The Compulsion to Tell
You will, after several drinks, whisper the secret of your private pain. Your first words may be only an allusion or broad hint. Eventually bolder, more direct words will follow. For a moment, you will have tricked yourself into believing that revealing this life disaster is as natural as giving a report of an impending rain shower or thunder storm. Or worse yet, you will have tricked yourself into believing that your story's recipient will somehow understand your pain and have just the right words to alleviate the awful feelings.
The almost irresistible impulse to tell will strike when your defenses are down. It is likely that you will pick an acquaintance at a party or some other gathering fueled by expensive flavored vodkas or the best Oregon Pinot Noir. You would find it hard to tell those who love you and have recently congratulated you on your successes. You imagine the look of disappointment and disillusionment in their eyes. You imagine that they may censure you, or tell you that they've been worried about you. You imagine that if they show you too much sympathy, you may fall into their arms and ball like a baby. Better to tell an acquaintance.
Maybe, you imagine, the compulsion to tell will result in a volunteer. Someone will stand up and say "I will shoulder your grief and anger. You are free." Or maybe the story's recipient will heartily laugh and robustly declare that she has had exactly the same experience. She will then reassure you that, in only a few short months, everything will be completely fine. Or maybe someone will volunteer just the right words to reframe this private disaster and cause you to suddenly see everything in a completely different light. The visions and torment will cease, because now it all makes sense. It was meant to be, and you can now make it part of your history and rebuild a better life. You want more than understanding; you want the right words.
My mother taught me silence. She bore her pain and anger without dignity, without pride. She simply bore it. We, her children, saw in her a helpless martyr, a quiet woman who suffered from terrible asthma. When she fixed her hair and makeup, she talked to herself in front of the mirror. She had no one to confide in. We knew that when life got tough, mother would pretend that everything was all right. We knew that mother would cover her private shame and anger. Mother knew how to feign a smile. It's still her worst trait. Occasionally, overcome by a terrible asthma attack, we would drive her to the hospital where she would lay under an oxygen tent for several days until she could breathe again.
We would never be like her. (Already, my daughter says she will never be like me.) We, her children, just knew that we could do it better. We had healthy self concepts, we said, and were a lot smarter. She wasn't privileged with the kind of education and resources we had. Besides, she was bound to a code and system that stigmatized a woman who tried to break free. We would never endure such anger and pain. We wouldn't be entrapped in silence. No woman should live with a bastard who breaks her heart. We knew all about life then.
I didn't tell Diane; Missy did. Her response startled me.
"The crazy bastard," she spit out, "I'd kill him."
We all laughed real hard and ordered another round of drinks.
"Yeah, but he's so adorable," Missy smiled, "let's let him live."
A half hour later, he found us in the bar and gently chided us for missing the opening act. Leaning over my chair, he tenderly kissed the back of my neck. He knows how to charm. He knows my every vulnerability and plays me as lovingly as the new black Stratocaster at home.
I was uneasy about the music. He was starting to stay out very late. He said he needed time after practice to just hang out and bond with his new band mates. He had found the ideal musical collaboration in Renee. He was in love with her songwriting. He admitted it, but quickly added, "Don't worry baby, I can separate the woman from the music." At Gayle's party they played an impromptu set. Lost in the passion of their shared music and with eyes locked on each other, he played with her as if they were the only two people in the room.
Our new beginning couldn't unravel. In the last month, we had settled in and I was more in love than ever. My leap of faith was solidifying into the contentment of living with the man I love. In a whirl of passion and pleasures, of struggle and resolve, of doubts overridden by an abiding and growing belief in each other, Joseph and I had bravely plunged into the shark infested waters of partnership. We married his musical talent and Italian bravura to my grounded, philosophical intellect; his playful passion to my more introspective reserve; his sense of order and structure to my freewheeling ways. We found in each other an almost boundless passion for the other. Most nights, in his arms, I was lost in the lush garden of his love. This is what I had longed for all the dry and barren years of my first marriage. I told him I could never imagine any other man touching me as he did. Our lovemaking was sacred. "For me too baby," he replied.
