I'm in love. . .
I was
in beautiful, sparkly, cologne-scented LOVE. In my eyes, a love like
ours was so perfect that it seemed surreal. I was sitting atop a pink
unicorn in a gown sewn from diamonds, while he flexed his beefy
muscles and fed me chocolates he made from a Pinterest recipe that
tasted like a pumpkin–spiced mocha. Yeah. It was that amazing. As I
sat upon that mythical creature, gazing down at the charming,
handsome gentleman who had chosen me to give his heart to, I felt
like the luckiest girl alive.
If only
I wasn’t so oblivious to the rose–colored glasses that he had
discreetly placed over my eyes. I was oblivious to the fact that the
graceful pink unicorn was actually the hard reality, my shimmering
gown was my cloak of denial, his beefy muscles were his many layers
of insecurities, and the chocolate wasn’t chocolate at all – much
less was it mocha flavored. Those luscious morsels were really the
many lies he fed me to keep me under his spell.
As time
passed and our wedding date approached, his enchantment began to wear
off. He was spreading himself thin with a growing list of lies and I
was beginning to notice. Lies about money, about cars, about people.
There was no limit to his dishonesty, but with a big shiny rock on my
finger, I knew I couldn’t give up hope. I knew things would get
better once the stress of the wedding plans blew over and we could
begin our lives as a happily married couple.
He
and I had been sexually active for a short time before the wedding
and because of a temporary procedure he had received before he met
me, he was incapable of reproducing until he had it reversed. Just to
be safe, I went to my gynecologist a month before we were married to
get on birth control. My doctor told me a mandatory pregnancy test
was required and asked me if there was any chance I could be
pregnant.
“Nope,”
I answered and smiled, because I was sure.
She
smiled too and handed me a thin box full of birth control before
leaving the room to retrieve my results. I was examining the box and
its contents when she came back, slowly shutting the door behind her.
“The
test came back positive. You’re pregnant.”
Before
that moment, I had never truly related with the phrase ‘the
earth stood still’, but that’s exactly what happened.
Everything just stopped. My heart, my lungs, the doctor. All I could
do was stare into her huge, bright blue eyes rimmed with spider leg
lashes, and wait for her to laugh and shout, “Just kidding! You
should see your face!”
But
she didn’t because it wasn’t a joke. I was pregnant. Instead, she
reached forward ever so slowly, pinched the packet of birth control
between her thumb and forefinger, and said, “So I’ll just take
this back.”
I
couldn’t be pregnant. I was only nineteen, I had big dreams of
becoming an established novelist, my parents would totally kill me,
and most of all he promised me that he was sterile.
I
could hardly listen to a word she said after that. It took everything
I had to keep myself together. How humiliating would it have been to
burst into tears at the doctor’s office upon learning I was about
to be a mother? It would be even more embarrassing to admit I was
naïve enough to believe a lie so drastic. Once I got out of there
and into my crappy, little car, I broke. I don’t remember a time
that I had cried so hard. Everything I wanted for myself and my
future instantly crumbled and landed with crushing force on my heart.
I wasn’t ready for a child. I was too young to be a mother. Where
would college fit into my new maternal schedule? My life was ruined
because of a chocolaty lie that he fed me. How could I marry such a
person? But with a baby on the way, how could I not?
My
parents were devastated when I told them the news. They had higher
expectations for my future than I did and neither of them had ever
taken a strong liking to my fiancé. I continued to try to persuade
them that he would change. I knew things would get better, especially
once a bouncing, bright eyed baby was added to the equation.
Months
later I was married, pregnant, and very emotional. My husband and I
lived in a small apartment not far from my parent’s home and we
both worked full–time. He was settled in a career in the Army and I
was working retail. Things had been rocky between us due to arguments
and lies, but I was optimistic as usual. How could I not be happy
with a beautiful baby girl to look forward to in the spring? As my
baby bump grew and I began to feel the little kicks of life from
within, my attitude transitioned from defeated to excited and
anxious! I couldn’t wait to be a mother and I believed that once
our daughter was in the picture, he would work hard to be an honest
role model. His lack of integrity began to seem like a sickness, but
he scoffed at my attempts to get him into a therapist. As far as my
future career as a published author was concerned, I promised myself
not to let anything knock me off track. I found a new dedication in
my writing directed towards making a life for me and my daughter.
