I married the perfect man.
Narcissistic, mysogenistic,
Emotionally stunted.
Entitled, withholding, passive-aggressive.
(But enough about me.)
Naturally his outward-facing persona was that of the “good guy.”
(It was truly crazy-making.)
I, of course, was last on his list of priorities:
The Buildings, The Business, The Buddies, The Bike, The Boys (our three sons),
And, last and certainly least…
The Bride.
(More or less in that order.)
I, in turn, played my part to perfection.
For twenty years I buried my head—
And my heart—
In the sand,
Settling for emotional crumbs,
Desperate for a bone,
Any bone.
On occasion he did throw one or two my way,
Thus keeping me perfectly hooked.
I took the bait—
As well as the hook,
The line,
And the sinker.
And, boy, did I sink…
I was addicted, I was hooked.
He was the perfect drug,
My perfect drug.
I convinced myself that crumbs do make a meal.
(All while being emotionally starved.)
My perfect marriage enabled me to avoid my own demons,
My feelings of unworthiness,
My inner void,
My lack,
My shame.
By focusing my thoughts and energies on my perfect husband,
I bought myself years of avoidance and distraction.
Because, let’s be honest—
Who the fuck wants to grow up?
Who wants to look at their own shit and take responsibility?
It feels way more satisfying—and safer– to hold others accountable,
To let them take the reins, the responsibility.
The blame game feels like a sure winner.
I wanted (desperately) to believe that the “White Knight” was real—
He would be coming to rescue me
and set me free any day now.
A perfect fairy tale, yes?
My perfect husband did, in fact, rescue me.
He played his part to perfection.
He abandoned me emotionally and physically,
perfectly mirroring my own self-abandonment.
He neglected me perfectly,
As perfectly as I had neglected myself.
He demeaned me,
but no more than I had demonstrated I would tolerate.
Did he love me?
I don’t think so.
Did I love me?
Probably not.
My perfect husband taught me (or at least reinforced) everything I now know about allowing emotional abuse:
How to dim down and dumb down,
How to succumb to the pathology of “gaslighting”–
By assuming others’ perceptions are more accurate than my own,
How to over-give,
How to self-abandon,
How to say “Yes” when I wanted to say “No.”
I put his oxygen mask on before my own.
(No wonder I felt asphyxiated.)
I sank and I sank—
Deeper and deeper
As I drowned myself
In my perfect marriage
To my perfect husband.
There was no air to be found.
My marriage and its accompanying drama became the perfect, albeit undesired, magnifying mirror
Into my inner self,
Forcing me to face both old and new wounds—
Many of which had remained unaddressed,
Untended,
And subconsciously bandaged over for years
As I blithely moved through the paces of my life.
When my perfect husband moved out for the fourth time
(Yes, fourth),
I was jolted out of my fairy tale,
Out of my castle in the sky
(Which had become a deep, dark dungeon
where “gaslighting” was the only light available.)
I was given the perfect opportunity to put an end to the charade,
This parade of emotional abuse
And psychological neglect.
Healing, of course, is hard, hard work.
Addressing long-neglected wounds and ripping off old scabs and bandages hurts.
And…
It is healing.
And…
It is freeing.
My perfect marriage ended in the perfect devastating—
and necessary– divorce.
I was given the perfect opportunity to rebuild my self-esteem,
To get to know myself,
To learn to trust myself,
To become the heroine of my own story.
To become Bionic—stronger, wiser, surer.
I was given the perfect opportunity to show my three boys
That a marriage of power struggles,
Of dominance, withholding, and neglect
Is not what love should look like.
That growing up is not so bad—
And that there is light, real light.
And real love.
(Which I have since found.)
My divorce, you see, was the perfect ending
To my perfect marriage.
I did, indeed, marry the perfect man.