I read a review for a book that intrigued me and checked it out here in Virginia. Within a few chapters, I found myself filled with dread...a much more emotional response than I ever remember having to a fictional story.
On a fairly ordinary day, a woman is abducted by a stranger and taken to live way up in the mountains. Her identity is taken away. Her success and career no longer matter. There are many new rules governing her life now. She ends up having a baby with her abductor and is tormented by his treatment of the frail child. Though there are moments of calm and sometimes enjoyment in her captivity, they are few and quickly erased by the horror of her new reality. She seizes an opportunity to slay her abductor and flees. In the process of rebuilding her life, working with a therapist as well as the police who are trying to figure out all the details of the abduction, she discovers that her life was not what she thought it was. There had been break-ins and previous attempts to abduct her, which she had dismissed at the time. Her boyfriend had been unfaithful with her closest friend. Family members had worked against her professionally, tearing her down. But the worst was her discovery through the police investigation that her mother had set up the kidnapping. Unforgiveness for a childhood mistake as well as jealousy and competition were the reasons behind this horrific betrayal. As she's being taken away to jail, the mother insists that her daughter drop all charges to protect her name and reputation. The daughter walks away.
Yikes. Obviously my story is different. But there are many similar elements.
In several chats I've had with a close friend whose husband left her, a startling word came up several times. Numbness. I know that word too well.
In my experience, there was so much conflict, discomfort, lack of agreement and upheaval from the time of the wedding that eventually I shut down. We couldn't walk into Walmart without an argument breaking out. He insisted on a purple shower curtain (his favorite color). I acquiesed but protested when he wanted a dark green trash can for the bathroom (his second favorite color). They didn't look good together. He claimed that I was already limiting his creative freedom. What about what I liked or wanted? I primarily cooked Asian style food with a lot of vegetables, and he suddenly claimed an allergic reaction to all things soy related. From food to recreation (football season took top priority in all activities) to how I looked, there was constant pressure to yield to his way. He hated my shoes. He made disparaging remarks and yucky faces when I put on make-up, especially my signature red lipstick. My belly ring disgusted him. And there was the refrain comparing me to his sister... The two of them had a private club. Inside jokes, telephone calls at all hours of the day to discuss the most mundane details of their day, making plans for the two of them with me as a tag-along. My first time in NYC (their hometown), we spent the day going to obscure places so that his sister could get chicken wings and fulfill other whims. Along the way, they pointed out that Broadway was a block over or that Central Park was across the way... I was promised shopping but somehow there never was time for it. Even after I slipped down subway steps, the aimless walking continued until the evening when we ended up back at her apartment. I was in too much pain to walk up the four steep flights of stairs, so they left me in the car for over an hour while he "quickly" looked at something on her computer. All this the first few months of marriage. But the patterns continued.
(Almost twelve years later, I still have not seen any of the sites in NYC though we've been up north numerous times. He wanted to take our daughter into the city, but I said I had to get the tour first. Again and again he wanted to take her for a visit to his mother's and into the city - my stipulation stood. He never planned a trip for me. Finally, I agreed because I didn't want her to miss out. This year, a promise to take our daughter to Paris popped up out of the blue. Another trip that will never be except that I will give it to myself.)
Tired of the fighting and wanting to feel a part of a family, I tried to become like his in order to be accepted. A few years ago, I finally came to the realization that I'd never be "in" and stopped trying. The criticisms were always going to come no matter what I did.
The numbness is kind of similar to the Stockholm Syndrome to me. When you get worn out and down by the stress and discomfort of the circumstances you're in, you have to find another way to cope. You convince yourself that perhaps the other way isn't so bad. Maybe the treatment will be better if you go along with it versus fighting against it. But doing this makes you numb. It robs you of your autonomy. As a living being, things can be buried for only so long before surfacing. Waking up in your life, as jarring or uncomfortable as it can be, is good. Being a full participant, cognizant and honest are necessary. I've missed the vibrant me that surfaced for brief periods before going back under the gloom. I like her. A lot. I've missed the curvy, spunky girl that hid for years under the weight of unhappiness and neglect. I'm not afraid of living anymore. I'm no longer apologetic for being expressive me. I'm a goofball. Romantic. Both practical and whimsical. I like sparkles and dressing from different eras. False eyelashes and bright lipstick. I'm quiet and reflective, passionate and fiercely loyal. When the weight started coming off this January (60 pounds as of now!), I recognized the long-hidden me again. And I must say, I think she's lovely.
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