The words from then, and now:
For this entry, I will let the words of my journal from that time and observations from now tell the story.
September 5, 1995
We had been seeing a counselor for some time….my husband and I were locked into a struggle we didn’t understand. We sensed there was something going on underneath the obvious issues, but it was elusive and hard to see…
In looking back, the biggest place of conflict usually came up around sex. I wanted it, he didn’t. Which isn’t totally true. I suspect that in most couples, there is no doubt one who is more interested than the other, and they work it out.
But at that point, I just couldn’t understand that. Men were always supposed to want it. After all, looking back, my father was always after me. Here we were, husband and wife, in a healthy place for sex, and yet my husband WASN’T pursuing me. What was wrong? If he didn’t, then that meant he didn’t love me. And by extension, I was no good. So I tried more creative approaches, more focus on methods…everything, and all it did was polarize us more.
What I can understand now is that sex wasn’t the problem. It was the symptom of something else driving it all, and actually driving us apart.
Having been abused all those years, the one message that I had internalized without realizing it was that the most important measure of “love” was sex. And so, by extension, the most important thing in a relationship had to be sex. So I pursued it, reveled in the fact I finally had a “normal,” marital relationship, and I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to always make sure that was paramount in our attention.
To him, it felt obsessive. Where he saw a myriad of ways to be connected emotionally, I was just focused on one. In fact, he complained one time that trying to connect gently and offer a “mothering” love to me was like trying to “mother a porcupine.”
I couldn’t understand. I was offering total sensuality. He wanted that “feminine,” emotional connection. To me, raised to disparage the feminine and honor only the “masculine,” I interpreted his reactions as disinterest and thus, a rejection of me. All I wanted was to finally revel in a regular, appropriate sexual connection. And he wanted…emotion?
This is not to say that all of the problem was on my side. And he will admit that it wasn’t. In any seemingly intractable problem, both bring something to the equation. But it was a knot that just kept binding tighter and tighter. Both of us were hurting, frantic, angry, and clueless as to how to fix things:
The fight was the build-up of several weeks of tensions…we knew we had issues, we were “working” on them, and at some magic time in the future, all would be well, though the “how” it would get well was some mystery shrouded in fog…We just assumed that one morning, it would “happen.”
Instead, one supper time, we nearly parted ways for good. He questioned if we could get through this, and maybe it would be better if he just left. He was angry, frightened, and agonized.
Terror shot through me when I heard him question if we shouldn’t just give it up. It seemed to me we were so close, and if he would just hang in there and chip away at his issues, we would finally get past this…
But right now I was scared to death. The idea of having him actually leave and not come back made my stomach knot, and I was almost nauseated. My insides were literally shaking – I couldn’t conceive of life without him. I knew this was wrong. He was my soulmate.
As an aside, I will note two things before continuing. First, the fact that I considered this all HIS issues demonstrates my own lack of awareness of what MY issues were bringing to this problem. And second, despite that, I *was* deeply committed to making this work. I BELIEVED in us and that we were supposed to be together, even as I had no idea how to fix things. It may have taken me a long time when we first got together to let him in behind my walls. Once I did, once I committed to him, it was for good, and I didn’t want to give up.
To continue with that night:
He was angry at me, angry at himself, ready to give up. He had his men’s therapy group to attend, but as he was leaving, he seemed beaten, ready to quit. At that moment, our son started in on him for something, and that was the last straw. Ed raged out to the car. I followed:
“Are you coming home?”
“I don’t know anymore. I’m not sure.”
With that, he left for his meeting.
Back inside, our son was glued to his TV show. I was crumbling rapidly into a million pieces. I felt terrified, empty, angry, sure it was over, and was consumed by a tremendous wall of dark emotions. I wanted to call someone, but there was no one. Who could help? Not my family. Not any friends. I NEEDED a mom who could hold me, guide me, love me, help me feel safe, and instruct me as to how to proceed. But I had no one. Instead, my insides roiled, terror mounted, and I couldn’t think…it was like mental tetany – so many thoughts going so fast, everything seized up and froze.
I went to my room where I could pound on the bed, and wail, and my son couldn’t hear. As I pounded on the bed, crying, I demanded that the Universe tell me why this was happening. I didn’t want to lose the best friend I had in life, and the best thing that ever happened to me. Our marriage was meant to be, of that I was certain. Yet it was going down the tubes, and I felt helpless to stop it.
