solace in my victimhood in those days, or tried to anyway. I wrapped myself in a thick robe of dramatic isolation the same way I imagined a tragic Shakespearean heroine might do. I was a victim of cold, hard circumstances beyond my control, but mostly I was a victim of my own self-deception.