Getaway Car, Part 2
I have made two great escapes in my life. These were from relationships and the other people involved in them. One was temporary and remains one in which boundaries are somewhat possible.
The other is permanent and has only grown in toxicity. The why of increased animosity despite zero contact I do not know. In this relationship, boundaries were and still are meaningless. They are not acknowledged, understood or respected.
The best year of my marriage was the last one, the year of separation. Our youngest was still in school and lived with me. Her father came over for supper a few nights a week. We played games and watched TV shows together. There was no animosity and no bickering. For the first time in my life, at 47, I was finally in control of my own physical body and what happened to it. I was in control of how I spent my time, how I spent my money and how I slept, ate and breathed. This was a heady, happy time for me. Finally, no conflict and no obligation to manage any of his emotions, reactions or crises.
The easy times came to an end a year later when he came over to watch a show that wasn’t available on his mom’s (where he lived) cable package. Though we were divorced by this point, I didn’t have any problem with this. I had been watching the show too so we just watched it together. After it ended (and a few drinks), though, he suggested that we go back to the bedroom together.
“You know, Renée, just for one last time.”
I had less than no desire for this. Besides, just one week before, he stood at my kitchen counter and pompously disclosed that he was in a relationship, suggesting it was someone I knew. I stifled a laugh and cut him off.
“None of us need to hear any further updates on what you do with your [genitals]. Most everyone we know has been overwhelmed with way too much knowledge about your sexual behavior. Most of all, our family. Take your silly, planned announcement and go home.”
I felt a pang of guilt when I saw how this comment deflated him. I was baffled that he would care at all what I thought of him and his life. His years of immoral and deviant behavior when I did care had burned out of me any measure of reaction to anything he did with other women. There was just nothing left in me to care anymore.
These two encounters were further, though very unnecessary, confirmation that adding “ex” to “wife” was the long overdue, right move. That he had propositioned me after revealing that he was in a “committed” relationship told me he had not pursued growth and healing in the wake of divorce. Rather, he had chosen the next easy mark. I didn’t care who or what she was. I was the only person on earth who knew what she was in for.
Since my divorce, my experience with men has been much more positive, even when I’ve had to repeatedly express my wishes or tell someone to lose my number. Standing up for oneself really works when you know how and have the confidence to do it.
Prior to my divorce, though, my experience with men was very problematic. First of all, it simply extended too far back in my life. I was far too young when I was first faced with sexual acts and intimate involvement with men. This led me to conform too easily to their influence, needs and desires. Though it seemed normal at the time, I shutter at how susceptible I was to advances or suggestions and comments about my appearance. Responding and complying was part of my concept of polite behavior; reconciling those tendencies and behavior with my faith in the word of God was a painful burden I believed I deserved to bear alone.
For me, marriage seemed to be a fitting arrangement in which I could bury my shame and guilt over the abuse from prior years. Now, I surmised, I had a reason to hide behind when I receive unwanted attention from men. At times, I may have appreciated that attention given that I was so bored and unfulfilled in my marriage. Nevertheless, any calm I felt being married was solely about it shielding me from other men.
As it turned out, marriage became a place for further exploitation. It was subtle in the beginning and not always sexual but it and my awareness of it were never concealed. There is one incident which my mind goes back to which ought to have been the wake up call I needed to remove myself from the relationship before marriage. All it did achieve, however, was to make me cry which was (and still is) rare for me. It confirmed my convictions that I could not and should not speak up about things that happen to me which scare me or make me feel shame. It also landed squarely on my foundational belief that I was a bad person who would receive no help if I asked.
I met my ex-husband at college when I was 19. At the time, he was a heavy pot smoker. Without asking how I felt about it, he smoked on our second date. This was my first experience being in close proximity to illegal substances. I had friends in high school who I knew smoked pot but most of my time around them was at school or school activities so I was somewhat insulated from being around it. Just being around someone who I knew possessed marijuana was terrifying to me. My dad worked for another state school which gave me a hefty discount on my tuition. Were I to lose that, I would have to leave school. And I very much did not want to leave school.
For all my lack of innocence in some areas, I was very, very sheltered in other ways. I was so afraid of the consequences that I did something I very rarely did - I confronted him about it. I told him I wasn’t comfortable with it. As he stood on the balcony of my apartment packing his one-hitter, he said, “I understand. I don’t have to have it. I’ll take it all to the river tomorrow and throw it in.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t feel relief or joy or respected or heard. I felt confused by not being yelled at for having an opinion. Very confused but I allowed myself to feel a bit of relief from my (admittedly uninformed and reactionary) concerns about being arrested, going to jail or other consequences I only had movie-type perceptions of. Anything I felt, though, was short-lived and based on faith I should not have had in him. A few days later, we were sitting in his apartment when he pulled the very same one-hitter from his pocket and lit it. So it wasn’t in the river after all. This time, I said nothing.
I continued to say nothing. I even went so far as to try smoking with him. I hated it. I hated the smell, the smoke, the brain fog - it all felt so lazy and gross to me though I admit that that may be more attached to how I felt about him in general than about the drug itself. To this day, catching a whiff of smoke from a passing car or as I walk past a building brings to mind weak, lazy, and pathetic would-be men. I know that is not an accurate association but it is what my mind offers up. For this reason, drugs have not, are not and will never, ever be a part of my life.
A few months later, he mentioned buying a larger amount. He usually bought a dime or quarter bag at a time but he had recently heard of a guy who was selling ounce bags of “really good stuff”. I heard this line so often that I quickly realized it as a cliché and concluded that ‘really good stuff’ was really nothing more than your average, garden-variety stuff.
