Shedding my Feminine Skin
Following my late in life wedding I entered into a spiritual spring. My feminine psyche was alive and healthy as I ached to build and nurture a home and a family. It was late in the game for all of this but I hoped and prayed we still had some time. A young marriage calls for tenderness and vulnerability and the ability to be trusting and open to love. It is a time for planting seeds and sharing dreams and creating the foundation for a lifetime together.
The pain of infertility can be a real test for a marriage. I treat many patients who are facing this struggle and it always hits home for me in so many ways. It is a battle I never had the chance to win because I was forced to surrender long before I was ready. Tonight my former fertility doctor, the world renowned Dr. William Schoolcraft in Denver, Colorado, appeared on the reality show Giulana and Bill. The famous couple underwent a consultation with Dr. Schoolcraft to explore their options on the heels of Giulana’s cancer treatments. Dr. Schoolcraft recommended using a surrogate to bypass the risk of fertility medications; these medications can accelerate the growth of certain types of cancers. Giulana was not quite ready to embrace this option. Despite the pain of her struggle I found myself envying her. I know this sounds crazy given the trauma she has endured.
Giulana is the voice of strength and courage for women everywhere. She and her husband seem to share a mutual passion and respect for each other. They clearly want the same things in life and they are facing the storm of Giulana’s health challenges together. This is the part I envy. It is not her fame or notoriety or even her natural beauty that I envy, rather it is the apparent love she shares with her husband that makes my heart fill with longing.
When it comes to heartbreak and trauma and life altering challenge, everyone responds and reacts differently. Giulana Rancic obviously coped with her illness by throwing herself even further into her career and becoming more lucrative and productive in the process. She is clearly able to harness her masculine power- a power source that exists within all of us- to survive a very challenging time of her life. I was once the polar opposite of Giulana. When faced with infertility and a failing marriage, I moved farther to my feminine and vulnerable side. I craved comfort and reassurance and affection from my husband and the more he pulled away, the more desperate and frightened and ashamed I felt. I could not focus on my work. I could not clear my head. I felt increasingly disoriented and drained and overwhelmed and confused as time went by. Unlike Giulana, I could not seem to access my masculine power. Masculine and feminine; yin and yang; hard and soft; strong and weak. These are the polarities that define our humanity. These are the inevitable forces in life and love.
The past several years have challenged me to the very core. Just when I finally learned to accept the heartbreaking loss of my fertile years and embrace alternative paths to advanced age motherhood, my husband left and I was alone. My dream of a marriage, home and family was smashed and shattered beyond repair. The tender and vulnerable parts of me that finally started to blossom and unfold suffered an enormous blow quite early in the marriage. He did not leave me cleanly in one fell swoop. Instead his departure came in slow, agonizing stages with his emotional, spiritual and financial retreat.
Each time I sensed a glimmer of hope I dared to open up and trust him again. Then another wave of devastation would hit, catching me off guard and knocking me down. The waves grew in frequency and intensity until they hit me so often I could no longer breathe. With the demise of my marriage and my most precious dreams I grew hard and durable and tough around the edges. The naturally soft and feminine parts of me slipped into survival mode and I found my way over to my masculine side. My masculine skin did not come naturally for me but I learned how to use it and wear it with pride.
After he left I remember thinking to myself, I must be the woman and the man now. I must internalize and master all of the tasks and chores that I once relied on him to do. Tasks like replacing the air vents and cutting the grass and lighting the grille and changing out the printer cartridges. Looking back on all of this now I am able to realize an important truth. My masculine force was alive and well and burning strong inside of me all along. It was the relationship that taught me to doubt myself. It was the relationship that propelled me out of my feminine spring and into the cold and lonely darkness of self doubt and fear.
My husband called attention to my vulnerabilities and limitations and the little girl parts of me that I dared to expose. He told me I was not contributing financially but even worse than this, I was not trying to contribute as any loving wife would do. I conducted myself like a helpless child who could not see beyond her own selfish needs. These were the things he told me over time. These were the messages I internalized and believed. It took the help of a therapist and a whole lot of time to begin to exorcise these demons straight out of my psyche. It continues to be a work in progress and something I struggle with deep down inside.
