I met my husband when he was a college freshman at San Joaquin Delta College, the community college a block away from where I lived with my parents and older brother. I was a high school senior at the time; homely, awkward; a dreamer, but always a follower.
I used to look out of my window in the early mornings before school. Sometimes I’d catch him running in his black shorts, blond hair flying, breath puffing out in clouds of steam in the chilly air. Sometimes he would see me at the window and smile and wave. Eventually, before I even knew his name, I began to fall for him.
When I finally gathered the courage to go and talk to him, I stuttered terribly. He smiled reassuringly and asked me if I’d like to go running with him sometime. I never had much of a knack for athletics, and running the mile at school back in sophomore year was more of a source of embarrassment than anything else to me. But of course, in my dazed state, I agreed. From that day on, I ran in the early mornings with him before school. At first, I would stagger after a running a few blocks and he was go slower for me, always adjusting his pace to set mine, always offering a few encouraging words.
Sometimes, I would sneak out of the house to go on walks with him. I always dreamed of holding his hand, maybe make it look like an accident, but it was by some coincidence that on each walk we took together, the hand that was closest to me always held a cigarette. I pretended not to mind, and when my mother asked me why I smelled of cigarette smoke, I shrugged and told her that I did not know. I shrugged off the worried glances that she sent my way increasingly often.
A month passed and one day he kissed me on the cheek.
Another two weeks passed, and we began to go out.
Things moved quickly with him, and he was always the one who took initiative. He was always the one who made the decisions. First kiss, first alcoholic beverage, first cigarette. What movie to see, where to eat, what to order. But through it all, he was always courteous and sweet and quick to apologize whenever he sensed that I was upset over something that he did. He was so shrewd that it was impossible to hide anything from him. It never occurred to me to share my dreams or thoughts or desires to anyone, but he always saw them in me. Sometimes he would stroke my hair, eyes closed, and whisper, “You are full of stories. A storyteller who doesn’t tell. You have the gift.”
I listened to whatever music he listened to, and perhaps out of similar tastes in music or perhaps out of forcing it into myself and forcing myself to believe in what I wanted to believe in, I started to like the kind of music he listened to. John Coltrane. Billie Holiday. Charlie Parker. Miles Davis. It was always jazz for him. Pretty soon it was always jazz for me.
I thought of him almost as a God. I worshipped him and trusted him with all my heart. When my friends began to hint at his infidelity, I turned away from them and never spoke to them again.
The only person in my family whom I initially told about my new boyfriend was my older brother, whom I was exceptionally close with ever since we were young. Much to my delight, my brother and he soon got acquainted and seemed to get along quite well until one day when my brother surprised me by warning, “Don’t get too close to that guy. He’s bad news.” What did my brother know? He smoked pot. He drank beer. He was either doing those two things or drawing some stupid artwork. Listening to dubstep. I ignored him and continued my near idolatrous adoration for my boyfriend.
After my mother found out about him, she was enraged. A foreigner! A community college student! But I stood up against her, for the first time, and she saw that I could not be changed. However, she continued to grumble and shoot him disapproving looks. She hated how long his hair was, how he smoked, but this was before I formally introduced them. She quickly became charmed by how polite and thoughtful he was. All of her ill feelings against him dissolved after two years when he finished his general education courses at San Joaquin Delta; when he got accepted into Emory University as a Creative Writing major.
I dropped him off tearfully at the airport and had a hard time squeezing “have a great time in Georgia” out of my throat as I hugged him tightly. He held my hands in his and promised to call me and send letters often.
My mother had fallen ill and I decided to, much to my mother’s disappointment, take classes at the community college in order to stay near home so I could take care of her. I got a job as a waitress at the diner near our house. When I was not caring for her or working, I was reading. When I was not doing either of those, I was making up stories in my head. They were my only escape out of Stockton. But they never made their way onto paper. They were never worth enough. Not worth anything to anybody. My father was working and my older brother had gone to the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena. I could not afford to go elsewhere to study. I was not qualified for any scholarships and money was in shortage. I had no desire to go abroad. I had no desire at all, no desire whatsoever but a desire for him.
Two years passed, and he finally came back to Stockton, California. I was much overjoyed to see that my boyfriend had not changed. He was the same sweet, charming, and witty boy. And as far as I could see, he loved me just as much, always showering me with sweet words and caresses. He was the only one I told my stories to, and he would always listen to me, eyes closed, breathing even. I did anything and everything he asked me to do. No questions. Sent me off with a kiss and I willingly went.
Years passed and we decided to get married. When the day finally came, everyone invited was able to attend the wedding but my older brother. This did not bother me much, despite how much I loved him. I decided that I no longer needed him.
