This post was inspired by mystery thriller novel The Expats by Chris Pavone. Kate Moore sheds happily sheds her old life become a stay at home mom when her husband takes a job in Europe. As she attempts to reinvent herself, she ends up chasing her evasive husband's secrets. Join From Left to Write on January 22 as we discuss The Expats As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.
The following post is an excerpt from my upcoming memoir, working title--Sweet Lonesome Journey to be published in 2013.
My precious Mark
and Sims, ages ten and thirteen, walked me down the aisle of a packed Central
Baptist Church to start the wedding of my dreams and the marriage of my
nightmares. Moisture filled eyes followed us to the altar. Everyone celebrated
I had found a young, good-looking professional man because they also had
watched and prayed as I lost Bart to cancer. I irrationally thought two and one
half years amounted to enough time for my grief—which verifies out how grief
cripples your judgment.
The gorgeous
wedding ended and the marriage began. I accept full responsibility for this
huge marital mistake. However, I do wish to note for the record, no family members and only one friend voiced misgivings about this
match. Even my therapist later apologized he had not noted the signs of –what?
Mental disorder? Dysfunctionality? Woundedness? All of the above? And that’s
the part related to Dan. My part in this colossal mistake? I underestimated the
psychological healing I had yet to do. At this point, I remained clueless
concerning damage I still carried from childhood wounds. I didn’t know the work
that still lay ahead of me. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.
Shortly before the
wedding, my groom-to-be commented, “Your friends seem to think of you as being
very sexy. I’m not comfortable with that.”
“No kidding.” I
replied. “Did you think you were the only one on the planet who had noticed?”
The warning gong
should have clanged with concern over his unhealthy attitude about sex,
relationships and more, instead, his thinking ticked me off. This constituted
the beginning of my daily urge to say to him, “Do you have applesauce for
brains?”
On the honeymoon
when he brought up issues he had not mentioned in a year and half of dating—all
issues related to his need to control me, such as what I wore, where I could go
and who I could be friends with, my stomach knotted in fear. My expression in
all the honeymoon pictures looks like I’m gritting my teeth. I was. He assured
me he just found it “necessary to rake back the glitter” when confronted with
someone who shimmered like Brenda. I replied, “You’re doing the job with a god
damn backhoe, not a rake.”
I repeat—I offer
no excuse for my part in this gigantic mistake. Devastated by Bart’s death and
desperate for emotional security, I thought I found a good man. A college professor who attended
church, had two sons of his own, Dan shared many of my values and desired the
kind of home life I wanted for my boys. His issues with sexuality and
obsessive, irrational thinking escalated from the honeymoon until the day our
divorce finalized. I learned an important lesson about myself from this
marriage: I had very low tolerance for someone who needed to control me in
order to feel safe himself. Circumstances necessitated I become my own
authority at an early age, he didn’t stand of chance of controlling me in my
forties. I also learned I didn’t have enough relationship skills to bridge the
psychological divide between Dan’s dysfunction and my own.
