Chapter Four
Reality and Agreements: Suturing the Heart
“If the new clan fails to ‘see’ you, do you really cease to exist?” — Metaphysical Quandary
“No one can change the path that you must go. The time will come around when you know that it’s yours. Maybe there’s a chance to go back … home … now that I have some directions.” — “The Wiz”
In 2007, I converted virtual reality into Real Time Manifestation. Once more I walked down the aisle and pledged marital vows.
As my family and friends stood on the sidelines witnessing my Whirlwind Romance, they had every right to be astonished.
At age 55, already a grandmother and at the point in life when people start to hang out the Resignation shingle, had dear sweet Becky Ruff gone off the deep end?
Yes, I had.
I threw myself into this new relationship as if I was love-and-sex-and-marriage starved. I was.
But: how could I be falling in love again?
Or: why? How could anyone except me understand that I was determined to prove to myself once and for all that it was possible to have a lasting lawful romantic relationship?
I viewed this marriage as perhaps the last chance for some lust before the door slammed shut or any option at all dried up. I was free at last (I thought) to create that sacred bondage of fantasies with nothing and no one to stand in the way.
Maybe the real reason for landing this Fresh Catch was simply because I had something more to learn. I am a firm believer in the Law of Attraction. As Einstein says, it’s all about frequency (frequency of sex, love, marriage, etc.).
I’m glad I followed my hormones. What I finally came to understand was that not only did I have the power to create whatever I liked, but also that with the mere blink of an eye, my choices could alter my realities.
Bottom line: We design our life experiences in order to allow us to choose our outcomes. The greatest highs and lows are derived from those impetuous stirrings of the soul that are often referred to as “personal development.”
That, dear reader, is wisdom either hatched from maturity or too many failed relationships.
Let it Begin!
As if I’d conjured my Gentleman from a wish list sent into the ethers—POOF! He appeared… and like the overseer in a Shakespearean play, I declared, “Let it begin!”
There I was, center stage in a typical TV drama top loaded with crises, only mine were real and not resolved after 90 minutes as a “happily ever after” with ample time out for commercials.
I’d always had a fear of heights and now suddenly I found myself falling headlong into a field of dream-dust with a man I hardly knew yet who I was convinced filled every one of my desires.
Some formulas are made in heaven and others for reasons that remain unrevealed until activated. One of these is the Disaster Formula. Start with two extended families with different belief systems and the normal amount of dysfunction (translate “plentiful with potential for more” when adding a new spouse to the mix).
In my case, from the male side, add a bipolar spouse with a bipolar step-son and demanding mother-in-law in a wheelchair with Attention Deficit Disorder.
From the female side, add my two lovely daughters, one of whom is a single mom experiencing post-partum depression, and two adorable grandbaby boys.
Then there’s me, or the me I thought I was: age 55 and determined to squeeze my robust middle-aging mindbody into a Hollywood cross between Doris Day and Mary Poppins. Before this marriage started, I could confidently describe myself as smart, spunky and well-educated, with lots of sunshine and common sense.
My Man
Let me pause here to brag about “My Man,” delivered with the same emphasis as in the musical, Porgy and Bess. He is not only intelligent, charming and witty; he is also handsome and virile. Montana stock—strong in many ways, a jack of all trades, and kind. I go weak in the knees when he flashes his open smile, his ocean blue eyes shining with warmth and awareness—and a hint of a storm brewing.
Picture My Man in jeans and tee shirt with tussled hair when he removes his outside-work baseball cap. Not only is he smart; he also has integrity and compassion for others. And he’s a good listener—for me, that’s important. He lets me talk without turning me off.
I guess you’d say I’m a solid kind of gal, the type who’s always willing to grab a hammer to help my male counterpart tackle household chores, work on vehicles and put up fencing.
To my great relief, photos of my man’s past relationships and wives produced no competition whatsoever. In fact, they more-or-less resembled a photocopy of me: normal Wal-Mart shoppers or the invisible woman checking out your groceries, taking movie tickets, offering bakery samples at the supermarket, etc.
“Dreamy” is one typo away from “dreary.” We started with the “m” version as we launched into that ideal courtship that I’d always craved. I felt valued, loved, even cherished, and didn’t hesitate to reciprocate with my own contribution of joy and abundance. Both engines were running on hi-octane.
Unlike My Man’s extended family, I had very little left; my parents had already passed away. They were living in the Southeast when my dad died and my mom, who died a couple years ago, chose to remain in that area to be near my brother, his family and her extended family.
My mom was born on a farm and had joined the Marines during WWII. My dad was a corporate executive, also from the South. As his wife, my mom was the quintessential corporate wife—articulate, charming and gracious.
Both were cultured, educated people who embraced the spiritual, holistic way of life. My father loved the English language and relished the power of both written and spoken word. My mother was a pianist who took syntax and mind expansion to the next level, applying its abstractions to her musical renditions; they were a good match.
Through the years as the obligations of their corporate lifestyle increased, they started to medicate their stress with alcohol. When my brother and I were in our teens, they decided to enter AA.
My parents’ alcoholism must have demonstrated to me what I did not want in my life. I steered clear of substances, including all drugs with the exception of a few prescriptions.
The Sex Thing
My dad threw himself into his work and, to my mother’s great disappointment, the passion that was left over was delivered not to her but to his love for learning. My mother, like I, believed that an active sex life was the cornerstone of a happy marriage.
My mother never gave herself a chance to find the Holy Grail and now she’s gone. That meant it was up to me to find it for both of us.
With my new Man, I seemed to be on The Trail at last. From the first day our friendship advanced to an intimacy and we started to explore the pleasure of each other, the sex was good. I was more than willing to overlook the rest… whatever that was going to look like.
So… What DID It Look Like?
Maybe it all started with a honeymoon that was over almost before it began. That weekend seemed to represent everything that continued to go wrong between the two of us.
Some people honeymoon for a couple weeks or at least a few days. Our post-wedding celebration was scheduled for a night and a day. That was it, and I didn’t complain because I realized that My Man had gone to great trouble to rearrange almost everything in his life to even get that amount of time off from a new and hectic work schedule and ongoing family demands.
He’d found a place where we wouldn’t have to wait for the blood tests and I’d arranged for the hotel, license and minister. On the way to the blood place, my solar plexus started doing the butterfly thing… I was as nervous and skittish as an adolescent on her first date. All of this was so romantic and exciting! I was young again and here I was with the Love of my Life, about to create that One and Only Night to Remember!
After a four-hour drive, we arrived at the hotel in time for a lovely dinner. By that time, My Man was already beat. He fell asleep soon after a picturesque walk on the lakeside where I’d managed to take a hard fall on the sand, ending up with a badly twisted knee and a lot of pain.
Was there a reason for this, I wondered, lying awake all night next to my soon-to-be husband, peacefully and deeply asleep. No sex and a painfully twisted body part?
The next morning we drove to the courthouse and parked by the lake where the minister met us for the ceremony. Directly afterward, we headed homeward. Tomorrow was a work day.
That was it, I kept repeating to myself. My romantic honeymoon was over. I would still live at my own home, two and a half hours away, for about a month.
This painful, loveless night landed at the top of my tally sheet. In place of butterflies was rage, remorse, regret—and disappointment. My Irish blood boiled over and I let loose. A “Ma chasing Pa with the fry pan” comic strip was nothing compared to Becky Ruff-now-Reed venting all her pent-up frustration on her dumbfounded groom.
These tirades did not fall on deaf ears. As I said, My Man is more than willing to listen to others. Bless his heart, I now realized he really did want to make me happy but for some reason he felt that both of us had probably explored the sexual arena so fully in previous relationships, it was no longer necessary to give it much testosterone in this new one. This was evidenced by the fact that he’d thrown himself full-force into his new job. All that precious sex-energy was traveling to the office with him every day where he spent overlong hours and drove home in the wake of a trail of phone messages.
Is this the way it was going to be from now on? Maybe not, I told myself resolutely. Whenever I had a chance I continued to discuss with My Man my need for ROMANCE. Hello… are you there? Earth to Moon? Can you understand my version of the English language?
I soon became convinced that a partner can be an excellent listener, hearing every word, and simply not get it. Did he understand what I really needed, regardless of my age or number of times I’d walked down the aisle with others?
I craved closeness, to be touched and held… to be told “I am the only one,” etc., etc. I asked and kept asking, and…
Finally I Got It
The first excursion of Togetherness and Private Time, “just the two of us,” was a most exciting prospect. We both loved adventure and now we were going to combine that love with the other one and explore a wonderful new experience of fly-fishing. New for me but not for My Man.
He’d gone fly-fishing many times before, but this was a first for me. I was oh so eager to learn how to do it, especially since it was a sport that My Man, former partners, Mom & Sons had already enjoyed together. I longed for my own memory bank to add to theirs.
It must have been joyful for My Man to have a “buddy” to join him in the walk around the lake, I thought, my heart beating rapidly in anticipation of what would inevitably follow.
The trek took us into a swampy mire. Obediently I followed, letting myself be led by My Man through muck and mud that was soon up to my thighs. On we trudged in the hot sun for about a quarter of a mile. By this time my arms, neck and head were covered with welts from hundreds, no thousands of mosquito bites.
Once more as on my honeymoon night when I’d twisted my knee, the tears came freely. Why couldn’t this New Life be romantic and beautiful… and mud-and mosquito-free, I sobbed.
Next…
My Man understood, or so I thought. Next he told me he was going to take me river floating with inner-tubes, another first for me. Oh my, this did sound exciting and romantic!
Ahh, my outdoorsman! My Man was so skillful, so accomplished in areas where I’d had so little experience. To my credit were the Indiana Jones and Temple of Doom river crossings I’d done with my girls, but these paled compared to river floating with My Man.
Once we were in our tubes, however, instead of bliss I received a seemingly endless series of lectures about all the things I was doing wrong. My experienced husband tried to correct the way I paddled with my arms, the way I didn’t always catch the current with my feet pointing downstream; fussing at me for allowing myself to be caught in the directional flow of the current, and for failing to sit right in the tube.
I fought back my tears of frustration and hurt. Was this his idea of fun? “The concept of fun eludes you and your family, doesn’t it?” I finally yelled out.
Never had I felt so much like an old horse that had already been put out to pasture. How could I ever expect to be re-harnessed to a working team?! I was already up to my neck with all the lecturing and “not good enough” I’d received from both his mom and dad.
I hadn’t yet recovered from all those mosquito bites and my bout with the mud, and here I was once again made to feel “less than.” Enough! I sobbed.
What made it even worse was the fact that I was already well-schooled from reading and listening to personal growth books and tapes that it was not they but I who was making myself into a victim.
I felt like I’d just pulled out the plug of joy from my own inner tube. Here I was going flat and drowning in self-pity, disgust and anger.
Actually, all of this wasn’t far from the truth. My Man ended up about a mile down the river from me and before I knew what was happening, I found myself whipped around by the current and heading straight toward a fallen tree.
Without warning, the current yanked me under and into the branches of the tree. My Man had told me to watch for that, hadn’t he?!! As I became enmeshed in the branches, I had no choice except to let the tube go; instead of keeping me afloat, now it was pulling me under. With the current blasting my body, I struggled to get a foothold and felt myself growing cold and tired. Instead of wearing a tee shirt and cut-offs, foolishly I’d put on a swimsuit and now most of my body was cut, bruised and in pain.
By the time my husband reached me, I’d managed to become untangled from the tree, but I was so shaken and frightened, any notion of “fun” had vanished. That day I contributed many tears to the river. I was sore all over and feeling terribly sorry for myself. Yep, I’d got what I’d asked for, I mourned.
And Next…
Following this upset in the river, my mother-in-law started calling me several times a day to inquire when I might be well enough to take her and her wheelchair to her therapy sessions and various outings.
I can say now with warmth that she thought I was a coupon from God. Back then, however, I felt pressured to meet demands that had become almost unbearable. She assumed that her son’s salary allowed free time for me to cater to her needs.
BLEEP! Can you hear the quiz show error button going off? Apparently she was unaware or it didn’t seem to matter that I was supplying half the income for our union, as agreed upon prior to tying the knot. Is this all I am to these people? An ATM machine and chauffeur?
On the last excursion when I’d been transporting my mother-in-law to a beauty appointment, she decided she could guide me more easily once we were in the vehicle rather than giving me the street address in advance.
During the entire drive, she made sure I understood that the shopping center where we were headed was on left side of the highway. As we approached the area, she began shrieking, “Turn right! Turn right!” It’s a good thing I’m fast on the brake and steering wheel and no cops were around.
Two days later I told my mother-in-law that I was planning an intimate evening with my husband because his work schedule had been so hectic. When that evening arrived, my mother-in-law sent her other 45-year-old son to our home to spend the night with us because we had a “better bed in the spare room.”
Here is where I made the classic mistake of getting angry instead of simply and quietly saying no.
This woman was manipulating “my” new marriage, I sobbed. Notice the adjective, “my” when describing the union. I’d already expressed my anger earlier when my mother-in-law had attempted to have me befriend my husband’s ex-wife, whom she adored, along with a few other friends who had “special” relationships with my husband.
Next mistake: In tears, I complained to my husband, who, like everyone else in the family, sided with his mother. After all, she was an invalid.
Was it Wrong to Want Privacy and Togetherness?
I’ve already introduced my new mother-in-law, at least episodically. A strong matriarch who had convinced her sons that her life had been filled with obstacles, she was demanding, strong-willed and judgmental (wasn’t I all of these, too?).
She and her husband had owned and managed a restaurant/bar and they were also involved in other jointly owned family enterprises.
Now that she was confined to a wheelchair, occasionally a walker and motorized cart, “Mom” routed her drives and energies into directing others. She felt that both of her grown sons and their spouses needed to reserve ample time in their lives to cater to her special needs. I didn’t hesitate to voice my objections.
The physical injuries that had started on the night of our honeymoon “weekend” introduced me to continual day-to-day living with some level of pain. Every member of the family had been diagnosed with at least one disease or ailment that required medication.
Because of my own family’s beliefs, transmitted to me at an early age, that something must be off-kilter for this type of physical pain to be occurring, I realized that I was witnessing a classic case of family dysfunction.
I felt so out of place and was so desperate to be accepted as “one of the clan,” I began to wonder if maybe I’d created my own set of injuries just to fit in. First the knee sprain followed closely by the accident with my entry level inner tube river floating experience…
Nope; joining the Meds Clan didn’t do it either. I was still treated like an outsider. Added to this were “Mom’s” tales of her expertise in fishing. She informed me that not only was she a sports enthusiast; she was also a successful entrepreneur and constant companion to her sons during the growing years.
How could I even begin to qualify as a buddy for My Man? I was such a failure…
We were also forced to weather some financial crises precipitated from my spouse’s generosity to previous partners when he’d cosigned vehicle loans and trusted their tax preparations. Bank levies, over-optimistic purchases for the new house and legal emergencies with the alcoholic step-son added to the drama. My spouse had anticipated that his income would provide a comfortable base, but often I found I had to not only match but often exceed his contribution.
Balancing Act
Late night hours and relatives of this new family who were themselves struggling with life’s upsets sent me reeling. My stepson’s aunt on his mother’s side was the first piece of baggage dumped at our doorstep.
According to my new husband, “Susie” was “cute as a button.” She did know how to push buttons, although I’m sure those were not the ones he was referring to. Susie, who was just going through a nasty divorce, had an ugly temper and habit of getting drunk almost daily. Our telephone answering machine overflowed with her “lascivious boy-toy stories” climaxing in seductive hints to my husband and finally, suicide threats. I called the local police, since that seemed like the “right” thing to do.
Apparently it was not; after all, Susie was overflowing with the adorable gene and didn’t need the police involved in her suicide attempts. My temper flared and I suddenly found myself becoming everything I found detestable in this woman and others who were button-cute and/or manipulative and out of control.
Susie was the classic example of an abandoned woman and I was reflecting my own fear of being abandoned by my new husband. Whenever my temper flared, the simplest look from my spouse would send my heart skittering. The unspoken script I was sending to my heart was “why did this man whom you so love really marry you?”
Why was my new husband so forgiving of Susie’s alcoholism? Possibly because he’d been on the same treadmill himself during his early years. Did that allow him to enable his son “Todd,” as well? I didn’t think so, but I was not his father and “Todd” was not my child. However, I had begun to see a core of goodness in the young man which he rarely attempted to cultivate.
“Todd,” who had chosen to medicate his bipolar disorder with alcohol instead of prescription drugs, was a full-time maintenance project whenever he was home. In the evening when his father was at work—my husband worked long hours—my step-son would invite bar acquaintances to his burn pit in the front yard. It was difficult for me to set parameters, especially since I was still considered an outsider and deeply afraid of rejection.
My Family or No Family
My husband and his family members dominated our holiday gatherings with their traditions, and felt hurt when I wanted to alter these to encompass my small family’s customs. His mom was used to my husband acting as a short order cook and staying in the kitchen.
My girls were used to having mom act as a banquet chef and hostess, making the rounds on holidays. “Todd” and other family members took over TV rights. My clan was accustomed to playing music during the feast, with the men retiring to the den afterward for their football. Now there was only one channel choice for everyone: theirs.
Time seemed scarce for the two of us to be “just us” as we acclimated ourselves to our new life together. With my husband’s grueling work schedule and round-the clock calls from co-workers, I felt stifled and lost.
When I don’t have enough sleep I’m not pleasant to be around; is anyone? That still didn’t excuse my nasty attitude. With as much strength as I could muster, I gathered all my inner forces to try to recover that lively, loving “me” that I honored and respected.
Attempting to explain my upsets to my spouse never ended well. The answer to my lack of cooperation or feelings of not being good enough was a standard: “Menopause is your problem.”
I don’t do well with labels and categories. The generic catch-all statement “she’s in menopause” brought up all the Irish in me, especially when it became a mantra for any type of divergent behavior I exhibited, including the expression of belief systems that differed from theirs.
Since I’m not yet “over the hill” and even if I were, it would seem ludicrous to blame any type of disagreeable belief, thought, behavior and attitude on a woman’s “menopause,” the first comparison that comes to mind is telling an older gal she’s “handsome”!! Or telling a short woman that she’s “cute” or “perky” followed by, “It’s okay to be short.”
I realized that the authentic reason for my upsets occurred from feelings of estrangement. In retrospect I’m aware that only someone who is insecure would feel that way. Did I really need their approval in order for me to feel good about myself?
I felt powerless to slow the spread of this chaos. My frustration, fear of what my life had become and feelings of being an outsider along with my growing financial worries made me feel like a screeching shrew and fishwife gone mad.
My Irish temper roared. If I could distance myself I knew it would be raucously funny simply because all I needed to do was take a stand. Why was I so unwilling to do this? Why did I feel so committed to playing the role of victim?
Now let’s get down to facts
I knew I wasn’t quite what my husband had expected. Just as important: I was an easy catch. I’d come to him with too much willingness.
Men are hunters and adventurers. They like to work hard at getting the right woman in place even if it turns out to be the wrong one after all. Without even being aware of it, I had removed that challenge from his list of needs.
For the adventurer, courtship could take several years, but I didn’t have several years; I had only NOW. And to my dismay, once the brief and highly unsatisfactory honeymoon was over, that was it. No romance, no great love relationship… just Life as Usual.
What was I thinking? What was he thinking? His mom was quick to fill me in on My Man’s romantic shortcomings that had apparently caused previous relationship breakages.
We did not dialogue; we argued. In retrospect, I realized we had never really had a single in-depth conversation before getting married. Both of us were too busy listening to ourselves. How did we manage to think someone was on the receiving end? Maybe because we both like to talk and explore ideas. Also, My Man has an amazingly powerful affinity for plants, pets, and children; our sunroom looks like a mini-Amazon forest. I never realized, however, that my attention wasn’t focused on him and the plants, pets and children, but on me and getting my needs met.
Talk to Me Already
I’m reminded of Michael Crichton’s Sphere when I describe our communication challenges. “Earth to Moon, Moon to Earth: are you there?” We were like visiting explorers from vastly different planets.
“Of course we need time to mesh, honey,” I’d smile sweetly at My Man after yet another blowup, “as long as we do it NOW.”
Directly before we were married, the first edition of Romance Stew was published. What amazing manifestation, I crowed after meeting My Man shortly on its heels. Talk about the Law of Attraction! In the book I had described my lengthy search for romance: connection with the right amount of testosterone to make it happen the way it does in Hollywood.
The thesis of this book, as you the reader know by now is that we assume there is only one viewpoint or perception: our own… forgetting that the man or woman of our dreams may not share or even know what we’re talking about. We are a One Person Act.
My husband said he’d read my book, and I was delighted to assume that he agreed with my perception of an ideal relationship, with the requirement of ROMANCE at the top of the list. At last, a man who understood and agreed with me about all the ingredients that were necessary to create a delicious and nutritious “romance stew”!
I was ecstatic.
The Other Shoe
Soon after we were married, My Man admitted that he’d only read part of my book. The other shoe had just dropped.
I now realized more than ever before that our belief systems were radically different. He and the rest of his family did not believe that our thoughts create our beliefs, actions and deeds. Self-empowerment was a foreign concept.
My list of unacceptable continued to grow.
1. I demanded answers and clarification whenever I got upset about something that didn’t make sense to me.
2. I refused to let problems rest.
3. When finding love notes from past flames (How dare he have other women in his life before me?), I would blow up. Of course that was unreasonable, but I longed to be the Most Important Woman in His Life. Why wasn’t I getting some of that passion that was described in those notes by women who were expressing their gratitude?
4. Why did he suggest I keep these matters to myself?
5. Why did I have to be outside with him hammering together a fence when I longed to be at my computer hammering on the keyboard?
It was time for a therapist; we signed up for a joint session during which we communicated with each other openly and honestly. We expressed that we both genuinely liked each other, and the only disparity came when the therapist suggested that my husband needed my help with his mother. She also correctly assessed that I was not keen to undertake a role of caregiver at this particular point in time.
Upon leaving the office, my husband and I recapped what we had learned about ourselves during the session. To my surprise, my husband “heard” that the lack of desire to assume the role of caregiver for his mom could be “fixed.”