Marriage - Day 67

I've been waiting for a burst of inspiration to make a worthy first blog post after marriage. I just can't seem to decide what that is.

Marriage is wonderful and frightening at the same time. The feeling of coming home to someone who is anticipating my return, greeting me with hugs and kisses (and sometimes even dinner), brushing my teeth next to each other...it's the best. It's frightening because a spouse can often act as a mirror, and sometimes when I'm at my vilest, I catch a glimpse of myself in a pair of hurt eyes and I'm reduced to a crumble of self-hatred.

But my husband says it best when he turns to me every so often and says, "You know...I like being married to you. It's fun."

Countdown - 10 Days

As the wedding draws near, anxiety has become a fixture in my day-to-day life. I'm living my days at about a 6, and the hint of any hiccup...an additional task, a need to reschedule, a missed appointment...they bring me up to an 8. The second I start thinking about my parents takes me up to a 9 or 10.

The past few years, especially, I've endured my share of drama with my parents. After they moved, I felt a sense of freedom...to be able to come and go without ridicule, without the lingering possibility of an emotional and abusive episode at any given time. But as the wedding comes closer and closer, I can't help but worry. And it's not a baseless worry; there's a reason why I know they'll be angry leading up to, the day of, and following the wedding.

I keep telling myself that I should put those thoughts away, enjoy the celebration starting now, and since they no longer live here, to remove myself from situations where I might be verbally or emotionally abused. But it's returning to the scene of the crime...going back to the place where I never felt safe, loved, whole...and it scares me. Those feelings I had of loneliness, isolation, worthlessness, hopelessness...they scare me.

I really hope my wedding is happy.

Nicknames

Muffin. Honey. Honeybuns. Babe. Baby. The boy and I used to always mock couples who have nicknames like these for each other. We always thought it was way too cutesy for us. Individually, we didn't really have nicknames ourselves either, with friends or with significant others.

Of course, having said that, we do have names we endearingly called each other, but we would NEVER utter them in public. So they don't exist...not really. Right?

The other day, the Czar sent me an e-mail just saying hello. That part I could get over. It was surprising but not overly so. The ending was what got me. He called me a nickname that roughly translates to "cutie" in English, something he probably hasn't called me in more than 15 years.

It was a one-line e-mail, but I thought about it again and again over the next few days. A nickname is such an intimate thing in my mind, and "intimate" is not how I would describe my relationship with him.

Maybe I've already told this story here, but it just goes to show how much it's stuck with me. I think the feeling of being a "Daddy's Little Girl" is one of the sweetest dynamics of a father-daughter relationship, but it's one that I'm not familiar with. When I was very young, probably 5 or 6, I remember watching a baseball or football game with the Czar. In typical fashion, I laid my head in his lap. But this time, he told me to get up. I wasn't to sit with him that way anymore. I was too old. The effect was like road rash. It burned and it scarred, and it changed things. It was breaking ground where a huge chasm would continue to grow between us.

So when the Czar called me "cutie," it brought me back to a time where I was Daddy's Little Girl, a short-lived time but a time that did indeed exist. So it IS true. That DID happen.

Strong, but Not Tough (Part 1)

Growing up, I was painfully shy. I remember grocery shopping with the Czar and Queen one day and asking where something was. When they told me I should ask a clerk, I immediately burst into tears. The thought of talking to a stranger filled me with an intense and inconsolable fear.

Whenever the Czar would discipline me with his time-tested method of endless hours of berating and yelling, I was never allowed to speak up. Of course, the occasional yes ("Do you agree with me?") and no ("Do you think what you did was right?") were in the script, but outside of that, I was to keep my mouth shut. I learned very early on that truth and justice had no place, but instead compliance and silent suffering were the easiest way to escape the verbal and sometimes physical lashings. I resolved that nothing was worth looking at that enraged, red-veined eyeball as he whipped me with a hanger, comb, shoehorn, whatever was nearby.

As I grew older, I got the bright idea that I should at least say something if the Czar misunderstood something. Any time I attempted at justifying or even proving my innocence, the result was merely more culpability. Whether it was for talking back or suggesting that they wrong (how dare I?), any words from me were met with more punishment and anger.