I have been alone for quite some time now. I can barely recall the touch of a man or the sensation of passion and desire and lust. I humbly admit that I miss these things and I pray for a second chance at love. Even so, there is a special kind of confidence that grows out of solitude. It is a depth of insight and a self awareness that only pure loneliness and solitude can bring. These quiet times have taught me so much about who I am what I deserve.
The places inside of me that are feminine and soft are certainly not lost or gone forever. The parts of me that are masculine and hard rose up in the storm and guided me home. For everything in life there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. There is a time for grieving and a time for healing and a time for learning how to be alone. There is a time for strength and a time for vulnerability and a time for both or even nothing at all. With each day that passes I reclaim my power and the beauty and innocence of feminine spring.
What is your ordinary?
Today I spent the afternoon tending to my garden. I planted sweet basil, peppers, tomatoes and cilantro and colorful pansies in hanging flower boxes. My dog slept peacefully in the midday sun while I inhaled the spring and cleared the space for brand new life to flourish. My next door neighbors- a husband and wife team- worked together alongside me on their own front yard on this quiet and peaceful Sunday afternoon. Every now and then I caught snippets of their conversation as they discussed their plans for pruning the trees and clearing away dead weeds and branches. We exchanged casual neighborly pleasantries before returning to our respective chores and appropriately disengaging. We are neighbors who live parallel lives in alternate universes- so close in proximity yet so far in mind and spirit. Life can be rather funny that way. I have felt closer to people I have met on a plane than others who have lived and breathed right beside me.
The husband climbed up onto the roof to trim some higher tree branches while the wife looked on from below and shared her perspective. One of the young boys asked for permission to have a soda. The wife said no, he was only allowed a limited number of sodas per week. The wife cracked a joke and the husband laughed, and I could see they had not lost their attraction for each other; even after so many years of marriage and raising four children. There was something about this very ordinary family moment that filled me with loneliness and a deep sense of longing.
After my ex vacated our home last winter I found myself totally and completely alone. True, I was alone for the majority of my short lived marriage anyway, so it really should not have been much of a change. I married relatively late in life so I assumed my return to single status would come naturally for me. In some ways it did, because the loneliness I felt by myself was nothing compared to the loneliness I felt with the man I married. Even so, the separation came with a new kind of loneliness- one I have never known before. The best way I can describe it is a loneliness that grows from an older soul.
With age come wisdom and the benefit of experience. This deepens our emotions and makes them more real. When I was young and naïve I longed for a fantasy vision; those super fantastic moments that we see in the movies. With the insight of age and quite a few mistaken detours along the way, I long for the ordinary moments that make up a lifetime. They are the quiet moments shared by intimate lovers who know each other’s flaws and bumps and bruises. They are the moments I dream of sharing with a partner one day when the time is right and the fates allow.
For now at least, I celebrate the gift of my solitary journey. It is a time for quiet reflection and self awareness and planting seeds of hope for a brand new future. It is a time for personal growth and peace and renewal and learning to recognize my own brand of ordinary. There is a dog asleep on my shady front porch and an apricot cat resting quietly on the windowsill. There is the sweet scent of basil pressing into the fertile moist, earth and the reassuring rhythm of my old stone fountain. There is the nostalgic tune of the neighborhood ice cream truck reminding me that summer will soon be here. There is the warm caress of an April breeze dancing on my sun kissed skin. These are the moments that make up my very own ordinary. These are the moments that are mine alone to treasure.
Wake up sleeping dragon it’s time to fight
I am going to share something with you now that I have never admitted to anyone. I am emotionally attached to my water cooler. It all goes back to a sunny and crisp winter morning in January of 2010 when my ex was preparing to vacate our marriage and the rental home we shared together. The water cooler originally belonged to my ex before we were married and I always thought it was the coolest thing ever. The base is a contemporary high tech duo of stainless steel and black and I always loved the sleek look of the thing standing tall and proud in the corner of our kitchen. I grew attached to the convenience and ease of my constant access to fresh filtered water and I eventually turned my back on tap water altogether, even when it came to brewing my daily cup of java. I humbly and fully admit; after I met the water cooler I became a water snob.
