Discounted Feelings

Once you step back and see the illusion for the illusion it is, you don’t see that illusion again.

Next!

Come on, Bebe, stop crying. That’s not helping anything,” he said with a disgusted expression that hurt more than the stinging tears. “Will you try to stop crying!” I knew it wasn’t a question; it was a command, like all of his commands. He never blatantly said things to make you think he was a control freak and I never blatantly said out loud that that’s what was going on. True to form, he had left after yet another failed attempt to talk me out of divorcing him. The divorce I didn’t want either, but knew I had to process to get my life back. I had to move beyond the life he dominated for over eighteen years, the life where he promised to protect us. It had all come crashing down. I had to get Ryan and myself to safety. It wasn’t that he ever physically hit us. What he had managed to do for the past eighteen years was far more devastating than any physical blows. Even Ryan was completely surprised when he finally put the pieces together. “I thought we had the perfect family. You and dad never yelled at each other, you never cursed at each other and I never saw you fighting.”

The emotional abuse began on the day we met but was easy to ignore. It was so subtle. The subconscious level, where intuitiveness is supposed to give us protective signals, was silent. In my case, it was covered over, cemented, chained and thrown so deep in my psyche that it might as well have not existed. Years of conditioning subconsciously destroyed and reinforced my low (no?) feelings of self- worth, self-esteem, and self-confidence. Sometimes I felt “worthless” had been branded right across my forehead, back, and heart. I caught glimpses of it when I looked in the mirror or when I chided myself for something. I had no means of pulling myself out of that pit …there was no love, no help. All I knew was that society looked upon me as a stupid girl who was put on this earth to serve others -- while damning myself if I didn’t get things perfectly right the first time. I was never told that I was just as important, just as loved, just as honored as any other human on this planet. No one told me that I have a unique, amazing mind of my own and I am just as capable of doing and being whatever I choose as any other human being.

It took me a long time to learn that the love I sought was right there inside of me. When I really think about it, that same disgusted look from Andrew had been there eighteen years earlier when I found myself crying from his touch. I was so filled with the thought of his love for me (or so I thought), that every time he touched me, hugged me, kissed me, danced with me, I cried uncontrollably. He would quietly wait for me to calm down, but sometimes I sensed he was slightly annoyed at me. After a few minutes he would say, “ Are you alright?” which, when I think back on it, was not the most endearing thing he could have said. I wished he wanted to hold and soothe me rather than waiting while I calmed myself. Eventually I started suppressing my feelings, stifling the emotions and feeling embarrassed that I felt so strongly in the first place. Perhaps I eventually adopted his stance and even began to feel disgusted with myself.

Once Ryan came along, I found myself being loved by this beautiful being who wanted only to love me without question, without conditions; he gladly returned our nurturing with unconditional love. On-demand breastfeeding was our sanctuary from the rest of the world, from his father; it was just we two. Andrew sensed this and became jealous of the bond between mother and child during breastfeeding. I understood when Andrew pitifully said, “It’s not fair, men should be able to breastfeed, too,” as he watched while Ryan fed. Andrew would sometimes tickle Ryan by rubbing his stomach or softly pinching his cheek, making Ryan open his mouth and let go to laugh at him. We all laughed when that happened; it was fantastic. Andrew was the one who took care of me when I was sick and when Ryan came alone, he did the same for him. The fact that he wanted to be a doctor proved helpful to us during those times. “Babe, Ryan isn’t feeling well; can you help him? I don’t know what to do for him.” “Give him to me, Babe; I’ll take care of him,” he’d reply. There was that spell where Ryan cried a lot; even after a full stomach and a dry diaper. The only thing that soothed him was warm baths in the sink. Andrew cleaned the kitchen sink, lined it with a large towel and filled it with warm water and baby soap. Undressing Ryan, he placed him in the bath water, then rubbed him all over with warm cloth, massaging him. After a few minutes, Ryan started to smile and coo. Upon being taken out of the water, the crying started again. With lotion, diaper and onesies on for the night, Andrew wrapped Ryan up from head-to-toe—“like a taco” according to Ryan’s pediatrician—and off to the car they went. Andrew fastened him in his car seat and pulled out of the garage and down the driveway. They were gone for at least a half hour whenever they found themselves out for Ryan’s put-me-to-sleep ride. After pulling into the garage and getting Ryan out of the car seat and into the house, the three of us would settle in for the night. I would often wake up noticing that Andrew had gotten out of bed and was leaning over Ryan’s crib; watching him sleep. He was so protective and so loving towards us then. Sweet memories like those really baffle me when I juxtapose them with memories from the last few years before and the fourteen years after the divorce. Andrew fought so hard against it. I’m certain our families and the people around us were, and some still are, baffled that things turned out the way they did.