I
fell in step with all the stereotypes of a pregnant woman. I
was emotional, nauseous, and I had strange, inconvenient cravings
that continuously haunted me. One day while I was working a long
shift, I came to the realization that nothing would complete my life
like a bowl of cereal. All I wanted in this world was a bite of
milky, sugary goodness. Knowing that my refrigerator at home was
lacking milk, I requested that my husband stopped at the store on his
way home from work. He agreed and I spent the rest of the day
dreaming of the moment I would enjoy a bowl of pure happiness.
When
I reached our apartment complex after my shift was over, my husband
was enthralled in a video game – as usual – and I passed him
without a word and went straight to the kitchen. I plucked a box of
my favorite cereal from the shelf in our pantry, poured its magical
contents into the shiniest bowl we had, twirled to the refrigerator,
and flung the door open. My eyes raked the fridge and the longer I
looked, the more I died inside. No milk. I felt a stifling
disappointment flood my heart, but I knew the situation didn’t
warrant tears. Promising to be strong, I closed the refrigerator door
and went to my husband. I silently stood near the T.V. until he
noticed me, like a serial killer stalking her victim. Without
warning, my pregnancy hormones took the wheel and drove me off Sanity
Street right into Lunatic Lake. I burst into tears and I spoke
between sobs while he stared at me, clearly shocked and concerned.
“You . . . didn’t . . . buy milk!”
Once
he realized why I was having a meltdown, he smiled like he was trying
not to laugh and apologized. I collapsed in his lap, unable to bring
a halt to the tears. He held me and continued to apologize and
explained that he had completely forgotten. As I cried about milk,
wrapped up in his arms, it occurred to me that I was so lucky to be
with a man as sweet as him. I was being completely crazy and he was
coddling my insanity. Sure, he lied. A lot. But every couple had
their struggles and dishonesty was ours. It was a problem we could
work on and fix and we would live happily ever after. I knew that if
I was married to a man this understanding and considerate, things had
to get better. Things needed to get better. Because I needed him.
Soon
after, my husband learned that he was being transferred to work at
Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where we would live for the next three
years. Not only was the city about a 20-hour drive from my family
with whom I was extremely close, but it was the last place any writer
would move to start their career. I knew how important his career was
to him though, so at eight months pregnant I moved away from
everything I knew with a smile plastered on my face. It was a choice
I will undoubtedly regret for the rest of my life.
I
knew not more than a single soul in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. We
moved to a small home on post, but we had to wait two weeks for all
of our furniture and belongings to arrive, including my car. All we
had was an air mattress, whatever could fit in our suitcases, and a
small T.V. and DVD player that we rented. Despite our empty home and
the long hours I spent alone during the days while he was at work,
those first couple weeks will always be my favorite time I spent in
Missouri. He was uncharacteristically sweet, respectful, and
thoughtful. He was trying to make our move as pleasant as possible
for me because I was the one leaving everything behind for the sake
of his career. There was something about the way he treated me with
such careful kindness that made me incredibly sad. I knew it was only
a matter of time before he began treating me with disrespect and
lying again. I wondered often how we got to that place and figured it
was the gradual change that I had failed to notice. He used to treat
me with so much love. I held onto his generosity with all that I had
in the short time he was willing to give it.
Just
when it seemed he was tiring of the effort it took to put a smile on
my face, I was blessed with another reason for him to remain
pleasant: The birth of our daughter. I was in excruciating labor for
nearly fifteen hours before Melody finally came into the world, red
faced and limbs flailing. She was more beautiful than I could have
ever imagined and I knew by looking at her that suddenly, everything
was better. He would be better. How could he not be, looking at the
little angel we had created and knowing she would depend on him with
her life? Hell, I wanted to better myself in every way
possible! I would try harder to bake chocolate chip cookies that were
edible, I would stop correcting everyone’s grammar, and I would
stop spending money on high heels that I knew I would rarely wear! My
daughter was the greatest thing to ever happen to me and I was
floating on a cloud of sheer bliss.
Interestingly
enough, the ever present cry of a newborn and the unfortunate lack of
sleep have the ability to break through a fluffy cloud of sheer
bliss. In fact, they have the ability to reach through your cloud,
snatch you up, and hurl you right back into Lunatic Lake. Melody had
the condition referred to as Colic and I, being a 19-year-old
first-time mom, had no one. The only person I knew in the state of
Missouri was at work every day from 7am-5pm and was surprisingly
unhelpful whenever he was home.
“She
has been crying all day,” I explained one evening when he had come
home from work. I was a mess. I hadn’t had any time to shower in
the last three days, I didn’t know how to soothe my baby, and my
self-esteem was at an all time low. “I can’t set her down without
her screaming. Will you please take her so I can have some time to
myself? I just want to shower.”
He
was annoyed with my request and responded by saying, “I’ve been
at work all day doing my job. The army is my job and caring
for the baby is your job. Do your job.”
That
was how my days played out from then on. He was rarely home; he
worked all day and fished with his new friends all night. Sometimes
he would claim to go night fishing and he wouldn’t come home till
3:00am. My naivety and the thrills of being a new mother clouded my
judgment and kept me busy, but I couldn’t ignore the constant
feeling of being unloved and unwanted. He treated Melody and me like
a burden, two beings he was tired of taking care of, and grew more
and more controlling in regards to money. I was desperate to return
to the love we once displayed in the early stages of our
relationship. I struggled to be the woman I thought he wanted,
prepared dinner every night, and cleaned the house every day before
he got home, all while tending to a newborn. Despite my attempts,
things only got worse as Missouri said its goodbyes to spring and
stepped into summer.
One
day I noticed Melody was running low on baby wipes, so being the new
mother that I was, I packed a diaper bag filled with enough supplies
to last us a weekend trip and we headed to the store. He drove a
shiny, red Audi and I was still suffering with the crippled car that
he had been promising to replace since we started dating. The engine
started up with a thunderous roar and the air conditioner was broken,
but Melody and I braved the thick heat of Missouri on our quest for
baby wipes. The usual routine for spending money was that I had to
call him and let him know exactly what I was buying and how much it
would cost us so he could yell and lecture me about saving every dime
HE worked hard for. Irritated from the heat, I decided to skip that
process and the tongue lashing. Baby wipes were a necessity.
Later
that night when he came home from work, he saw the sack on the
kitchen counter containing a package of wipes. As soon as he saw it,
I braced myself. “You spent money today? What did I tell you about
spending money? Why didn’t you tell me?” He scolded angrily.
I
played it off as no big deal – because it shouldn’t have been –
and explained it was all I bought and that we were almost out.
“Stop
spending money! I’m serious!”
I
was indignant and slightly surprised that he was still angry. “They
are baby wipes! Are you telling me we can’t buy the things our
daughter needs?”
He
continued to shout and my reply to each remark was the same question
over and over again. I sounded like a broken record. “Are you
telling me that I cannot buy the things our daughter needs?”
The
thing about our arguments was that they all ended the same way. No
matter the topic or who was right, he would begin throwing insults
and malicious jabs my way, I would cry and fight for the respect I
deserved, and he would end it by leaving or ignoring me. As the
conversation grew more and more heated, we followed suit with our
previous, unhealthy routines and soon I was fighting back tears.
“Look
at your daughter,” I said, trying desperately to break through to
the man I once knew. “Twenty years from now, if a man treated her
the way you treated me, would you be okay with it?”
He
scoffed as if the answer were obvious. “No.”
“Then
why is it okay to treat me this way?”
He
rolled his eyes and spoke witheringly. “Because it’s just you,
Shannon. Don’t act like you’re perfect! Don’t act like you
deserve the world!”
I
was so stunned by his reply that the argument ended there with my
defeat. I was speechless, hurt, and I just wanted to be back home. I
wanted to sit on my old bed and cry, surrounded by my family. I
wanted my mom to hold me, I wanted my dad’s enlightening pep talks,
and I wanted my sister to cheer me up with silly jokes. I thought of
the confident, ambitious girl with big dreams that I used to be and
compared her to the insecure, lonely woman I had become, whose
biggest goal was to have an honest marriage. As females, we’re
warned from a young age about all the major dangers such as rape,
kidnapping, breast cancer, and the fatal risks of wearing white after
Labor Day. But what about all the subtle dangers that can quickly add
up and potentially ruin your future? The liars. Putting your dreams
on hold. Trying to be someone else’s version of perfect. The man
who claims to be sterile just so he doesn’t have to wear a condom.
Why wasn’t there a class taught in high school on the small perils
that slip through the cracks? Or did I just miss the memo?
It
wasn’t long after that incident when one morning I discovered he
had a separate bank account that he had been hiding from me. I called
the bank with his information and I was informed of the last ten
transactions which included lunches, purchases at apparel stores, and
worst of all, hefty cash withdrawals and transfers to another
mysterious account. As I scribbled down all the information that the
automated service gave me, I waited for the heartbreak that I had
felt so many times since I had eagerly said the two life-ruining
words: I do. Though I knew this was the final straw and meant
the end of us, I didn’t feel crushed. I felt liberated. He had set
me free with one last lie that was too significant to excuse. If he
could hide a separate bank account from me so easily for the entirety
of our marriage, then his dishonesty truly knew no bounds.
He
was at work on a 24 hour shift called CQ and I knew it was the
perfect opportunity to leave. I dialed his number with an unfamiliar
thrill of superiority and was greeted with the typical, “What do
you want? I’m working.”
“I
know you have a separate bank account that you’ve been hiding,” I
said bluntly.
He
was angry, as usual, whenever I caught him in a lie. “That’s an
old account that I canceled forever ago, Shannon. Stop trying to find
lies where there aren’t any! Stop snooping around in things that
aren’t your business!”
“It’s
not canceled,” I snapped.
“Well,
then they didn’t cancel it when I told them to. I can’t even
remember the last time I used it!”
“You
can’t? Let me help you remember,” I quipped, exquisitely smug.
“Your last transaction was yesterday and your last transfer to
another bank account was Wednesday.”
His
silence felt like a personal triumph. For once in the two years that
I had known him, he didn’t have an arrogant response.
“I’m
leaving you. I’m through with your lies and the way you treat me.
We’re done.” I ended the call with those words and yet again,
anticipated the pain of heartbreak. I sat there waiting for it, but I
only felt hopeful.
After
several unanswered phone calls and text messages packed with excuses
and lies from my soon to be ex – husband, he sent one last message:
Don’t do anything stupid with your ring. I still owe a lot of
money on it. With a roll of my eyes, I tossed my ring on the bed.
I didn’t want it anyway. I wanted nothing to do with the liar I had
unwittingly bound myself to.
I
packed up my five month-old daughter, my dog, and everything that
would fit into my rickety little car and prayed we wouldn’t break
down on the way back to my home in Utah. I pulled onto the highway,
homeward bound, and realized that our first year anniversary was in
one week. It had only taken one year for me lose sight of everything
I valued most. I left my family, my dreams, and the self-sufficient
girl I used to be. I had made my mistakes, and I would value the
lesson that came from each one.
As
Missouri shrunk in my rear view mirror, the magic of the chocolates
dissipated like fog. I knew without a single doubt that things were
finally going to be better. I faced the long road ahead of me with my
spirits high. I was ready for a round two at life and this time, I
would do it MY way.
