Becoming Bridget: The Tragic Call of Nobility

***Melodrama Warning: I just watched the movie Becoming Jane and I'm devastated.***

On a particularly difficult day last week, I vented a bit on a social network, and one of my friends replied: "...remember, you're a writer, you are supposed to feel more than normal people. How else would you know how to describe it for them?"

Think about it. How many of the the greatest writers of history had pretty, peaceful lives? That kind of existence just doesn't seem to spawn deep, empathetic literature that grabs the heartstrings and makes us feel like the author understands. 

In the past few years, my daughters have turned me into a Jane Austin fan. As I've seen yet another generation of girls moved by what would seem the very particular romance of an era long gone--a generation immersed in technology, women's liberation, and anything-goes morality connecting with extremely verbose banter on the subject of propriety and the ethics of the seeming necessity of gold-digging in a world in which women could not fend for themselves, I've realized how much I too can identify with Jane's characters who yearn for what appears to be ironic and impossible: love, passion, and freedom intermingled with that innate drive for security. 

What incredible timing for a first viewing of Becoming Jane! 

Being new to the single mother thing, and receiving absolutely no support from Todd, I have been struggling to figure out how I'm going to make ends meet. I think Todd's plan is to financially ruin me and then wait for me to beg him to come back with his daddy's money. Unfortunately, my emotional condition of late has not been conducive to finding work, and I am going further in debt while trying to figure out reliable income that doesn't take me away from my kids while they need me most (and that doesn't prevent me from continuing to pursue my passion for writing). I'm starting to see why so many women in this situation are quick to get in another relationship--the prospect of security is alluring when desperation hits. 

But the "typical" route has always been something I avoid at all costs. That's why I said when I was still single that if I had gotten pregnant, I probably wouldn't have married Todd because that would be "trite." That's also why, when we did decide to get married I had to hurry up and do it in May, so as to avoid the commonness of a June wedding. (Instead of rushing, perhaps dragging my feet would have been a better choice, but then that's a different story--good choices were obviously not my forte.) 

So now, I look at men with great trepidation. Going it alone is scary, but getting entangled with another Mr. Wrong is even scarier. 

There are two types of Mr. Wrongs: (1) the guy who I just "settle for" because I'm lonely, and he destroys my heart because there isn't the deep connection I long for, and (2) the guy I feel a deep connection to but I can't have because it would hurt others if I did. Number 2 is what this movie made me think of... and seeing how Jane Austen--after nobly choosing to walk away from Tom Lefroy--lived out the rest of her life alone, with her writing as the only outlet for her passion--that is what I see myself doing, too. 

Maybe the memory of true passion is better than a substitute. Who was truly richer in passion at the end of the Becoming Jane story? Tom who had taken a substitute? or Jane, who continued her life alone? Both carried the heartache of loss due to that noble choice with them, but look at all Jane went on to create. 

Just a thought. Maybe it's the meaningless effect of the stage of grieving I find myself in presently. Maybe my heart will change someday. But for now, it seems the only way. Maybe it's just the melodrama of the movies--a contrivance of dramatic structure--that says some things only come once in a lifetime, and if their timing is wrong, they are tragically lost forever.... 

Dreamy James McAvoy's portrayal of Tom Lefroy's feelings for Jane Austen was pure adoration. A friend told me that I was too much of a hopeless romantic to be alone for the rest of my life... but watching this movie made me realize that such a statement may overlook the core of such romantic passion--the fact that it might be precisely because someone is a "hopeless romantic" that they end up alone, unwilling to settle for a substitute for what they once glimpsed. Even if painful, the memory can be better. The hopeless romantic, thus, can become the hopeful artist. 

Listening to Air Supply's Greatest Hits

I think I'm in need of an intervention. 

"Here I am playing with those memories again,   

and just when I thought time had set me free, 

those thoughts of you keep taunting me... 

...there's no pretending, 

my heart it's not mending... 

Just when I thought I was over you, 

Just when I thought I could stand on my own..."  

(Here I Am, by Norman Saleet, 1981)

Don't know why I'm torturing myself with this stuff. Guess it's a tidier alternative to cutting and other external forms of self injury.

It's not like I miss Todd. I think this may be more of 

the grieving over an ideal lost... so where better to go than back to some of the pop music about love from the pre-Todd era. What messages was Bridget hearing on the airwaves and in the shopping malls during the formative years of her childhood, before she met Todd?

"I realized the best part of love is the thinnest slice  

and it don't count for much,  

but I'm not letting go...  

...I'm back on my feet, 

eager to be what you wanted..." 

(Lost in Love, by Graham Russell, 1980)

No wonder I ended up lost.

"I'm lying alone with my head on the phone 

thinking of you till it hurts... 

I'm all out of love, 

I'm so lost without you... 

I want you to come back and carry me home 

away from these long lonely nights. 

I'm reaching for you, 

are you feeling it too?" 

(All Out of Love, by Graham Russell & Clive Davis, 1980)

I was such a romantic. It really didn't matter what was real. 

"Making love out of nothing at all... 

out of nothing at all... 

making love... 

out of nothing at all..."  

(Making Love Out of Nothing At All, by Jim Steinman, 1983)

It goes on and on. It always was a rather annoying song. As I hear it now, I realize how well it describes what I did... and what we had -- NOTHING AT ALL. 

I tried, though. I really tried. That's what he says, too. That he tried. Chalk it up to dragging out incompatibility way longer than it ever should have been taken. More than half a lifetime. 

My heart is breaking, but it's not because of losing him. It's because I'm realizing how little I meant to him. How I'm not worth fighting for, not worth sacrificing for. I'd be lying if I said that doesn't hit right to the core of who I believe I am. And I know how to let it build up a case against my value, reinforced by "the others" who didn't think I was worth it. I'm trying to deal with that in therapy--examining my harmful thoughts for accuracy, completeness, and balance... It seems like it should be easier, but those harmful thoughts are tricky. 

My therapist says it is natural for me to have "trust issues" after what I've been through. It may take some time to work through this. It probably won't be as easy of a fix as the old pop songs would lead one to believe, moving from heartbreak to brighter days and better nights just because of one chance meeting...

"I used to think I was tied to a heartache 

that was a heartbreak..."  

(Even the Nights are Better, by Terry Skinner, J.L. Wallace, and Ken Bell, 1982)

But I know that is not a given. There are plenty of people who live out their days tied to that heartache, especially when their trust is shattered. Maybe I can learn to divert my heart into less romantic avenues. Maybe age will take away such desire and I can find total satisfaction in the maternal sort of love. 

Maybe.

Then that someone capable of doing more than mending a broken heart--but also of lighting a fire--enters my dreams... and you know what I do? 

I avoid him...

...only to find myself back in bed with Todd. I'm naked. Todd is there, but like a dead fish. If I lie perfectly still, he might not notice I'm there and I'm naked... but then it crosses my mind that I could use him (even though there has been little satisfaction in that in several years)... but as soon as that thought crosses my mind, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of betrayal... as if being with Todd would be a betrayal... but to whom? to what? To some imaginary man of my dreams? to myself? to honesty?

In the morning a friend tells me she had a dream in which she came to visit me and learned that there was a new man in my life. I was curious... did she meet him? Wouldn't it be wild if he looked like the man in my dream (although I couldn't remember what he looked like because I had been so busy avoiding him.) 

I go several nearly sleepless nights, avoiding dreams altogether. They bring too much heartache. Then when I decide I do want to see him... he doesn't show. Even the man of my dreams is unreliable. 

"Close your eyes, 

I want to see you tonight in my sweet dreams..."  

(Sweet Dreams, by Graham Russell, 1981)

Yes, Air Supply could supply the soundtrack for my disappointing dreams. 

My heart may be broken, but I didn’t cry...

A while back, someone told me about the movie “Regarding Henry.” I don’t remember who. It was in the midst of the haze--the months when I couldn’t help but be someone else, because it was as if I had fallen, hit my head, become unconscious. I was tied to this man in marriage, and when he was injured, so was I.

Someone looked into the haze, and something I said about the days sitting in a hospital, talking to a comatose invalid who didn’t even know who I was... something I said made this person think of the movie. I mentioned that I had picked the DVD up from a yard sale, but had never watched it. “Should I?” I asked.

This person was quick to reply, “No! Not now. Maybe later, but now it would probably be too close to home. It would make you cry.”

Since Todd cleaned out our bank account and made it clear that he has no intent to share any of his disability money with the family, I have been struggling to figure out how I’m going to pay all the bills. 

“Whose money is that?” he asked when I mentioned the disability money he had transferred out of the family account right when the mortgage was coming due. (Even though he’s staying with a friend rent-free.) 

It’s too soon to turn the kids’ lives upside down by going out and getting a regular full-time outside-of-the-home job yet... not in the midst of all this turmoil, not in the middle of the holidays... So, I’m selling things. Anything I can.

My wedding ring paid for a month of indoor plumbing. Two days after we moved back in the house, the water was scheduled to be cut off (because Todd had intercepted the mail I was having held at the post office so I could keep up with the bills, and he had ignored the water bill, allowing late fees to accrue.) 

A month of indoor plumbing: That’s what it came to. Over two decades of marriage, and the symbol of that union boiled down to being worth no more than a month’s worth of showers and flushes of the toilet.

The two are inextricably connected in my mind now: my wedding ring and the ability to flush the crap out of my life; my wedding ring OR the ability to flush the crap out of my life. Take your pick. You can’t have both. It’s profound, I think. I’ve always loved a good metaphor. I don’t think I could have ever dreamed that one up on my own.

The month of flushes has passed. Now I need to pay the bills without the asset of a wedding ring. (The metaphor goes on.) I have to find other things to sell. Since there’s a good chance that we’ll end up losing the house, I figured I might as well sell even the little things... even if they don’t make a big dent in the bills, it will be less to move or less to put in storage as I try to sort out what goes and what stays in this new life. So, I’m listing some of our DVDs on E-bay.

“Regarding Henry.” I still hadn’t watched it, but I listed it... and since I hate to waste anything, I decided I’d watch it before letting it go. Would it make me cry? I’ve cried enough. Why be a fool and induce more? But I was lonely, and sometimes movies make the best of friends. I felt like crying with a friend would be preferable to being alone. Maybe a good, identifiable movie would be like a shoulder to cry on.

As I watched Annette Benning’s character sitting by the bedside of her character’s husband (played by Harrison Ford--Hans Solo) ...first in the I.C.U., then in a regular hospital room, then a rehabilitation hospital... the journey portrayed was very familiar. But I didn’t cry. It was factual. Not emotional. Benning said, “I think this is teaching me to be strong,” and I nodded.

As Harrison’s character rehabilitated, the familiarity dwindled. He was inconsiderate and selfish before his brain injury, but his blow to the head made him nicer, more empathetic, and less selfish. Ah, the imagination of a screenwriter! I remember one nurse telling me that the injury would likely change Todd... warning me that things could be worse--that head injury victims frequently get mean.

I asked her the hypothetical question: “What if things were bad before the accident?”

“Well,” she said. “He could get nicer.”

I asked if that sort of thing happened often... she shook her head. 

As I experienced Todd’s agitation through every step of recovery--beginning with the long hours of trying to keep him from pulling off his restraints, when he would shove one hand in his pants in search of feces as the other hand grabbed at his IV and ventilator lines... He would get so upset when I tried to keep him from doing himself harm or creating an unsanitary (and stinky) mess--I dreaded his return home too soon.

Benning’s character couldn’t wait to get her husband home. She had something I didn’t have. 

Todd wanted to come home long before I was ready to receive him. And he was bright enough to figure out what it would take: He needed to “be good.” He stated that understanding repeatedly, and he strove to “be good” for the rehabilitation staff. I liked having them in the room because he would be nice when they were there. Maybe there was hope that the slim chance the nurse had mentioned--of a brain injury making a person nicer--might be the miracle my family would experience...

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Fast forward. We know which direction that one went!

So, I’m watching the movie alone in my bed. Watching Ford’s character become kind and noble. Near the end, Benning embraces Ford, and something sparkles. A big sparkle. It’s a honking big diamond ring on Benning’s hand. She still had that symbol. He still loved her. Perhaps he loved her more than ever.

Bridget and Todd’s story is different.

I was reading through the transcript of our court case--seeing all the blatant lies Todd told to make himself look good at the expense of both his wife and his daughter’s reputations--at the expense of the chance of either one of them ever trusting him again.

It was sad, but I didn’t cry.

This is factual. My finger is empty. It has been empty for a long time. Even from the start, it was only the bare minimum that Todd could get away with. Even then, I should have seen that he was willing to spend all sorts of money on himself, and yet he would half-heartedly apologize for the diamond on my ring being so small. It didn’t matter to me because I was busy “writing” a romance. Facts didn’t matter. Emptiness could be filled with the swoop of my imagination.

I tried to embrace Todd, to hope for the best, to believe he could change... but when I tentatively reached my arms around him, there was no sparkle... no glimmer. 

My hand is empty.

I have another date!

Woo hoo. the excitement. 

No, it's not that kind of date. It's a court date.

The victim's advocate from the D.A.'s office thought I had a pretty good case for a restraining/kick-out order to put an end to Todd's squatting and get our kids back in their house... But when she called Todd to warn him about last week's court date, he didn't answer... and because of that, the judge didn't consider him adequately warned and temporarily denied the move-out portion of the restraining order. I had to have him served with papers for the restraining order and notice about another court date this coming week to determine if there will be a move-out order or not. That means staying with friends for at least another week.

So he will probably be in court this time. And he's going to have plenty of time to pick his lawyer relative's brain before then about how to look out for number one. I could be worried about it. Perhaps I am... but I'm also resigned to making the best of whatever the judge says. I'm not going into it as optimistically as I did with the last court date. He may very well rule against me, but that wouldn't be the end of the world. It may mean losing more financially, but it will only serve to fast-track the loss so I can move on to the recovery. 

I'll Send Todd Half the Bill...

The jacuzzi felt great tonight. I hated using the credit card, but I guess it's pretty good to have made it almost a month away from home before resorting to using the plastic. 

As Todd would say, "It's too hard asking people to stay with them." After a month, I finally decided to give myself a break from doing something night after night that Todd can't even begin to do. I did call one person who had earlier said we could stay with her... but she had other company, and besides that... she's re-thought her position and is now convinced that I'm doing the wrong thing. Oh well... there will be those who will not understand. It is not my job to make them understand. 

When I got back to the room from the jacuzzi and took my wet swimsuit off, I decided to wait until my daughter calls and says she's here to get dressed. What a way to celebrate not having to make anyone understand! 

Have to go, now... I'm going to enjoy every dollar's worth of this solitude, not being in someone else's house. The cool thing is... when I'm forced to file the divorce papers, Todd will have to pay for half of this hotel bill. 

This is where I will wake up for my four week "weekiversary" of leaving Todd. In the morning, the day will be new. I will be new. 

Life is Good...

It's not about circumstances. That's for sure.

I'm sick. My throat is sore, nose is running like a river, eyes sting, body aches... I'm sleeping on an air mattress on a strange floor. I've been having trouble concentrating on my work. My husband is self-centered enough to stand willingly by and allow his wife and children to be homeless even when he could do something about it. I have no idea where we'll be staying 48 hours from now.

But life hasn't been this good in a very long time.

Why?

Because I'm being honest. And honesty feels so good.

I have hope.

Why would I want to hop back on the wheel?