Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Miscarriage of Marriage

A year ago, I lost a baby.

Now, almost exactly to the date, I lost my marriage.

One could make the assumption the former might have something to do with the latter, and they’d be partially correct. But not even close to completely.

The longer I’ve dwelled on our past, as I cycle through the years we’ve spent together, I am seeing here and there, the spots we needed to nurture. The moments we had a chance to love and support one another, but instead shut down into silence and resentment. We should have… We could have… but all too cognizent of the We Didn’ts.

When I lost what would have been our third child, I did what I always do. I shrugged it off and continued on. Because that’s what Strong Women Do, right? We keep going. We shake that shit off. We straighten our backs, square our shoulders and with a head held high, just keep fucking moving. Time stand stills for no one, for no thing, especially the loss of life.

I kept the house. I minded our other two children, who were oblivious to the fact that they were swindled out of a third partner in crime. I had moments of severe heart-wrenching grief when the tears would just tumble out unannounced and unwanted and my sobbing became desperate gasps for air. They’d run to hug me causing my body to shake and convulse, for their love and concern was too much for my already broken heart to handle. Of course, this all happened when he wasn’t around. He was a hard-working man, already stressed about so many other things. There was no way he’d be able to handle this.

And the divide grew.  What was once a ravine, became a valley.

We were well on our way to becoming the Grand Canyon.

The disconnect had always been there. He equated love with sex. I equated sex with the previous abuse and long term wear of being a woman. I wanted kind words. Appreciation. Tenderness. He wanted physical touch. Blowjobs. Wild fucks.

I wanted to feel loved as a person.

He wanted to feel loved by being considered desirable.

And we never found a way to intersect. So, we drifted. And drifted. Until we were both two people who loved the idea of who we thought the other person was when we first met. But we obviously weren’t.

I felt he didn’t love me.

He felt I didn’t love him.

We both gave up.

Losing the baby was just the impetus towards the downward spiral. If there had been any chance for saving what was left our union, it was now gone. Yet, we went through the motions. After all, we had a new house needing attention. Two little boys we loved and were trying our best to parent without letting them see our lack of care for the other. I reverted to my failsafe shell of apathy. He started drinking more and staying out and away from our crap existence.

But eventually, it was me. I was the one who put the nail in the coffin. Self-preservation is cold. Heartless. Indifferent. Self-preservation is a wounded wild beast with only one directive.

Survive. It didn’t matter who got hurt or how, but survive. Get out, Get out alive and with what you have left.

I sit here writing this, the unfaithful wife. The woman who strayed. The disloyal. The selfish. The fork-tongued Jezebel. I blink away the wetness gathering at my eyes. Did I get out alive? Yes. Unscathed? No.

But what exactly do I have left.

The scraps and remains of something which was never real to begin with.

 

 

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Armor

I have, for the most part, kept a fairly private life. I’ve shared what I’ve needed to share. I’ve switched skins in social groups. I’ve been who I needed to be in order to survive.

This lesson in self-preservation came early and often.

When I was teased relentlessly for not having a mom or dad, I learned how to make up stories to qualify their absence.

When I was raped at the age of 12 after the death of my only friend, my great-grandmother, and was whispered about in the neighborhood as the “slut” because who could ever believe that pre-teen boys were capable of such violation? I learned how to avoid the stares and fall into fantasy and daydreams.

When I went into high school and the rumors about my drug addict mom preceded me, I learned how to smile and joke and laugh because who could believe those rumors were true if I was just so goddamn happy all the time?

When I was a homeless teen runaway and I needed a place to stay, a meal to eat, some form of human kindness in general, I learned how to be charming to ensure another day of getting by.

When word got out that I was an escort and judgmental glares scorched my skin, “she’s a whore” being murmured behind my back, of course never to my face, I learned how to embrace that wickedness and use it as a weapon.

When women hated my existence and men lusted after me, I learned how to be cold and indifferent. Untouchable.

Time after time, each lesson another layer of armor against the world. I became an ever-changing chameleon. Carefree party girl for one, quiet and insightful confidante for another. Crazy but sane, logical yet irrational, emotional though apathetic – no one could ever give the same descriptors.

So now, more mutterings. More of the same peanut gallery gossip. I won’t deny the hearsay.  Though, everyone has their own version of the truth. While I am not innocent, I also carry the knowledge that not one person who speaks of me truly knows me. Or my heart. Where I’ve been. Where I decide to go. So, I’ll continue the same way I always have. Moving forward with my own brand of candor, nursing my pain and heartache alone as I always have. I am human. Fallible. Imperfect. Flawed.

But I’ll keep going.

Everyone’s your friend until they’re not.

In the end, we all die alone.