As his wife, I was no less intoxicated with him than as his girlfriend. I was bothered by his frequent leaves, but I brushed my uneasiness away and allowed myself to forget and be happy when he came back home and showered me with apologies and sweet words. Those sweet words. He had a way with words. If he wanted to.
I was still working as a waitress and he was working as a writer for magazines. Short stories. My income was not close to enough to support us. His was not stable. But we argued rarely, mostly because I was so quick to agree to every little thing he proposed.
We rented a small studio apartment with one bath, one bedroom, and a living room in which he had his laptop, desk, and lamp. I would find him working late at night on his novel, fingers typing away and eyes staring intently at the screen. Sometimes he would rub his hands together, lean back, and groan at an obstructing writer’s block or at the discovery of a plot hole. I checked on him often and would put my hands on his shoulders, squint tiredly at the computer screen, and tell him not to push himself too hard. I would bring him coffee, maybe some food.
Sometimes he would ask me to read over what he wrote. Despite my lack of a degree in anything to do with literature, I served as his little editor. I pointed out what could be improved. A little this, a little that. Sometimes we would brainstorm ideas while in bed. Maybe this character should be introduced like this. Don’t you think she should be a little bit more fiery? Let’s have her character develop, maybe make this point in the story significant to her growth. How about a shapeshifting mansion? These were the moments I spent with him that I liked best. He would lie on his back, hands clasped on his chest, his eyes closed, his breathing even. His voice would be low and soft. But he never looked at me. His eyes were always closed, whether because he was too tired to open them or because he simply thought more clearly when he couldn’t see anything.
In the mornings before work, I would lay in bed and look at the soft golden hairs on his shoulder against the early morning light. I would thank God for him and get up, leave a cup of coffee on the counter for him when he woke up, and close the door quietly behind me, always smiling. The luckiest girl in the world.
He always bought my birth control pills for me and placed them on the nightstand next to my side of the bed. It never occurred to me not to take them, with those pills next to me like that. I always assumed that he just didn’t feel ready for kids at the time. We weren’t financially stable enough. But when I mentioned children, he gave me a long, hard look and shook his head. “Sorry babe,” he’d say. “I’m not ready.” And I’d drop the subject and lock it away in the back of my mind where it lay, gathering dust, with all the other thoughts I had hidden.
A year after he finished writing his book, after so many rejections from so many publication companies, and after so many small changes to the plot, it was finally offered to be published. Suddenly, all the severe scrutiny dissolved. They said they loved it. Said it might get big. Another half a year, after the contract was worked through and everything the publication process was taken care of, he was asked to go on a book tour. He agreed without hesitation.
*
I was in the shower when the phone rang. I let it ring as the hot water ran in rivulets down my sore back, my tired legs, my red skin, rough skin, work worn skin.
It went on ringing as I stood under the shower head. It finally stopped. Now the answering machine.
“Hey, it’s me. Call me back ASAP, kay? I need to ta-”
I was already out of the shower, running to the phone, and I picked up the phone, gasping.
“Baby, I missed you! How are you doing? How’s New York? I hope it’s as beau-”
“Slow down, I need to tell you something.”
My heart was still pounding in my chest and water was dripping from my hair and pooling in a miniature pond around my feet. I clutched the phone to my ear and ignored the goosebumps that were starting to rise on my arms and legs. His voice, his voice!
“I met this girl-”
My heart stopped in my throat.
“-she’s here in New York, and I’m sorry but I’m going to file a divorce. It’s over.”
My throat tightened and squeezed my heart back down into my stomach.
“Look, I know it’s really sudden and I’m sorry about this, but I’m faxing the papers and everything, I just need your signature. You can keep the apartment and I’ll return soon to get some of my furniture, kay?”
I heard someone giggle in the background. I heard him say “Hush, babe, I’m trying to talk, kay?”. His voice sounded muffled. He must have covered the handset just enough to be polite, but just not enough for me to not hear what he was saying.
His voice came back clearly.
“Just do that for me, will you?” Silence. I tried unsuccessfully to swallow the lump in my throat. “Thanks, you’re a darling.” He hung up.
And that was that. I couldn’t help but imagine what was happening over there. He was probably turned to his new girl and smiling that reassuring smile of his. “I told you it would be easy, didn’t I?”. And she would giggle and nestle her head in between his collar bone and chin. He would put his arm around her, pull her close, and smile that he no longer had to deal with the plain waitress in Stockton, California. The nobody.