I learned that the most my "voice" would ever be was an internal wail of injustice, an all-night crying session, a cold ice-pack on the welts on my thighs. But even nurture can't quiet quell nature entirely. Outside the realm of home, I began to find my strength. Excelling in academics earned me a bit of authority, at least with classmates and teachers, and I began to find joy in others hearing me.

When I moved out for college, I decided to reinvent myself. I didn't want to be the girl that people knew was smart but never invited to parties. I didn't want to be the sucker who always took the blame because someone else told me to. I learned to be friendly. I learned to talk to strangers. I learned to talk to large groups of people. Recently, the boy asked me why I never considered business as a major. I explained that, as a shy person all my life, I never thought a career of working with other people and mingling suited me.

Anyone who met me after high school, knows me as a fairly outgoing, often funny and goofy person. I'm not a natural leader, but I'm not afraid to lead. I wouldn't say I'm combative, but I'm not afraid to call people out or make complaints when it's called for.

But at the root of my being, the insecurity and fear of returning to that once-lonely girl whose pillow was her only audience lead me on a spiral of anxiety. Like an offensive lineman, breaking through a row of bodies, I see everything as an obstacle. Everyone looks like the Czar to me. They're trying to shut me up. They don't believe me. They think I'm mindless. They'll never listen. They'll never care unless I force them. I bite, punch, kick, shove my way to the podium, when there may be no obstacles at all. The longer it takes to reach an assurance that I've been heard, understood, feels like precious seconds of holding my breath underwater. As another second ticks by, my heart quickens, my breath shallows, my mind races, and panic grows. I flail, I reach, but I can't seem to break the surface, find any relief.

While explaining this feeling to someone recently, I mentioned that I had felt weak for so long that I had to teach myself, make myself, be strong. They replied that, while I can be strong, and being strong is good, I didn't have to be so tough. That the forceful and abrasive nature with which I demand from people only recreates the loneliness. Navigating clumsily from one extreme to the other, I guess I haven't quite picked up the skill of asserting my strength with grace. I only know this because I see the one I love most has scratches and bruises from my pointless attempts to be heard.

Bursting My Bubble

When you don't have much history in the way of relationships, what happens is that your image or idea of what your love life will look like becomes inflated. Like a giant bubble. The more time that passes without experiences to bring you back to reality, the bubble just fills with more and more air.

Lately, as I spend more time with the Boy in the absence of my previous dictators, I'm coming to grips with the reality of the limitations of my relationship with him. In the way movies teach us, I want him to be my all, everything and the only thing I will ever need. But as the book tells us, Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. We are so different in the ways we think, and that means that there are so many things that he can't possibly understand or empathize with.

Last night, I thought I was joining in his ongoing conversation about work frustrations, but it was heard as complaining. While silently handling the logistics of so many small and odd details, delegating the honeymoon planning to him was felt as unsupportive. In the grand scheme of things, I can understand that these translate to I don't want you to be so stressed and affected by work, so let me help you and I want to plan the BEST honeymoon for you and I'd like to do wedding stuff together, even the honeymoon planning.

But it seems to me that as women, the capacity of our empathy tanks are ten-fold that of men, and it's times like these where I become painfully aware of this fact. Throw my battles with anxiety in there, and you've got a night of restless sleep, tears, and hour after hour of anxiously wondering and worrying about what's happening next, tonight, and tomorrow.

It seems a little silly to me now, but that's the story of my journey through love. Time after time, every time a bubble is burst, I mourn the slow death of my fairytale. Of course, once you realize you've been living in a snow globe of a reality and that what's real is life, much more worth it than the sterile imagination you've rendered, you know you've traded in your Prince Charming for your soul mate. You turn in your two-dimensional fairy tale for the depth of reality.

A Baby's Desperation

Now that the Czar and Queen are out of state, I've been spending a lot more time with the Boy (yep, somehow there's more time to be spent together). During the first 2 years of our relationship, the Boy held on so stubbornly and anxiously to his time, his space, that we fought often about our individual readiness for a serious relationship. Was he ready to commit? Was I ready to let go of my imaginations of love?

There's always a part of me that remembers those times with a twinge of...regret fear unease. I wonder if maybe he'll get sick of me. I wonder if a few days in a row of seeing me will weary him. There are times when a small annoyance on my part will grow into worry that he's silently scheming on how to get more alone time (projecting, maybe?).

Last night, as we spent yet another hour chatting and watching Anthony Bourdain, he looked at me in a way that reassured me he's far from sick of me. Even as I try to keep my distance at times and leave him to his work, studies, or whatever it is he's doing, he'll approach me in a way that shows his longing for me. It surprised me that this morning that I was excited to see him again. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me, but as if we haven't seen each other in weeks, I can't wait to be near him again.

This past weekend, I babysat for friends, new parents of a 6-month old little girl. Normally, with her and other babies, I've got some magic touch (or extreme body heat, whatever). I'm a baby-monger, and this little one generally falls asleep or is exhausted with laughter when she sees me. No problem, right?

Wrong. She's experiencing some stranger anxiety, and I could not console her for the life of me. She was so genuinely distressed that I was not her mom. As I held her while she cried, slept, cried, slept, and cried some more for about 6 hours, it made me think of friends who are going through the adoption process... how they endure this for weeks at time as their children grieve the loss of their foster parents.

I thought about the weight of being a mother. Not that I have the slightest idea of what that really means yet, but I kept thinking of the deep and utter sadness this little girl felt that she could not see her mother. She looked everywhere for her, pushing my face away. I fed her, held her, sang to her, talked to her, but none of that mattered because I was not her mother.

And it hit me...as my arms burned and my lower back ached from carrying and bouncing little M...the weight of being a mother...the ability responsibility of having such an effect on another human being. This little baby was so desperate and lost without her mother, regardless of what I had to offer. Am I ready to be that mother?

I've always wanted to be a mother. I have dreams of pregnancy and motherhood. I imagined I would get married at 24 (I'm 29 now), and I would have children at 26. Obviously, I'm not pregnant or even married yet. But I'm more sure now that I'm not ready to give up this feeling of excitement for my evening, free to be with my soon-to-be husband, carefree and aimless. I still can't wait for motherhood, but being a wife is excitement enough for now.

Different Friends, Different Hats

Maybe some would disagree with me, and I suspect that many would, but I think that the notion of a "best friend" at my age doesn't really make any sense. Of course, if you're thinking in terms of the one person who is closest, nearest, and dearest in your life as far as proximity, time spent, and knowledge of one another, the Boy definitely fits the bill. He knows (and will come to know) more about me than even my family or closest girlfriends do, I probably spend the most time with him, and when my day winds down to an end, he's really the one I want to talk to about the happenings of that day.

But when I think of my girlfriends, I realize that they fulfill different roles in my life. I don't think that means that I use specific friends for these reasons or even that they are limited. I guess all I mean is that the closeness of a girlfriend isn't measured the way it used to be. In some ways, it can't even be measured anymore.

I have girlfriends whom I have known for more than a decade, maybe more than 2 decades, who may not necessarily be the first person I call when I have great news. I have girlfriends whom I've known for only a few years who I find myself desperately needing to talk to throughout my week. I have different girlfriends I call for advice, to vent, to get excited with me, to calm me down, to be angry with me, to understand me, to correct me, to cry with me, to laugh with me, to lighten my mood, or to make me feel grounded.

When my cell phone rings and Paramore's sound fills the room, the Boy often says, "You're soooo popular!" As someone who grew up painfully shy and intensely introverted, sometimes it can bother me. I'm not some shallow person who has a million friends and the depth of a cereal bowl!

But the truth is, I've learned not to rely on one single person to define my life anymore, and I don't think that's cynicism, I think that's reality. Maybe even maturity. I know not to get offended when one friend doesn't get me or says something to offend me, because they are the one who challenges and questions me. I don't get disappointed when an old friend doesn't quite understand my point of view, because she is the one who shares a long and deep history with me even if we don't look at the world the same way.

Sometimes I look at girls who have the same 2 girlfriends in all their photos and I wonder if I'm missing out on something big. Have I let conflict rob me of true friendship? Do I not know how to be a friend? (I'm sure I have a long way to go in that department anyway.) I do admire those relationships, but I'm not jealous. My "best friend" knows me intimately and deeply, even if that friend might have a different face from time to time.

I Do Solemnly Swear...

This weekend, I will

• not worry about the wedding.
• not worry about my parents' opinions/emotions.
• not worry about making everyone else happy.
• eat well, but not unhealthy.
• drink a lot of water.
• go to the gym and sweat hard.
• not call myself fat.
• compliment each girlfriend I talk to (honestly).
• hold on to a hug just a little bit longer.
• not feel bad about abilities.
• be thankful for my raise.
• be thankful for my job.
• read my bible.
• read my book.
• thank a friend for being my friend.
• love my fiance, without fear.
• let my fiance love me, without fear.

Fancy Meeting You Here

Typically, when something comes along to ruin my day, I let it. It ruins me. Through and through, I give in to the anger and bitterness, and I let it flow freely... in my mood, my words, my thoughts.

Over the last 12 hours or so, I've been confronted with the oh-so-familiar cancer of negativity, but something is keeping me from giving in. I'm still angry and bitter, don't get me wrong. I'm the same girl. But there is a stubborn cheerfulness and hope deep inside me that is refusing to let it consume me. It's like being mad at a friend who has just eaten your last french fry, but they tickle you to make you laugh. You don't want to and you cross your arms and try to frown, but instinctual reactions make the sides of your mouth curl up and eventually you let it burst into laughter. Ok, fine, Joy. I will let you win today, old friend.

Why Do I Bother?

Mother's Day lunch. $150.
Mother's Day bouquet. $50.
Never-ending backhanded comments, vilification, and ingratitude. Priceless.

What a waste. Happy F-ing Mother's Day.

196 days.

Yes, I Know

"Be content with what you have, for He has said, 'I will never leave you nor forsake you.' So we can confidently say, 'The Lord is my helper; I will not fear; what can man do to me?'" (Hebrews 13:6)

This verse and the promises behind it have been repeated to me over the past several months. My mind glosses over the familiarity of it. Yes, I know. Hang in there. It'll be over soon enough. Yes, I know. You can handle this. Yes, I know.

But tell a victim of domestic abuse that, with God's help, they can make it through yet another abusive relationship. Yes, I know. I just don't want to.

I've been trying to tell myself that it will be ok, that I just need to hang in there a little bit longer. I have my bad days, and then once in a while I have a surge of hope, a glimmer of contentment. Whether it's something the boy says, a new voice to speak the same words I've heard over and over, a silent smile from a familiar face, someone who listens without trying to tell me it will be ok... some days, I feel enough glimpses of the truth that I actually do believe I can make it. Of course I can make it. I guess I mean that I feel I can make it... but make it whole.

This is my battle. Others may struggle with demons that take the very clear and discernible shape of circumstances (like barrenness), of people who have hurt them (like cheaters), and any number of other things. My demons look and sound very familiar... they sound like me, the look like me, they feel like truth. My demons are my own inability to believe, to trust, to feel safe, to feel whole, to feel loved, to be confident, to let go, to give back, to give in, to forgive, to love even though I've been hurt, to accept that I will be hurt again, to separate the lie of utter defeat from the truth of hope.

Waving the White (Red?) Flag

I had never been in a serious or long-term relationship before the boy came along. I think it's for that reason that I never knew the full extent of my own insecurities and anxiety. Whether the Czar and Queen are the root or foundation or just inspirations for of all of that, I can't say for sure. But up until I started dating the boy seriously, most of those feelings of fear, anxiety, depression, etc. were all connected to the Czar and Queen. So when it comes out now in my relationship, I don't always recognize it.

It's true that I've had falling outs with girlfriends and "kind of" boyfriends in the past, but this is the first time I've hinged my life on someone. Obviously, no other person can make or break you, but when you make that scary commitment to marry, you've set yourself up to some major vulnerability... vulnerability to being hurt the way no one in your life has ever been able to hurt you before.

Recently, in a fit of insecurity or PMS or something, I let my anxiety get the best of me, and the boy started to wave his red flag. Hey there. You're being insecure. I'm not going anywhere. Just relax. But I didn't get it. Time and time again, I've asked him to not get upset that I'm upset and to just reassure me that I'm just being insecure. And he did. And I still thought he was attacking me.

At some point in our conversation, it clicked that he had been trying to do exactly what I had asked for and wanted him to do, and I was utterly shocked. Will it ever end? Will the torture never end? What if this stupid insecurity never goes away? In a moment of insecurity, the anxiety inflates any negative thoughts, and I go into a bit of a frenzy. It feels unstoppable, and even when someone is trying to help me, it all feels like an attack. I started to wonder if I would ever overcome this insecurity. I was angry with myself for not seeing how the boy had genuinely tried to do what I asked. (Granted, he hadn't done it all that well, but he tried. He later apologized for "chucking" the red flags at me instead of just waving them in the air.)

With the wedding drawing ever so near, I can't help but notice all the different ways insecurity affects my feelings and, therefore, my decisions. I've been avoiding the gym, because I think none of it will make a difference. I will never be happy with my appearance anyway. I've been avoiding my parents, because no matter how nice they're being, they'll come back to hurt me anyways. But what has curling up into a ball to protect myself done for me? Has it kept me from getting hurt? No. Because I cannot live this life alone. And if I can't live it alone, I can't live without getting hurt. Slice it any way you want, but insecurity is not to be solved by disguising it with self-sufficiency or abrasiveness. Maybe the only way to overcome feeling vulnerable is to be ok with being vulnerable in the first place.

Man-hater

I'm having a bad day. I posted on my facebook the other day that I wish I could put all my insecurities in a bottle and explode it. I don't know what combination of my personal experiences, my upbringing, etc. make me think people close to me are waiting in the wings to kick me the second I'm down, researching the most effective and extravagant way to stab me in the back, but I do. Today I'm feeling utterly insecure, running scenarios of betrayal and hurt through my mind like some "best of" movie reel.

I saw an old male friend comment on another female acquaintance's facebook wall, and it made me want to vomit. He's one of few men in my life who broke something in me. He broke my faith in the idea of the "harmless guy friend." There was one before him who did minor damage, but this was a friend who I never even entertained the idea with... and he broke my faith. I ended the friendship immediately, spent the next several months trying to restore my faith in people in general, but ever since then, there's been a bit of a man-hater in me. I had always known how to despise the Czar as a head figure, but these were peers. These were supposed to be friends.

There are a couple men who I've come across the past few years who come off as annoying but mostly harmless men, but to me, they're disgusting. I want to scratch their eyes out and kick them in a way that will keep them from breeding. Extreme, yes, but it's the honest truth. The anger and disgust I feel for these guys is extreme. I know that. But it's a common disregard for boundaries that I see that make me think they're just a breath away from crossing the line, with me or with anyone.

I started my day here. This rekindling of emotion then infused insecurity into my entire day, and it's not even 9am. I started making assumptions about the boy, thinking about scenarios where he could possible betray me, hurt me the most, and even a harmless conversation threw me into a frenzy of fear of anxiety.

It's not been a good day. But it's only 9am. Time to put on the armor and fight the lies. Funny how after a full weekend of being fawned over (literally, FAWNED over) by the boy, one seed of insecurity convinces me of his impending betrayal. Why is it so much easier to believe in the potential for bad than the existence of good?

Exhausted

I'm utterly exhausted. By nature, I'm a person who is constantly thinking. I'm thinking about the challenges I face, the ones I'm about to face, the ones I might be facing soon... I think about the pathetic relationship I have with the Czar and Queen, and how tragic it is that a family should feel so... unlike family.

I think about how their selfishness has sapped me from getting any joy out of wedding planning. I think about how their parents must have been in order to create such people. I wonder whether they even know the joy they're missing out on by holding on to this notion that they have some kind of control over anything. I think about how this part of them might never change. I wonder what it would be like if it did.

I think about the path my life has taken and wonder if my standard of living, being lower than that of most my friends, says anything about me. I wonder if people look at me and think that I've settled...in life and in love. I think about the job I have and how thankful I am, but wonder if wanting more is selfish and immature. I think about the boy and how much I can't stand being away from him. I think about building a home with him and how far that feels.

I think about my friends having babies and having dinner with their respective families, laughing about the new tricks the babies have learned. I wonder if I will ever know that deep joy of familial peace, of knowing this is exactly how it should be, or if it will always be full of resentment and sideways comments about my weight, my failures, my shortcomings. I think about my cousin struggling with Lupus, and I wonder if she wonders the same thing. I think about friends who used to mean so much to my daily life, who now are mere updates on a computer screen.

I think too much. Lately, I've been taking melatonin supplements for sleep and St. John's Wort for mood. I think they're helping, but this deep-seated belief that my life will never change keeps me from being faithful even to that little task. I think all day about tragedy and mourn. And I'm exhausted.

The boy has been telling me lately that he wants to take me out. We eat out often, so it means something a little different for him to put it in such a way. But given this new mission of deciding where he can "take me out," I'm at a loss. How much are we looking to spend? What kind of food is he in the mood for? I'm tired, so should I pick a local place? What about this and what about that? The utterly consumption of thought has sapped me of enjoying even this simple gesture.

Exhaustion has made me forget how to enjoy anything. I can't blame that on the Czar and Queen, can I? I don't think so. So whether it's Chinese take-out and an episode of Lost or a fancy steak dinner with cocktails, I.will.enjoy.it. At least for today, I will release this big bunch of worries I've been clutching, as if the strength of my grasp can prevent any ensuing chaos.

I Am The Exception...Every Time

It's funny how the Queen and Czar are demanding. They are demanding of absolute and unquestioned forgiveness, grace, and apology from everyone else, yet they never see the need to grant those to anyone else. After the debacle involving the boy, my mom reminded me that it's just an apology now that would suffice... for something he never intended, for something that was completely misunderstood, for something he did.not.do.

You've got to be joking me. I wonder in what world it was where they were served endlessly and to no limit that they expect this now. Bite me. No apologies are coming your way for the thing that you misunderstood that should never have offended you that you are demanding so that I can plan my wedding to make you happy so that you will get the wedding you've always dreamed of. No. Bite me.

Since when did everyone else become so entitled to OUR wedding? Where's my gin & tonic?

Who Need Drugs When I Have Denial?

I wonder every once in a while why I never dabbled in drugs, excessive drinking, or promiscuity. It would seem logical that someone who had been kept in a cage all her life would find herself imbalanced in a way that I often see exhibited in drug and alcohol abuse. I have a good friend who grew up very broken, even suffering near strangulation at her own father's hands. To me, she's a beautiful and wonderfully successful woman and someone who will always go to bat for me when she can. But I often see through the facade of the orderly appearance and see the shattered life inside. She grew up experimenting with more drugs than I can name, men often walk in and out of her life leaving behind scars of their own brokenness on her, and she currently takes antidepressants to help manage through the emotional struggles.

So why not me? Where's my drug of choice, alcohol-induced black outs, or one-night escapades? For some reason, I never found it appealing to try any drug or overdo the alcohol, which both probably have something to do with the lack of the third, but I'm starting to realize I didn't get out unscathed...I'm weak. I'm really fragile and easily broken.

All my life, I dreamed of the day when my prince would come and rescue me. He'd swoop in, shield me from the attacks, and whisk me away to the "happily ever after." But it turns out he's human. Just like me, he bleeds, bruises, and withers. This week, I think I caught my first glance of his battle wounds. I saw the blood dripping, and my initial reaction was anger. What the hell is this?... And yet a thought dawned on me. Doesn't love want to protect? Love is not selfish, and all this time I had been wanting to throw him between me and the barrel of the gun...

Romantic ideals and logic aside... at the end of the day, it's me and the boy against the Czar and the world. I don't want to fight with him about the tactics of how to fight this battle. However everyone else thinks the battle should be fought or how it can be won, no one can step into my shoes and fight it for me. So I choose to stand behind him and trust in his choices. This is NOT to say that I believe in the rightness or justifications of those choices. I am choosing him over those things. I believe that in the end, even if not now, he will arrive at the choices that are best for both of us. So if that means he must leave his post to forge new weapons or learn a new tool to win us the battle, then I must stand bravely and bleed myself.