I began to suspect the worst. I eavesdropped on a telephone conversation. I couldn't hear her end, but heard him say, "And blow all this – no way." I could no longer believe his denials. I wouldn't accept anything less than the truth. I postured; I bluffed. I led him to believe I knew all. He finally confessed. It was more of a blow than I had imagined it would be. It was awful to realize that his incredible sexual energy was fueled by the fantasy of another woman.
I am not myself anymore. I am suspicious and insecure. I am very, very anxious. My habit of smoking a few cigarettes a week grows to a habit of chain smoking in the garden. A glass of wine in the evening turns into a bottle. We both drink and smoke and fight. My jealousy is irrational; I am going out of my mind. You tell me you never really loved her. You say you don't know how it happened. Our therapist tells us you compartmentalize your feelings. You try to console and reassure me, but my grief is like a river that just keeps flowing. You are the most self-centered bastard in the world, but I love you and refuse to live without you.
At first, I was stunned. I didn't cry. My instinct was to protect our integrity and to protect our children. I desperately wanted to gather you all in my arms and hold you. I was afraid to leave the house. I didn't see the threat as something coming from within us, but rather something from without that could shatter our domestic security. I would be there to protect us. I wanted to hold us together. I spent weeks in constant and anxious vigil.
We can't come undone, we're a family now.
I have strength and dignity. I can keep my mouth shut. Slowly the shame and resentment creeps up on me.
I smoke so much that I can hardly breathe. A latent asthma that has rarely bothered me develops into a full blown threat to my health. I lie to my doctor about smoking, and struggle to find a medication that will open my air passages. I can't sleep when you go to practice or to gigs. Instead, shivering in my bathrobe, I sit smoking in the garden. You say you will give up the band, but I know it means the world to you. You call her sweetie on the phone and tell her that her songs are sacred. I feel sick when I watch you playing with her. My anxiety turns to depression. My sadness turns to anger and resentment. I want to hurt you. I do. Finally, you tell me you no longer look forward to coming home. These words are too much for me to bear. We have struggled for seven months with our pain and I am exhausted.
Now I live with a regret tempered by relief. The regrets are mostly in the small things he asked for. I wish I had removed my earrings before bed. I wish I had slept naked more often. I wish I had reached for him more often and kissed those broad shoulders that I loved so much. The relief is in finally admitting that I could no longer go on. The affair was only the outward manifestation of something deeper and ultimately more disturbing. There is also relief in the knowledge that the sorrow of my loss is more productive than the paralyzing fear and anger.
I am beginning to understand mother's silence and sense of shame. Maybe you cannot tell anyone. You will feel empty and somehow a little degraded if you do. Or maybe you will feel inappropriate. The recipient of your secret will always say, "How awful, I couldn't bear it. I would leave." You will feel more isolated after those words. You tell yourself that they are wrong. You tell yourself that the human heart has endured much worse. There are things that must be lived, must be endured. The compulsion to tell is an attempt to restore order, to make sense of the senseless, to test a strained and surreal reality against a perceived norm.
Sometimes I think about the ways my children's sense of safety in life will be shattered. How can I prepare them? Recently, my mother said, "You come from a family of tough women; you will make it." I always thought we were a family of stupid women who put up with too much crap from our men. I see that I will take a stand for fidelity, honesty, and high integrity with my children. I will also tell them that regardless of their integrity, they cannot always be sheltered from devastating heartache. I want to say to my children, be deeply centered in
the good you are for this world, do good and meaningful work that fulfills you, have a network of loving friends to support you through all of life's joys and trials, cultivate a spiritual practice, and lastly, when the blow comes, I will be there to hold you and tell you that the women in this family are survivors. Although I know that often there are no words that can stop a heart from breaking, I will search for words to salve the wound. I will search for words to give you hope.
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AUTHOR NOTES:
Cynthia graduated from Marylhurst University in June 2005 with a B.A. in English Literature and Writing. She has been accepted into a graduate program for a Master of Arts in teaching at Lewis and Clark College. When she finishes graduate school, she hopes to be sharing the joys and challenges of writing and literature with high school students. Cynthia is the mother of three teenagers, an avid cook who loves to read about food and a beginning weight lifter.
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