I pounded out every last drop of fear and rage until nothing was left but a feeling…a tremendous, empty giant hole in my soul, a horrendous, huge sense of “alone” and sadness, and I started to sob. Wrenching sobs that came from deep within my gut, and just kept pouring out.
Finally, it quieted. I went over to my dresser, where I kept this picture of “God” that I always found gentle and comforting. Don’t ask me why I had it. I was so angry at God. How do you relate to a deity you begged to save you from the abuse, and got no answer? I hadn’t gone to church in a long time. And I rarely ever even spoke to God anymore. Yet I still hung on to this picture. The only one I’d ever seen of God looking caring and soft.
I went over to the picture and just started yelling at God.
“What do I do now, God?! And don’t give me some subtle signal!!! I want a g-ddamn BURNING BUSH!!!!
As a side note, a friend, when I shared my outburst, looked horrified and said “You talked to God like that?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, I answered, “I think that the God of the Universe is strong enough to hear one tiny human yelling at Him.” And I let it all out that day.
I yelled to God about how much I hated Him. And why hadn’t He ever answered my prayers through all those long, lonely, awful years of abuse and humiliation? Why did He let my spirit get killed? And now, when I finally had a good man, and a chance for happiness, WHY WAS HE NOT HELPING?!
That’s when Mary stepped in.
In my sorrow, it finally came clear that all those years, I’d had no mom. I still didn’t. And what I craved more than anything at that very moment was a mom who could hold me in her arms, love me fully, unconditionally, and with strength that would keep me safe. Yes…FEMININE strength, not Dad’s kind, that would make me whole and reassure me that to be soft, vulnerable, feminine, wasn’t weak or stupid, but took guts and strength. ANYONE can be macho. Few have enough guts to feel their feelings and risk being soft.
I sobbed and finally begged Mary to be my mom. To please come hold me, make me safe, like I’d never been safe or loved in my life.
“Please teach me how to change, help me, and love me, and help me save my marriage. I don’t want to lose my husband or our marriage. They are the biggest gifts of my life….PLEASE….”
And she came.
Quietly, softly, probably as she’d always wanted to do, but couldn’t until I asked….she needed to be allowed close. I closed my eyes and saw myself being comforted in her arms, being reassured I was good, I was worth being mothered and cared for. I was filled with a sense of safety and peace. She whispered it would be alright, then told me to get on the phone and call my husband at the men’s group.
I wasn’t sure what to say, but she gave me the words when he came on the line:
“I love you. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I want to make this work. Please, PLEASE come home.”
I told him how much I’d felt the lack of any female contact or help in my life, but I would join a women’s group, or whatever it took. Bonding weekend, whatever.
It didn’t turn around right away. We had an even worse time the next week when things erupted again, and this time he stormed out of the house, into the car, and peeled out of the yard. This time, I didn’t call his group because this time I knew it was his battle to work out, and he had to make the choice to stay, himself. I couldn’t beg.
But I went back to Mary for help, to hold me, and help me say the right things. I told her I wanted her son’s help, but couldn’t go to Him. God, being male (my view at the time), was just too much for me to approach Him. No more male. So I asked her to help me, and poured out my angers, fears, and terrors to her. She listened, didn’t say much. But I felt her presence and help.
When Ed returned later, he was a transformed man. He had embraced a power within him. He told me he was doing his work at his own pace and wouldn’t tolerate any pressure from me. If I didn’t like that, it was too bad.
He seemed surprised when I congratulated him for standing up for what he wanted. I told him I supported him. We were able to talk things out. That night was finally a turning point.
After that, I joined a women’s therapy group, and… I kept talking to Mary. I even started saying a rosary now and then. It had been years. And where it was always done as an obligation in church or school, now, it was almost a “meditation.” I had a mother again. It was a way to talk to her.
Again, a side note. While I am no longer Catholic, I will note that many spiritual paths have a form of “Mother or Compassion goddess.” For Catholics, that is Mary. And she was the anchoring figure for me, those early years when I would go to Saturday confessions. So it made sense for me to reach out to her in my adult despair. Though I didn’t know it at the time, that image of a compassionate mother would revisit me in a new way, very soon.
For now, we had work to do to bring this crisis back from the edge, and a pivotal way presented itself about this same time.
Soul Mosaic 
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