The water coolers are delivered each month by a company called Diamond Springs. After we married and finances were tight I asked my husband if he wanted to discontinue to monthly water deliveries. After all, I was the only one who used the thing and I could certainly justify the monthly savings by returning to my trusted old Brita pitcher. He said no, clearly I enjoyed the water and we would continue the service. I never told him so, but this was something that warmed my heart and made me love him even more. I did not realize it at the time, but the cooler became a symbol of me feeling cared for by my husband. It was a luxury item; something that was not essential but very much desired. For many reasons that far transcend the limits of this blog post- reasons that are yet to be revealed in future pages- my husband’s offer to keep the water cooler filled a powerful need that burned deep inside of me.
It was a weekday morning in mid January when I saw the Diamond Springs Delivery truck heading for my house. I was out walking my dog when I saw the truck round the corner and turn onto my street. I still don’t know how I knew; perhaps it was the same sixth sense or woman’s intuition that alerted me to so many painful truths about my ex husband and the ultimate demise of our marriage. Andrew- the face behind the voice of the trusted water delivery man I knew so well from my monthly reminder calls- stepped out of the truck and headed up my driveway. From the random archives of my memory where trivial facts are stored, I retrieved the following familiar voice mail message: Ms. Mason this is Andrew from Diamond Springs Water, I’ll be coming by your house tomorrow to pick up your empty water bottles so please leave your empties outside and I’ll replace them for full.”
So there he was, standing on my driveway on a ridiculously beautiful winter morning in late January. Andrew the Diamond Springs delivery man was at my house as he was many times before, only this time he was NOT there to pick up my empty water bottles and replace them for full. No, not even close. Andrew the Diamond Springs Delivery Man was there to pick up my empty water bottles and replace them with NOTHING. In preparation for his upcoming departure, my husband had cancelled the service.
Who ever knew such a trivial thing could hurt so much? Let’s just say that poor innocent Andrew had no idea what he was in for that day. The water bottles stayed and never threatened to leave me again. Looking back, I realize my husband did me a favor. He woke the sleeping dragon inside of me. (As a side note, I can never again listen to a message from Andrew the delivery man without my heart swelling with pride).
The week leading up my ex husband’s departure was a time of dread and fear. I felt as if the walls were crumbling down around me and I was clinging to any trace of security I could find. He notified me of his intent to move out of our rental home at the end of the lease term and I had no idea what I was going to do. I was beyond terrified. I loved the home I shared with my husband for the duration of our 2 year marriage. It was not only my home but my place of business and the prospect of moving again in the midst of all that pain and heartache was beyond imaginable.
My visit from Andrew was only the beginning of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride to heartbreak. Later that same day after I rescued my water bottles, I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop trying to calm the waves of panic that threatened to consume me when my cell phone rang. It was my landlord calling to request that I vacate the premises no later than the 1st of March. It was already February 25th.
I was shocked and bewildered. I had always been fond of Mike the landlord and I was stunned by the harsh, cold tone in his voice. I felt the room starting to spin and hot tears stinging my eyes as a tsunami of rage overtook me. I demanded an explanation. A long pause ensued before Mike reluctantly admitted that he spoke with my husband earlier that day and learned of my inability to pay the rent on my own. My husband was the primary breadwinner and the one who paid the rent and household expenses. Without question I could not continue to run the place without him. How could I argue this point?
I knew I could not pay the household rent on my own but I also knew I could not afford to leave; not financially and certainly not emotionally. I had barely recovered from my recent 3 month stint in the cockroach infested rental apartment down the street. The same apartment I vacated several months earlier when I realized it was time to come back home and fight for my marriage. How could I leave again now? Where would I go? There was nothing left to do but beg and plead for Mike’s mercy and a grace period to sort through my options and figure out my next step. Thank god Mike agreed and when I hung up the phone my heart and soul felt colder than the coffee inside my mug and all eyes in the coffee shop were fixated on me. I felt both exhilaration and humiliation. The sleeping dragon flared her nostrils and out came the fire. And that is when my strength was born.
I am GREATER than the sum of my parts
In the brief and lonely span of my two year marriage I felt like a complete and total failure. I was not earning much money because I was consumed with fertility issues and worried about getting pregnant. I was over 40 and my doctor told me a biological child was most likely out of the question. When I finally grieved this reality and embraced alternative routes to motherhood it became painfully clear that I was alone with my dream of starting a family. Not only did my husband not want a child; he did not want me either.