“We’re supposed to go pick it up next week,” he said.
“I don’t want to go,” I said.
'“Don’t worry about it. Nothing is going to happen.”
“Still, I’m scared.”
“Whatever,” he said and I thought I was off the hook. The next week rolled around and we drove around listening to music after dinner.
“Hey, we’re going to stop by that guy’s apartment, okay?”
“No. No way. I told you that I don’t want any part of it.”
“Listen, I need your help. It’s a bigger bag than usual. I bought one of my leather coats for you to wear. Before we leave the apartment, I want you to put it in the breast pocket to go out to the truck.”
“No. You aren’t listening to me. I don’t want to.”
I started to cry. I hated all of this. In retrospect, I know how ridiculous my fear and panic sound but there was so much I didn’t know at that age. This is where my stunted emotional development came into play. I was raised to be helpless and voiceless and I truly didn’t know how to do any better. I believed my role in life was to absorb others’ behavior and control my reactions to it. Mitigating the damage to myself was my secret endeavor. Most of what I knew was indeed built on a foundation of fear and survival. To this day, I am amazed that, on this occasion, I fought back.
“It’s better this way. You have boobs so a lump in the jacket won’t be noticeable. I need you to do this for me.”
What?? I have boobs but not two different-sized boobs. A sandwich-size baggie full of anything would be easily perceivable on my 110-pound body. Not overly so but still, I hated his ridiculous logic. For years after, I would fight the temptation to punch him in the mouth until he stopped saying such nonsensical, ridiculous things. I hated…hated…having to be subservient to someone so far beneath me in character, logic and intellect.
“That’s stupid thinking. You’re forcing me to do this and it’s not right.”
I was infuriated that he was, in effect, planting a large amount of an illegal drug on me in case justice came our way. This incident was powerful foreshadowing to the decades we would share together—I often became the means to acquiring or achieving something he wanted but was too afraid to pursue on his own. Whether it was career advancement, getting out of things he didn’t want to do or talking someone into giving him something, I am very ashamed to say that I contorted my own behavior to ease the way for him and largely kept silent about my disagreement, disgust or embarrassment. For a very long time, I smiled and assented out of survival and fear of reprisal…which was usually sexual and very painful.
This time was exactly that—I let my protests fall silent.
“Just stop being dramatic, Renée. Just do what I say and everything will be fine.”
I, feeling small, insignificant and with no one to call for help, said no more. We went into the apartment and paid $185 that could have been put to much better use than for an ounce of happiness for him and punishment for me. It wasn’t a quick visit. As was customary, he and the seller shared a sample smoke before the exchange was made. Once it was, he yanked open the jacket that enveloped my small body and roughly shoved the bag into the pocket. Tears came but I swallowed a pitiful yelp as my spine absorbed the sudden impact. I knew this pain, this show of force, was a payback for my insolence.*
I didn’t vow to never do it again. I vowed to do it better.
Doing it better initially, and for a long time, took the form of long periods of silencing myself. With periodic moments of rage and protest, of course…because I’m human and not an impervious dumpster for unregulated emotion and bad behavior.
Eventually, though, I found fitness.
The short version of the story is that my brother built a climbing gym. My overweight then-husband joined to lose weight. I became intrigued and joined to gain muscle. With three months, I was studying to become a personal trainer. From there, I found road running then trail running then rucking.
It is the last that arrived at exactly the right time to fast-forward my work in talk therapy by serving as highly-effective exposure therapy. It was in the rucking community and events that I saw what many men really are—cheerful, respectful and respectable, hard-working and fair. I signed up for event after event to see if this new outlook on the world would hold.
It did then and it does now.
It was such a perfect and appropriate way for me to be around and get to know hundreds of men from places far and wide and from all walks of life. It was a place that healed my heart and helped me find true confidence and belief in myself. It was the first place I truly felt I belonged. That belonging has led me to finding belonging in many other places, just as I and everyone are intended to.
Quite literally, I rucked my way out of the mindset that kept me in my hellish marriage. Then, I rucked into the one that would build the future I wanted. It wasn’t always linear or easy but I didn’t need it to be. I needed direction and a means of travel. Rucking gave me that.
In fact, rucking was so effective, so transformative and so grounding that it came to be THE catalyst for who I would become and for the future I defined for myself. To this end, it is my relationship with rucking and the mindset shift it required that is the topic of my first book.
Stay tuned for more.
*The very best part of this story is what became of that bag of marijuana. The week after the purchase, we returned to his apartment after class to find that his cat had found it. She had torn it open and dragged it around to the point the drug was strewn throughout the kitchen and living room. Not surprisingly, he was not one to open a door for me and let me walk in first. Being behind him allowed me the opportunity to be unseen as I threw my hands in the air for a silent cheer.
As he began screaming at the cat, I moved to open the pantry door so she could hide there. For most of the next hour, he crawled on his hands and knees looking for and picking up what he could find of his prized purchase. I watched him, once or twice pointing out a piece to show just enough compassion for his plight to avoid being an additional focus of his rage. Only when I returned to my own apartment later did I allow myself to walk around laughing and smiling for hours.
Looking back, I can easily see how my childhood, which taught me to forgive and forget any horrible behavior that was directed at me, led me to stay with—and make a lifelong commitment to—a person I knew full well would not protect me from anything, most especially himself. It remains so to this day. This story convicts me of my storied habit of burying my own humanity in order to attempt to manage the emotions of those who do not do so for themselves.
I do not do that anymore. I hope to lead the way for many others to stop doing the same.