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By
Sugar
Dead Rebel Of The Week
~ True Love ~
My first experience with love was as a child. I’d never loved anything as much as I loved my Raggedy Ann doll. I took her everywhere with me. I loved that doll into a whole new state of Raggedy Ann-ness. But eventually, I lost her. I don’t remember when, I don’t remember how, but I do know I don’t have her anymore. Obviously she must have been lost somewhere, at some time. My first lost love.
Funny how that happens. There is this thing in your life that means so much to you that you’ll take it everywhere with you. You won’t let it become harmed, or damaged in any way. You hold on to it for dear life, and when something on it breaks or rips, you fix it. You shed tears. You drown in self-recrimination, and swear nothing like this will ever happen to this thing again.
Ever.
I used to be like that about my marriage, too. If I did something to anger my husband or somehow damage our relationship, I’d bend over backwards and turn myself inside out to fix the problem. I could not bear the thought of my man being angry or upset with me. The thought that I’d done something to hurt him or disappoint him would gnaw at me until I was sure I’d made things right.
When I began writing this, I was trying to figure what exactly inside me had died that I no longer care when he’s angry with me. I only care that I want the fight to stop. I want to stop the yelling and the horrible things he says to me, but I don't care abou the whys and the whats anymore. So are my give a damn-functions busted? Or is it simply my love for him that has died?
It could be a defense mechanism, I suppose. My way of keeping myself as sane as possibly in what has to be one of the most dysfunctional relationships I’ve ever known. I couldn’t continue to go on worrying constantly about what I might have done wrong. I spent years, literally, walking around on egg shells, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it seemed like he got angrier more easily the more I tried to tip-toe through the tulips. If you spent half of your life being yelled at and torn down, I’d like to think you’d eventually kill off whatever part of you is in charge of caring, too.
I used to love this man with all of my being. But, at the same time, I was not fully formed when I met him. I was not who I was going to be yet. Being all of 21 years old, I was not fully mature. I had not experienced all that life was going to show me yet, and conversely, had not been impacted by life yet. Not fully.
I hate to say this, but I do believe it started to go downhill after we had children. Up to that point it was easy to make him the center of my universe, and simply revolve around him. But after the children came, a lot of things changed. I was responsible for two other human lives, two souls, two belief systems. I made them my priority. Having had a less than stellar upbringing, myself, I wanted to give them the best of me, and all that I had to offer. I stumbled and fell a lot along the way but my good intentions usually triumphed over inexperience and ignorance.
So the first thing to die might have been my willingness to exist only for him. I couldn’t, anymore, and it was a simple as that.
Over the years, there were many other incidents, people, situations and extenuating circumstances that came into play. It would all eventually reach the point that it did the other day. I was standing in the laundry room, as was he, and he was yelling about how I didn’t respect what he had to do in order to keep this family fed and provided for, and mind you, this stemmed from, of all things, socks. I was doing what I usually do when he goes off on a ridiculously immature tirade; waiting for it to be over. But something happened that made me feel just horrible inside. One of my three-year old sons stepped between us. He put his arms out and yelled at his father, “Stop! Mommy is my friend. You stop yelling!”, as loudly as he could.
Two things happened inside of me at that moment. I welled with pride and love for this child that he would step in to defend me. But I also died inside that he felt he had to do it in the first place. Defending your mom... That’s a lot to have on your three year old shoulders. I did what any mother in her right mind would do; I swallowed my pride, apologized profusely for the lack of socks in his drawer and then swore I would take care of it immediately. I had to end the fight right there and then, for the sake of my kids, since he certainly didn’t seem to be about to anytime soon. I’d love to say that he did, and that seeing his son standing before him, acting as my protector made him feel ashamed of himself. But it didn’t. 18 hours later, the fight is still going on. Mind you, there were plenty of clean socks in his drawer this morning, but that’s no longer the issue. The only reason I’m sitting here writing this instead of actively having an argument now is that he left to go to work. I write the demons out of me.
I said this before, but I feel it is appropriate to put here, too: You can only break a woman's heart so many times before she starts feeling that she shouldn't heal it for you anymore. One day she will decide to leave it broken, and thus you can't break it all over again. Think about that. Every time she dissolves into tears, for something hurtful you said or did, you are breaking a part of her heart. The more you break it, the less she will love you. That's just the way it is.
And with that, love dies. But there are other casualties as well. Trust. Belief. Hope. All casualties, all murdered... all dead. All at the hands of the one person who was supposed to protect them, nurture them, keep them safe and whole.
Love used to be my strength, my pride and my joy. The one sustaining life force I could always draw upon to propel me through new adventures and everyday bullshit. Now love lies bleeding to death in the dark, and all I can feel is… good riddance.
Give me my kids, and a life of my own, and you can keep your damn love.