“You know, if we had had sex before we married, I would have called the whole thing off because that’s all I wanted in the first place,” a very calm and aloof Andrew announced, as he sat on the bed. We, or rather I, had made yet another attempt at intimacy the night before. And as most other times, he found a way to convince me it was my fault that we did not make love, have sex. “You’re not feeling well, Yvonne.” Or, “You’re having test anxiety, Yvonne.” Or, “Why don’t you take a nap and I’ll wake you later, how about that, Babe?” I was so cleverly handled that I thought it was my fault, every single time. When I tried to count up all the times we actually made love— had sex—during eighteen years of marriage, I came up with a few toes left over. Yep, all my fingers and most of my toes were used in the counting. “Why would you wait seventeen years to tell me something like that?” I replied after slowing processing his words -- and while hitting the rewind button on our marriage. “What am I suppose to do with information like that?” I said as I shook my head and hoped I wouldn’t pass out from the unreality of it all. I couldn’t lift my arms; they felt like 20-pound weights. I couldn’t even tell if my knees were locked, a sure-fire way of passing out. “But then, Ryan came along and I loved you,” was his comeback. At that point I don’t know if I said what I thought I said or if I just thought it to myself, but I remember responding, “Well, I wish you had gotten your sex and left me alone.” It seemed and felt so real whenever I recall the incident. Beyond that, the main thing that resonates in my head, my heart, my soul is that he said, “…I loved you.” The letters “ed” on the end of love pierced my very being. He no longer loved me. When did he stop? And if he stopped, as now it seems clear he did, why didn’t he tell me that then? If love was relegated to a past-tense position, why wait so long to tell me? Was it because now Ryan was almost 16, so he wouldn’t have to pay much child support? Was that it? Was it because he could no longer stand to be around me, for fear of having to sleep with me one…more…time? I noticed how, over the years, he started spending less and less time around me. He excused himself with his work, travels and newly-found friends after we moved into the house we bought together in 1996 with the help of my VA loan guarantee. Perhaps he thought that having the house was something that would appease me while he was spending less and less time around Ryan and me. He only came in at night when we were both asleep. There were nights when I was glad he wasn’t there because his sleep apnea kept me awake all too often. If he managed to get to sleep before me, I was out of luck. I found myself wide-awake in the dark listening to his breathing. When he inhaled, I held my breath to listen for his exhale. When it didn’t come, I tried to gently nudge him so he would turn on his side enough to breath again. Most of the time, he’d wake and angrily mumble something like, “What, what are you doing?” “You stopped breathing,” I quietly answered. He didn’t respond, but turned his back to me and went right back to sleep. That always puzzled me; that he could go back to sleep so quickly. It took me a long time to get to sleep only to awaken again so easily. Between his sleep apnea, my sleeplessness and nervousness, I enjoyed few restful nights the entire 18 years. No wonder sleep is so precious to me now.

Ah, sleep, glorious sleep. I now know that it’s not my job to make anybody love me; that’s none of my business. My job is to love me, to love my life, and to realize that I, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve love and affection. I allow myself to be sad, to be angry, to feel hurt, to feel disappointment, to feel fear. However; I also allow myself to be happy, to feel affection, to feel appreciated and cherished. I allow myself to feel love, the love that’s inside me, the love that has always been inside me, the love that will always be inside me. There is no one who can ever take love away from me. That realization heals and strengthens heartstrings more than anything else, more than anything outside of us. I just wish someone had told me years ago, that we are each born as gifts to the world, not born in sin; that we are unconditionally, unconditionally, unconditionally, unconditionally loved by our creator.