I grieved pretty hard when my doctor told me I was not a candidate for fertility treatments at my local clinic in Charleston, SC. I plunged head first into research mode until I found a qualified specialist who was willing to treat me. I traveled from South Carolina to New York City and Denver for second and third opinions. I underwent major surgery, blood tests, ultrasounds and even a course of fertility medication. I cut out caffeine, alcohol and processed foods and replaced them with daily shots of wheat grass, royal jelly and herbal supplements. I tried acupuncture, fertility massages, relaxation techniques and prayer. Despite my heroic efforts I simply could not force my body to conceive and this reality hurt me to my deepest core.
In the heat of my fertility battle I failed to acknowledge and accept some other very painful realities. My husband’s emotional distance and his long spans of silence offered important clues to the darkness that followed. When he started spending more and more time away from home and eventually avoiding me completely I could no longer deny the painful truth about my marriage; a marriage that never really started at all. As the fertility treatments came to a screeching halt, so did my entire world and everything I imagined my life would be.
Following his departure I was left with so many burning questions. How could he leave me in the midst of a storm? Why couldn’t he find a way to keep on loving me and at least try to give our new marriage a chance? For exactly how long was he planning to leave me? Did he ever really love me at all? Did he fall in love with someone else and if so, how could he allow such a thing to happen after everything we had been through together? Why couldn’t he still love and accept me despite my bumps and bruises and human flaws? The part that hurt most of all was how I still wanted and needed my husband. Regardless of how incredibly hard I tried and how deeply he hurt me over and over again, I just could not figure out a way to stop loving him.
I still recall a sunny afternoon in mid September. I was living in a rental apartment at the time and longing to move back home with my husband. He was outside mowing the lawn in his white cutoff t-shirt and the old worn out purple shorts I knew so well. Beads of perspiration trickled down his neck and forehead and it hit me hard how much I was still in love with him. This is my husband I thought to myself; this is my home where I belong. He glanced at me with eyes void of emotion and stated: Now is a time for healing and moving forward. I am NOT going to ask you to come back home. In that moment I saw all the different parts of him that I had known and loved for what felt like a lifetime- his weak and vulnerable and strong and sturdy parts. He was my man and my boy and my friend and my lover. I longed for him to see me with the same depth and clarity but I realized this could never be. Standing right in front of me in the afternoon sunshine my other half started to fade and die away. I did not recognize what was left behind and this is when the grief kicked in.
The memory of this pivotal moment is forever ingrained inside of me. The aroma of fresh cut grass and the warmth of the afternoon sun seemed ironic as my heart was breaking and my faith in my husband’s love for me was dying. A huge piece of me died in that moment also and this was the peak of my vulnerability and the beginning of my emotional descent. It was also the start of my eventual healing and rebirth and personal evolution. I went down in my grief weak and vulnerable as a naïve and trusting girl with a broken heart. I rose up again as a strong and confident woman who is mature and capable and emotionally steady.
I am learning to integrate these two vastly different but equally valuable components of my psyche. The parts of me that are weak and vulnerable are the qualities that my marriage exposed as a failure and left me feeling ashamed and defeated. They are the same qualities that allow me to be soft and tender and open to love. The parts of me that are confident and strong are the qualities I discovered when he walked away forever. They are the qualities that helped me to survive and thrive and rescue myself from the darkness that followed. They are two opposing forces that make up a whole and the whole is always greater than the sum of its parts.
One day I will share more about how I transformed myself from weak and frightened to strong and brave. It is a difficult story to tell and one I am not quite ready to share. My ex husband never asked me to come back home but I returned home anyway and I found myself there . He never did find a way to love me again (perhaps he never really loved me at all) but I discovered the path to loving myself. It is not an easy path to walk and at times it can be as lonely as hell. Even so, I embrace the loneliness because the journey is mine and I believe in ME and my unlimited potential.
How I found my voice
In the late summer of 2010 I moved out of the home I shared with my ex and into an apartment down the street. My heart and soul were shattered and I could not survive another humiliating day of lying in a heap on the floor, desperately begging and pleading for him to change his mind and love me again. The place I rented was sparse and dark and lonely and void of warmth and character. There was a tiny screened porch that overlooked a garbage dump and a kitchen infested with roaches. I could not stand to eat or cook there and my dog would bark relentlessly every time I attempted to leave him behind (I could hardly say I blamed him).
The rental apartment was less than a 2 minute drive from the home I knew and loved, but it might as well have been on another planet entirely. After several months of trying to force myself to build a life in my new humble abode, a tiny spark was ignited and I sensed a clearing ahead. I asked myself why I left in the first place and parted with a home I loved so much. It was a home where sunlight spilled around every corner and azalea bushes bloomed in the spring. It was a home with a large and welcoming front porch where an ancient oak offered the gift of shade. It was a home where I built a thousand dreams and planted seeds of hope in my brand new marriage. In the big backyard where my Labrador ran and played there was a lovely palm tree and a white picket fence. It was my first real grownup home where I discovered my feminine voice and learned to be still.
Why did I leave? Why did I run? What force inside of me compelled me to uproot myself and leave my home so abruptly? My husband claimed he wanted a divorce so the only reasonable response was to flee the scene and get out of his way. Or was it? This was my default response so many times in the past when he changed his mind and emotionally shut down. I would pack my bags and run to my car and return to my safe little rental apartment. It was not until my fourth decade of life that I finally saw this pattern clearly and my tendency to undervalue myself.
My husband paid the rent on the home we shared together. During our marriage he told me I was in “no position to contribute financially” because I had a business to build and debts to pay. I trusted he wanted the best for me and I never thought to question his logic. He was not leaving and it hurt too much to stay so what other options did I really have?
I still recall a cold November night when he encouraged me to stay and light a fire in the fireplace instead of returning to my cold and lonely apartment. Why don’t you stay tonight. Take and bath and relax he said; pour yourself a glass of wine and put on your pajamas. My pain subsided and my heart swelled with hope and for the first time in months I was able to breathe.
Every night after that I carried shopping bags filled with my personal belongings down the steep flights of stairs from my rental apartment to the parking lot below. I hated those stairs and dreaded walking up and down multiple flights in the cold dark night. Like a bad dream or a mistaken detour I wanted to wipe all memory of that loveless apartment straight out of mind. I did not realize it at the time but I had already decided it was time to come home. What I also failed to realize was that my husband did not want me back and he never intended to repair the marriage. His primary goal was to move towards divorce and the prospect of my return infuriated him. He reminded me that I could not afford the place and inside I knew he was probably right.
He told me if I moved back in he would leave me alone to pay my own way. The life I once stuggled so hard to build was crashing down around me like a flimsy house of cards.I was standing inside our kitchen on a Sunday afternoon in early December when he reminded me that my stepson was returning soon from college. You have been here at the house a while, he said. When are you planning to return to your apartment? We had gone out for brunch earlier that day and we were contemplating seeing a movie later in the afternoon. In fact I still remember the movie- Due Date- a romantic comedy playing in the local theatre. The striking contrast between the ordinary Sunday we just shared together and the soul crushing moment when he asked me to leave our home so his son could return, was more than I could tolerate. At that moment something inside of me shifted and I grew from being his frightened child to my own self contained and confident woman.
I am not going back I said with clarity and strength, shocking myself possibly even more than him. This is my home and the only home I know. This is where I intend stay. He replied with empty eyes and a heart as cold as ice. If you stay then I am leaving. How will you afford the place? Inside of me the woman’s voice declared “I have no f***ing idea!!!” while the weak and rapidly fading child’s voice cried out “please stay here and love me again!!!!!” Luckily my lips did not betray me. I bit my tongue and silenced the turmoil that threatened to drag me under. I gained my composure and turned from the sink to face the man I had once loved with everything I had inside of me. I saw him through my new woman’s eyes and a blanket of calm replaced my little girl fear. I suppose that is not your problem anymore. I have no earthly idea how I managed after that. Somehow I got from there to here and I learned to trust myself along the way.
There is still much that remains unclear about my life and my dreams and my plans for the future. Even so, there is one thing I do know without a doubt. I am home where I belong and home is where I intend to stay.
And so it begins
In the spring of 2009 I started to seriously think about writing a personal memoir. I attended a writer’s workshop at the Center for Women in Charleston, SC. where I had the pleasure of meeting Kelly Love Johnson. Kelly is a published author, editor and freelance writer and you can visit her website at www.kellylovejohnson.com
I still remember standing in line for the ladies room after ingesting a few too many cups of morning coffee when Kelly said something I will never forget. I cannot recall her exact words but it had something to do with the importance of gaining personal perspective through time and distance before writing about painful emotional experiences. In other words, if we are still too close to an experience or trauma, we are not quite ready to share our story.
Standing in line waiting for the ladies’ room that day, I remember feeling a mixture of shame and intrigue. I was battling a private emotional tsunami and struggling to contain my heartache. My creative flow was the only effective spiritual and emotional release I could find at the time, and I was unleashing my pain in torrents. My writing was raw, honest, uncensored and incredibly cathartic. As a psychologist I always felt pressure to hold things together and present a professional, polished demeanor to my patients and the local community. My writing allowed me to shed my professional skin and expose my humanity without shame or retribution. It was the only place where I felt entirely free to be just plain old me. I was writing in the midst of a storm and I never stopped to question whether I was sharing too much or how my words might be received by the reader.
As I look back now on that incredibly sad and lonely time of my life, Kelly’s words hold brand new meaning. Although it was certainly therapeutic and comforting to write my way through my heartache and trauma, I was not quite ready to share my story. Although I could not see it at the time, I was simply way too close.
I have absolutely no regrets about unleashing the depths of my pain through my writing. As a writer I believe our most genuine and authentic voice can be accessed through heightened and intense emotional states. Even so, time and distance work their own brand of magic. The healing process offers a wonderful opportunity for gaining new perspectives and integrating the fragmented pieces of a wounded self that were blown apart by so much heartache and pain. As the emotional wounds begin to heal, the personal story gradually shifts into focus. And so it begins.
On the evening of Tuesday December 14th 2010, I had dinner with my mother at an Italian restaurant and went to see the holiday festival of lights at the James Island County Park. For many years this has been one of my favorite holiday traditions; a yummy pasta dinner, a glass of wine and a leisurely stroll amid colorful twinkling lights. However on this night, deep down inside I was terrified. Earlier that day I moved all of my furniture and my personal belongings back into the home I shared with my husband. I feared his reaction to my return and the emotional punishment I trusted would follow. You are probably wondering why I needed to move back in, and why I left in the first place. The answer is really rather simple. I left because it became impossible to stay. I returned because I needed to save myself.
I will share much more on this topic later but for now, this much will suffice. It is the core of my message and the heart and soul of my story. Sometimes in life we must find a home inside of ourselves- a spiritual home- before we are able to feel at home anyplace else in the world. It all begins with trusting our instincts, finding our voice and having the courage to fight for the truth that burns inside of us. Only then can we begin to heal. Only then can we find our way home.
The Seasons of the Self
A writer friend of mine recently posted to her blog some thoughts about vulnerability and pain. She raised the following question: When it comes to exposing one’s vulnerability through writing, how much is too much? I did not have to think very long about this one. When it comes to exposing my vulnerability through writing, the sky is the limit. On the “About Risa” page of my website at www.wanderlustwriter.com I state the following: Through the written word I am able to access my true inner voice, connect with the deepest and most authentic parts of myself and expose my vulnerability with pride. I believe these words so strongly that I know they can’t be wrong. There is no other place in my life (aside from my writing) where I feel so incredibly free to be myself and expose my flaws and my humanity. It is liberating and honest and life affirming to bare my soul through my true writer’s voice. This is me the writer- vulnerable and strong yet humble and proud. I am a writer and a dreamer and a work in progress and I invite you to join me on this crazy journey.
In 2009 and 2010 I was struggling in a painful and lonely marriage; a marriage that never really started at all. After the sunset wedding by the sea, the luminous white gown and the delicate veil that cascaded down my back like a perfect translucent wave, the reality hit me head on. My husband was not in love with me. My body could not get pregnant. I was not a candidate for a biological child. I was over 40. My dreams were slipping away. I became increasingly desperate for his love and approval and I fought like a manic to win his love. I lost all respect for myself in the process, and I felt so defeated and terribly ashamed.
I started my blog in the spring of 2009 only 6 months after my early autumn wedding. In many ways I felt just like the spring; young and hopeful and full of promise. I was gradually emerging into my womanhood and my heart and soul were blossoming and expanding. I felt so happy to finally be married to the man I genuinely and deeply loved. After 7 long and confusing years of breaking up and getting back together countless times, I finally had a marriage and a home of my own. I allowed myself to trust and depend on him as my rock and my compass and my very best friend. I believed he felt the same way about me and I never dreamed he would ever leave me again. Especially not so early in our marriage. Especially not in the midst of a storm.
As crazy as this might sound, there was an equal and opposing force at work alongside my blossoming and womanly spring. There was the cold harsh grip of winter and an imposing darkness that I still can’t explain. I sensed the demise of my marriage at a largely subconscious level through my husband’s silence and emotional retreat. There was a void in his eyes that made me feel desperate and I proceeded to question and blame myself. My short lived marriage illuminated all of my demons and exposed my deepest shortcomings and flaws.
He told me things any woman would dread to hear- that I failed to meet his needs as a partner and he would die inside if he stayed in the marriage. He told me he was not in love with me and he viewed me as a child instead of a woman. He told me I failed to open my heart to his 17 year old son and create a safe and loving home. He told me he was getting nothing good out of the marriage because I brought absolutely nothing to the table. He started to say these things to me only 6 months after our wedding when I was still learning to trust and receive the spring.
I unleashed my pain through my writing- raw and uncensored and filled with truth. I never once stopped to question the comfort level of my reader because this was not part of my creative flow. I still recall a very dark night in late November, 2009. A night when the harsh cold winter of my marriage collided with my personal spring and the polarizing impact of these two opposing forces left me reeling and gasping for breath. I desperately wanted to travel to New York with my husband. I longed to feel the chill of a northeast winter and celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday with our families. I missed the familiar sights and sounds of New York during the festive holiday season and I so desperately wanted to share this with my husband. I tried to convince him but he would not go. He said he had to work through the holiday because somebody had to pay for the fertility treatments and the burden was solely on him because I failed to contribute. He said he felt like a father supporting a helpless child.
My husband worked through the holiday season and I choked down my sadness and loneliness and pain. I told myself that to start a family, it was well worth the sacrifice. I loved my husband and I believed in our love. He worked through Christmas and he worked through New Years and when the winter faded into spring he worked through Memorial Day weekend and my heart grew colder. Getting back to that very dark night in late November 2009 (November 30th to be precise) I hit rock bottom and turned to my blog. While my husband slept soundly in our bedroom downstairs I bared my soul in a post titled in Search of Familiar Contours. The blog post brought me from the depths of night into the early dawn hours and when I finished I felt empty and drained. You can read it by copying and pasting the following to your browser: http://wanderlustwriter.wordpress.com/blog/page/2/
I did not realize it at the time but this particular post encapsulated the darkest moments of my emotional winter. It is the voice of a woman in terrible pain that no longer recognizes herself or her life. It is the voice of a woman faced with severe emotional abuse and gradually buying into the reality that she is selfish, lazy, incompetent and undeserving of her husband’s love. It is the story of a woman who doubts whether she is entitled to the things she has always longed for and dreamed about in life.
I am an intuitive writer and I write from the soul. No amount of personal exposure or vulnerability is ever too much, even if it makes my reader cringe and turn away. As I move from the raw depths of winter heartache to the spring thaw of healing and renewal, I will continue to expose my flaws and vulnerability with pride. I am a writer and a dreamer and a work in progress and I am not afraid to expose my bumps and bruises.
The winter of my brief and lonely marriage was cold and rough and terribly painful. The spring of my emerging womanhood was open and receptive and soft and vulnerable. I am still not certain how to reconcile and integrate these two very contradictory forces and seasons of self. However I do know this much: The journey is not over and I am still standing. I am alive and well and the winter is behind me. At the advanced age of 43 I will try my hardest to trust the spring as I continue to fight for my most precious dreams.
