Chapter 45
August 1989
I
slid down slowly, my back against the wall, onto the bare, cold concrete deck of the ship. I didn’t pay much attention to anyone crossing my path; there were many traveling in and out of the bathroom. My period began earlier in the day and I was already feeling sick. The constant rocking motion and the dampness in the air made it worse.
We were on the ferry on our way to picturesque Nova Scotia for our honeymoon. Peter had taken care of all the honeymoon arrangements and expenses. As avid bicyclists, we had brought along our bicycles, ready for our weeklong adventure.
The euphoria from the wedding was fast fading from memory.
Our honeymoon, excitement and all, would begin the following day, but it was hard to visualize – I was so caught up in my own misery.
Life is like a ferry. Often it sails out of the harbor smoothly. As it travels further out to sea, however, it runs into the unexpected. Doldrums – water so still you get restless. Fierce storms – huge waves that take you under. Pirates – attacks that hold you prisoner for the time being. Our destination may seem like a hopeless dream, but if we keep our eyes and mind set on the land, we eventually get there.
Chapter 46
Fall 1988 – Senior year
I
n my high school yearbook, I listed “Whatever” as my favorite saying.
If I expressed an idea and someone disagreed with what I said, I would respond with, “Whatever.” I avoided conflict at any cost by placing others’ opinions before my own. If I was asked what I wanted, I would respond, “Whatever you want is fine with me.” Surely others had preferences, and I didn’t want to be too demanding.
“Whatever” to this. “Whatever” to that. My opinions stayed with me, always. My thoughts remained my own, always. My feelings were kept hidden, always. I was easy to please, or so everyone thought.
Peter was frustrated, however. Making decisions was very difficult for me. For instance, when asked which restaurant I would like to eat at, I was adept at shifting the decision back onto him, and we would end up going where he wanted to go. I brought up the issue in therapy.
“Where is Deb? Who is Deb? What does Deb like?” my therapist challenged me.
“I don’t know,” I said. A tear rolled down my cheek.
As my fifty-minute session neared the end, he reached for a book on his coffee table. He held out for me to see. I looked at the title:
The Missing Piece Meets the Big O
by Shel Silverstein.
“Have you ever read this book?” He asked.
“No,” I said. “I’ve heard of the author though. I think I read some of his poems when I was in middle school.”
“Good. Take the book home. I want you to read. Bring it back next week, and we’ll talk more.” Our session was over; he always ended our hour precisely on time.
I walked out of his office, out of the building, onto the parking lot, and opened the door to my car. As soon as I flopped into the front seat, I opened the book to the first page.
“The missing piece sat alone…”
I flipped to the next page, “…waiting for someone to come along and take it somewhere.”
1
I finished reading the entire book, which only took me a few minutes. Then, I read it again. And, during the next several days, I read the book who knows how many times. I even went to the bookstore to buy a copy of my own.
It was so simple. And so true.
I realized that my life could not be “whatever.” I mattered. My thoughts and opinions mattered. My preferences mattered. My life must be whole, I must be complete – independent emotionally – before I could expect to become interdependent relationally. Peter and I would grow only as I became my own person.
My life as the selfless daughter, the easy-going friend, the timid student, and the self-sacrificing person was really no life at all.
Therapy – and a simply powerful book – had begun to open my eyes to the life I wanted, life as it could be. And, as I later realized, life as God intended. A rich life. An emotion-filled life. A life to be shared fully, without pretense, secrets, or “whatevers.”
I wanted this life. Yet there was still so much I needed to learn.
1
Shel Silverstein, The Missing Piece and the Big O (New York: Harper Collins, 1981).
Chapter 47
Fall 1988
D
id your mom ever follow through on her suicidal talk?” my therapist asked.
“While I grew up, no,” I said. And, then I remembered: “She attempted suicide once.”
“She did?”
“Yes. It happened when she was twenty-one.”
“Tell me more.”
“Mom was unhappy. She was having a hard time at home, so she moved out and lived with a Deaf couple. Her life continued to be miserable, so she decided to end it by swallowing a bottle full of pills. She blacked out. The couple found her on the floor, and they called in an ambulance. The next thing Mom knew, she was in the hospital, still alive. The pills she swallowed had been pumped out of her stomach.”
“So, you were burdened with the fact that she had tried it, and when she threatened about going into the garage, you knew she was capable of attempting suicide?”
“I guess so,” I said. I had not made the connection until now. “Yes, I was scared because I believed she could do it.”
I was so young when Mom detailed her attempt. I don’t remember the first time she told me the story. Perhaps it was when I asked about her wedding picture. This same Deaf couple who had found her blacked out was posed next to Mom and Dad. They had served as witnesses in the place of my grandparents who couldn’t (or refused to) attend. I knew this couple. They visited us once in a while. In fact, they were the ones who gave us our first dog – a beautiful black cocker spaniel we named Blackie. Or perhaps, the first time she had told me of her attempt was when she’d threatened to go into the garage.
Regardless of when she first told me, the truth is that for most of my life, I knew about her suicide attempt. I just hadn’t realized until now the impact it had had on me. Every time she threatened to go into the garage, I believed she would do it. After all, she tried it once; she could try it again.
Mom’s typical response to any conflict was: “I wish I could die, then I would be at peace.” Apparently, Mom had never learned to handle conflict or confrontation. In turn, she would make us feel guilty for her own anxiety over the conflict, manipulating us with words like, “I know you wouldn’t care if I die.”
I had unconsciously adopted her way of thinking and embraced her behavior. I would give people the silent treatment when I was upset with them. That was the only way I knew how to respond. When my friends fought, I became very uncomfortable. When my friends were hurt emotionally, they would work through the pain and move on with their lives. However, I would wish I could die.
But I learned. When emotions would overwhelm me during a therapy session, my therapist would ask: “What is the worst outcome possible in that scenario?” After several sessions, working through worst-case scenarios, I realized I could, in fact, live through it. I
would
live through it.
Both time and practice created greater distance between episodes. And after several years, I had finally been set free from my irrational thinking.
Chapter 48
Fall 1988
W
hy
he
was on campus that day, I don’t recall. What I remembered was our conversation in the parking lot, behind the Peet Hall dormitory.
“You need to talk to someone,” I pleaded. I was really concerned; he was still grieving. It had been over a year since I’d left him, and he was not doing very well.
“Like who?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling helpless. “Someone you can trust. One of your friends, perhaps?” I saw the value in sharing with someone – I had Peter. I also had just begun attending therapy. Seeing a counselor wasn’t an option, he said.
“There has to be someone,” I said, trying to think. After coming up with several names, I thought of someone – a friend of his who had moved to a different state.
“Maybe I could talk to her,” he agreed.
“Or maybe even someone from the psychology department at MSD?” I suggested. I figured that their policy would require staff to keep information confidential. At the time, I didn’t realize the complexity of our relationship; how the disclosure could land him in prison. During the two and half years we were together, I was mostly fearful about his wife finding out. I hadn’t considered that I was a minor and that it was against the law for an adult to be involved with a seventeen-year-old.
When we departed, he promised he’d talk to someone. And he did – both the female friend I had suggested and a staff member from the psychology department. The next time I saw him I asked if he’d talked to them, and he said he had. Talking to those two people had helped just a little. Then he told me he had written poems about his brokenness over the end of our relationship.
I must have asked to read them, because he sent me copies of them. One read:
Although we were
Worlds apart
We fell in Love
And stole each other’s hearts
Friends forever
Or so it seemed
Fell in Love
Because of our dreams
Afraid to touch
Across the hands of time
I was yours
You were mine
Somehow our eyes
Would always meet
Together
The hugs were extra neat
Happy
In the world we knew
Life was mean
Oh so cruel
Being together
You and I
I saw the feelings
Watched you cry
Walks together
In a mountain park
Hand in hand – heart in heart
Heart and heart
Good times together
Is what we had
Made me happy
Made you sad
So much together
The time we spent
Came so fast
Then it went
Happy together
And what’s more
Only you’ll know
I say at four
Walks by the river
Initials in a tree
Love forever
As it was meant to be
We left our mark
For the world to see
It stands alone
A single tree
So much pleasure
Being with you then
Will it return
I wonder when
The way things are
(guess they) were meant to be
Me alone
While you are free
Alone for now
For you have gone
Strong feelings
Love lives on
I Love Yous
Were always true
From the (young) girl I knew
A Lady grew
There were twelve poems. They were each typewritten on 8 1/2 × 11 paper and were bound with a cover page entitled: “What Can I Say!!!”
He had said it all. What could I have said? I have no recollection of my reaction to reading them, but I know I experienced several emotions through the years, all of which had come and gone except for one – guilt. And it stayed with me for a very long time.
Chapter 49
May 1989
T
he day I thought would never come had finally arrived. I walked across the stage in my graduation gown to receive my diploma, graduating
cum laude
.
But also, on my left ring finger was an engagement ring – our wedding was two and a half months away.
I had suspected Peter would propose on Christmas Day, but it was Thanksgiving morning when he slid the ring onto my finger. I wasn’t ready but I was making progress in therapy. I wanted an autumn wedding, but Peter didn’t want to wait. So we settled for August.
By the time I graduated, I had been in therapy for almost a year. With the wedding approaching, I was experiencing wedding jitters. As much as I was looking forward to being Peter’s wife, I knew we had issues that we needed to address. So I invited Peter to join me for a few therapy sessions.
My chief concern was the nature of our relationship – I was Deaf; he was hearing. All my life, Mom had drilled into me to never marry a hearing man. Her message was direct: hearing men could not be trusted. As always, Mom had stories to tell: The phone would ring. The hearing husband would pick up the phone. The Deaf wife would ask who called. He would inform her that it was his mom. He would chat and laugh for a length of time, in front of her. A few days later, another call. This time, it would be his sister. And his wife would be clueless that on the other end of the phone was actually his mistress. Another story: The couple would attend a gathering with mostly hearing people. Everyone would talk nonstop. The wife would ask what the conversation was about. He would say that it was nothing important and that he would explain later. Then, when he did, he would merely summarize the entire conversation in a sentence or two. She would feel completely isolated and left out.
Mom was not the only one who was concerned. Bridgetta also cautioned me. She meant well, and I must admit that I had given the same advice to others, but my faith in Peter and our relationship surpassed my fears. Nevertheless, there were Deaf/hearing issues that I wanted to address. I later learned that some of these were actually related to our roles as man and woman or our pasts. For example:
Music
. Every time Peter walked into the house or got into the car, he would automatically turn on music. I didn’t understand the value of music. As ridiculous as it may have seemed, I was jealous. I felt I had to compete with the radio to get his attention. When I wanted to talk to him or needed his attention, he was easily distracted.
Outings
. When we went out for dinner, Peter would order food for both of us. Since I’d assumed the caregiver/parental role growing up, I interpreted Peter’s behavior as paternalistic that I wasn’t “able.” I would ignore him when he asked my preference and proceed to tell the waitress myself.
Intelligence
. When Peter used big words, on papers or in communicating with others, it reinforced my feeling of inferiority. I was worried that I wouldn’t be good enough for Peter, and he would one day regret marrying me. Also, Peter always seemed to have access to information, and I was concerned that he would one day tire of filling me in.
Finally, I wasn’t the only one with baggage. Peter had also come from a dysfunctional family. He was the youngest of four, and his mother had married three times. The last time Peter had seen his biological father was when he was seven. Peter’s second stepfather adopted him and his three siblings. His new “dad,” also a divorcee, had served in the Vietnam and Korean wars. He was not able to express feelings other than anger. By the time Peter reached middle-school, he realized that his mom was an alcoholic, and he had to deal with her constant lying.
We had so many issues to work on. Our few sessions had turned into one year of work together. In the meantime, our wedding plans were underway.