I couldn’t help but wonder what she looked like. Beautiful, probably. Even rich, perhaps. Educated. Charming. I suddenly felt grateful that the mirror next to me was fogged up. I didn’t want to face myself, my pale, naked body, the scar on my upper lip from the surgery I had as a child to fix my hare lip, my sparse eyebrows, my crudely shaped nostrils, and the way they were located on the sides of my nose and not underneath it, as though God had a temporarily blinding allergy attack while he was making me.
My heart punched my stomach. I wanted it to punch my face as well.
What was the color of her hair? Either way, her hair was probably glossy, that’s for sure. She was probably a lot better in bed. Fun, smooth, seductive. She was probably a great companion to parties. Stunning. Witty. Always laughing and saying the right things at the right times. No awkward silence with her. I imagine his arm around her waist as he proudly displayed her to his friends. As he never did with me.
Still, I found that I could not hate her. I found that I could not hate him. And I found that I could not do anything to get him back. Not because I really couldn’t try, but because I didn’t have the guts to do it. And I hated myself for that. All I could do was stand, dumbfounded, holding the phone in one limp hand while it impatiently emitted the disconnect tone. Empty sound. The puddle around my bare feet had become quite big now.
I was cold, naked, helpless, and lost.
How could something so big happen like that? We had lasted for so long. We were married. And now it was all gone, cut off by the sharp knife of a two minute conversation in which I had no say. There was no rain outside, no sad piano music playing, no tears, no fighting. But I knew the answer. I could not fight, I could not stand up for myself. I was a dreamer, a follower. A silent sufferer. I realized how smart he was for choosing me, and how he never cared for me at all. He only cared for himself. And I only cared for him.
I found myself thankful that I still had the apartment. I bit my tongue as a punishment for being so easily satisfied, even after what he did to me. I tasted blood. How could I be so stupid? And yet, despite of now being aware of my stupidity, I was not changed.
Everything was according to his plan, and I simply helped him to New York and as a trade-off, he made me believe that he loved me. But he didn’t. I was living in a dream and this was how he would wake me up.
But this meant nothing to me, and I loved him and I hated myself.
And when the puddle around my feet could grow no more, I climbed, numbed, back into the shower. I didn’t quite notice that there was no more hot water.
Afterword
The narrator of this story is modeled after myself. A more patient, more kind, more imaginative, more silent, more extreme version of myself. Plain, passive, trusting; making up stories, willing to please, desiring very little. The boyfriend who later becomes her husband who later becomes her ex-husband is modeled after two very close guy friends of mine, except I twisted them into one selfish character who is nine million times worse than both of my friends, who are actually very good people. I hope they don’t become offended.
I thought up the story while taking a shower. Yes, I was on my period, and yes, I wasn’t in the best of moods. I was feeling especially unconfident about myself and unhappy with my vulnerable personality. I wasn’t too happy about my body, either. Probably due to the fact that I hadn’t had the time to work out in a long time and the two pack I had worked so hard at had disappeared.
But now as I sit back in my chair and reread the story, I realize the greatest flaw in both the character and myself. The lack of self confidence.
The ending of the story would have been dramatically different if the girl, let us call her Lisa, had a bit more belief in herself. It’s quite obvious that her object of affection, let us call him Asshole, had used her talent and imagination to his benefit before throwing her away for a new girl.
Well, if Lisa had seen the potential in her own little stories, she could have been a published author. Probably successful. Instead, she puts all of her confidence into Asshole and he becomes successful. Finding that she is of no more use to him, he pushes her away and she allows him to without a fight. Because she accepts her inferiority.
In the beginning of their relationship, because Lisa shows Asshole how easily and silently and even gladly she is pushed around by him, he realizes that she is the perfect tool. Easily disposable.
After hearing of Asshole’s decision to get a divorce, Lisa immediately wallows in unhappiness how she, unlike Asshole’s new girl, let us call her Beverly, is plain looking. Born plain looking, specifically. And she believes that there’s no escape from that.
Now, I am a huge believer in the ability we all have to change our outer appearances. Attitude is everything. A girl who stands straight, emits confidence, and dresses with style and ease is more attractive than the same girl who slouches as if embarrassed at herself, and refuses to dress herself nicely because she believes that only beautiful people are worth decorating. Lisa was chained to the post by her own idea that she could not change herself because she was born homely.
People have the power to change the situations they are in. They have the power to change for the better. If they have the hope and belief in themselves to do so.
So come on, believe in yourself! If you fall, get right back up, figure out what went wrong, fix it, and step back on the stage. Enjoy yourself while you’re at it. You’re beautiful. You can do this, and you won’t take shit from anybody.
Anonymous asked:
