The Miscarriage and the Beginning of the End

Struggling to even smile

**Note to reader: this may not be the most humorous post, I struggle to find much of any humor in the following events

A Honeymoon Surprise

Not long after we returned to Orlando from Akron, I started to notice that I wasn't feeling very well. I did not immediately assume I was pregnant because there were a wide array of factors that may have been contributing to my discomfort--factors such as excessive alcohol consumption, an ulcerative colitis flair up due to excessive alcohol consumption, prescription drug abuse, poor diet, little to no exercise, and excessive stress in recent months.

I only knew it was time to take a pregnancy test when I had become super sensitive and disproportionately distraught about some comments made by a client at work. This reaction seemed odd because I had been secretly drinking my "adult libations" throughout my shift to eradicate any possibility of caring about what anyone had to say. Yet, somehow, feelings seemed to be emerging despite the fact I had been taking specific action to eradicate all feelings and sense of humanity.

On the drive home from work that night, I had an irrational fit of road rage and aggression. At that moment, I knew it was time to take a pregnancy test. Something was just off. I stopped at the store on the way home, picked up some pregnancy tests, and took them as soon as I walked in the door. It was positive. I was pregnant. No more booze, benzos, or cigarettes for me. My feelings of elation were mixed with an overwhelming dread of the reality: 9 months (and most likely more) of life on life's terms. There would be no more numbing, no more escapism, no more vacations from my own mind. I was going to have to face reality head on, and the thought was terrifying.

My fears were temporarily subdued by the overwhelmingly joyful and proud response of my husband.

The Miscarriage

The day after I found out, I bought a bunch of baby books at Barnes and Nobles. I told my mother and some of my close friends, and upon their suggestion, bought even more baby books. I was all in. I even bought a little pregnancy journal that I dutifully filled out every day in the hope I would one day be able to show the little baby how much it was loved, wanted, and thought about from the moment we knew we were pregnant.

A week or two later, I went to the general practitioner and had the pregnancy confirmed by a blood test. At that point, I was approximately six weeks along. I still had a hard time watching other people drink alcohol, but my desire to drink was superseded by my desire to be a mother. I did, however, take a few drags of a cigarette when I was craving the alcohol very badly. It instantly made me feel horrible, and I was determined to not give in to my addictions in the future.

After I saw the doctor, I scheduled an appointment with a doctor at the hospital one of our friends had recommended. It was exciting to sit in the lobby with all the other pregnant women. I felt so overjoyed with my life--with the marriage and pregnancy, it felt like all of my dreams were coming true.

About a week after my initial appointment with the OB/GYN, I started to experience spotting and severe cramping. I immediately flew into a panic; I had a bad feeling. I went to the OB/GYN, this time quite distraught as I sat in the waiting room with all of the other pregnant women. I finally saw the doctor and he told me that the bleeding and cramping was normal, and to call if I experienced any further problems. When I got home, I miscarried. I saw it. I knew exactly what happened.

Shock

Even before I miscarried, I had entered a state of shock. It all happened too fast, and it was too painful for my mind to even begin to process what had happened. I felt numb. Actually, I felt beyond numb. Absolutely nothing interested me: not music, TV, politics, NPR, myself, or any other human being. It felt like I was outside of the world; like I was just an observer looking in, an observer with no judgement or feelings about anything that was happening. I literally could not feel. I could not care. My husband was absolutely crushed as well. The look of anguish on his face was even more devastating than my own pain.

I couldn't help but blame myself; hate myself. I knew I sat in that hotel room in Akron doing close to nothing other than drink box wine in large quantities, pop benzodiazepines, smoke cigarettes, and watch the Bachelor on my iPad. I hadn't even been good about taking Lilly out for a walk more than once or twice a day. In no way had I actually taken care of myself or my body, the whole time knowing that it was always a possibility that I would wind up pregnant. We hadn't used protection for several months before the wedding--but I used, and used to excess that entire time.

Thus, the first several weeks I was pregnant, I was smoking, drinking heavily, using benzodiazepines and prescription uppers, not eating right, and not even bothering to shower or brush my teeth on many days. I justified my behavior by telling myself that I needed to be doing what I was doing in order to recuperate from the stress of the wedding and wedding planning.

It was at that time, a part of me started to blame my husband for wanting such a big, overwhelming, unmanageable scene of a wedding. I felt a little bitter. However, part of me still knew that I was being unfair and I was just looking for anyone but myself to blame. And besides, he was the most upset I had ever seen him, and I couldn't help but think, deep down, that I was the cause of his suffering.
Of course, I never talked to him about the feelings that had begun brewing up inside of me--the inner conflict I had tried so hard to blot out.

The White Supremacist

Prior to finding out I was pregnant, I had reserved a room at a pet-friendly and unique bed and breakfast down in Key West for my husband's 30th birthday. I wanted to do something really special, and a trip to Key West was the best that I could do considering the fact that we knew almost no one in the Orlando area at that time. The only people we ever saw, or spent time any time with, was my husband's old roommate from college, his wife, and their children. At the time, they had an infant and a toddler, so they were often quite busy. Thus, a vacation seemed like a great idea. The B&B was right in the heart of the downtown area. It even had a giant tree growing in the bathroom. Until the miscarriage, I had been extremely excited about our little getaway. We had decided to take the trip in spite of what had happened because I think we both needed a break from our harsh reality at that time.

For most of the car trip, I was largely despondent and silent. I don't even think I was drinking at that time. I was simply too numb to have anything that needed to be blocked out.

We stopped to visit my husband's sister and her boyfriend, Robbie, near Key Largo. They had been living down there for several months at that time. At first, it was largely my husband who felt uncomfortable about his sister's situation. They weren't exactly living in the safest looking area, and her and her boyfriend had impulsively bought a dog that my husband did not particularly care for. He shared his thoughts with me, but kept them from his sister. He was worried, legitimately worried for her.

I was rather quick to dismiss his concerns until we went out for drinks with them. When we were out with them at a local bar, Robbie started spewing racial slurs, and ignorant generalizations about other races. My husband and I both felt uncomfortable, so we tried to change the conversation. The hint was NOT taken, and Robbie continued to utter hateful and distasteful statements that were very clearly racist, and quite frankly shocking. It almost seemed like he was trying to provoke an argument or reaction from us. I had just miscarried the day before, so I was not in the mood. My husband has a fear of confrontation and conflict, so he just swallowed his discomfort.

When we got in the car, however, all hell broke loose. To my husband's credit, he was equally as shocked, disgusted and concerned as myself. Our entire car ride between his sister's house and Key West was entirely consumed by our attempts to merely process what we had just heard. And it was tough for us to process, especially right after the miscarriage. I can't speak for my husband, but I had never heard such overtly racist and hateful words come out of another human being. It literally disgusted me.

The next morning, Garrett called his Mom to report the shocking events of the evening prior. He was genuinely concerned about what he had heard, and genuinely worried about the well-being of his sister. However, he did not receive the response from his mother that either one of us had expected. She glossed over the whole issue in a way that suggested that she was not surprised and, in fact, well aware of the fact that her daughter was dating a hateful, white supremacist. She dismissed and shut down all of my husband's concerns (and mine as well), and artfully changed the subject. To be quite honest, I was somewhat horrified and put off by her response. Strong feelings of anger and frustration began to well up inside of me.

Yes, I am angry about my husband's mother stifling his completely normal and appropriate response to horrific and offensive language, world views, hateful ideas and behavior. Thanks, lady, for teaching my husband not to trust his own moral compass. I'm sure that can only serve him well in the world--I mean, look how well it worked in our marriage.

I Guess This Is What I Deserve...

Years ago, when I was in an abusive relationship, I had found out that I was pregnant with twins. I was overjoyed. However, my boyfriend at the time, was not. In fact, he told me that if I proceeded with the pregnancy, he had no part in my life or in the lives of his children. He made a particular point of telling me that he would never give me a dime in support of the children either. If I went through with the pregnancy, I was on my own. I was in graduate school at the time, had not finished, was working in retail for a wage that could only support myself, and was a bit unsure if I would be able to manage it all on my own. After speaking to family and friends, I made a difficult choice. I've never fully recovered from that choice.

When I miscarried, I believed that it was a punishment for the difficult choice I had made years before. I was sober, healthy, and doing relatively, although not completely, well at the time I made that choice. When I miscarried, I was a drunkard who abused prescription pills, had a bad flair up of ulcerative colitis as a result of my stress and drinking, and was in no way stable. Punishment. Punishment on several different levels. And to be quite honest, I have not yet processed all my feelings about either situation.

So, that is why my husband let me chase the ghost of Hemingway in Key West on his birthday. I had, in a very real way, lost touch with reality. He felt bad. 

The Honeymoon Part 2: The Last Happy Days

Lock we put on a bridge in Paris--we threw both of our keys to the lock in the Seine to symbolize our eternal love

Barcelona 

We arrived in Barcelona still in our sangria stained garbs from the San Fermin festival. A guy with a top hat opened the door of the cab for us as we arrived at our five star hotel. I can't speak for my husband, but I most certainly felt a bit out of place. We had just spent 4 days up in the mountains wearing the same clothes for the entire time. I had one giant dread in my hair after going so many days washing, but not brushing, my hair. Our white garb from the San Fermin festival was stained many, many times over with red wine and sangria that we had either spilled on ourselves, or someone else had spilled on us, during the festival. San Fermin was basically a big party with non-stop drinking 24 hours a day for as long as the festival lasted. For someone who loves to drink as much as myself, it was perfect!

However, eventually we had to return to reality, and that reality seemed almost surreal after San Fermin. This reality included me starting to detox after all the alcohol I had consumed over the weeks prior. I was getting cramps in my calves, getting the shakes, and getting very, very nervous. I had a few Xanax with me, so I started to cut back the drinking by consuming less alcohol, and using the Xanax when I started to feel symptomatic. I really didn't want to keep drinking at that point, but I was physically addicted. I never had a conversation about any of that with my husband. To this day, I'm not sure if he knew what was going on with me, or if he knew that I knew what was going on with me. It just seemed like a bad time to say, "Sorry, babe, I know this is our honeymoon, but I'm detoxing from all the drinking I've been doing."

Paris

Paris was amazingly Romantic. Garrett absolutely loved Paris. In Paris, we shared some of our most peaceful moments in months. One afternoon we brought a blanket, some food and some wine and had a picnic out in the gardens in front of the Louvre for a good portion of the afternoon. We relaxed, people watched, napped, cuddled--it was amazing. Another night, we bought some food and wine at the grocery store and ate a little picnic right on the banks of the Seine.

My detox continued in Paris. We actually had to go to the pharmacy once because I was getting such severe cramps in my calves and I was beginning to worry about my potassium levels and the effect that both the drinking, and the detoxing, were having on my heart.

But, I got through with the little Xanax I had left. I had to divvy it up into smaller doses to make it last longer, but that seemed far more comfortable and sensible than detoxing off of alcohol and Xanax in a foreign country.

In spite of my growing discomfort as a result of my detox, we were still able to do some fun touristic things. We went to the Louvre, and dashed out after seeing the Mona Lisa to go to Hemingway's favorite bar: Harry's New York Bar. I think we both agreed that it was the best tourist attraction we had been to in Paris. It was small, quaint and exactly like one would imagine "Hemingway's Bar" to look and feel like. I even got a picture of myself under the Ithaca College pennant that was hung on the wall there. We went to other Hemingway haunts, but that was by far the best. We also took our token boat ride down the Seine, climbed the Eiffel tower, and went to Notre Dame. At Notre Dame my husband told me that he was creeped out by the fact that I would actually pray when we went into the churches. I did not tell him the great peace it had brought me in my younger days, that I did it every day when I lived in Venice, or that it was a part of my cultural heritage that I deeply valued and to which I felt deeply connected. That would be an argument for another time.

At Harry's Bar in Paris under the Ithaca College pennant

Reykjavik

In an effort to save money, I bought a ridiculous amount of vodka during our layover in Iceland. I bought it in duty free, and I wasn't supposed to use any of it until I went through customs in the US. I started drinking it right there in the airport, and was completely out of it half way through the flight back to Boston. 

Akron, OH

Akron was interesting. It was neither bad nor good. We had to stay in a rather dumpy, antiquated motel in Hudson because it was the only motel my husband's employer would cover that also allowed dogs. It was pretty gross. It smelled, we saw raw sewage leaking out of one of the rooms, it had bugs in the bed, and it was a generally unpleasant place to be.

At that point, staying at home was not an option. In the months prior to the wedding, my husband had been away two weeks of every month. I didn't feel OK going a whole month without him at that point. Particularly in a place where I didn't know anyone and could barely manage to navigate around (Orlando). Too much had been going on in the previous months, and though I didn't tell him, I needed him.

I spent all day drinking wine out of a box and watching every season of the bachelor I could find on the internet. Smug in my newlywed life, I very much enjoyed judging the relationship decisions of other people. I think it made me feel good to believe that I had figured out the secret to love when none of those other people had had any success. Little did I know. 

The Bun in the Oven

Shortly after returning for Akron, I found out I was pregnant. We had conceived some time during that trip.

What Is My Issue with Italian Men? Plus, Some Other Stuff...

**Disclaimer: lamenting about my honeymoon has taken a real back burner to a much more pressing question this week: What is my issue with Italian men? This is a very serious question that needs to be probed with the utmost urgency--the struggle is real!

Regular guy to Italian guy conversion chart

Now that I'm no longer drinking, my mind has been freed up to obsess about other things that have historically interested me. I have come up with a short list of some of the other things in an effort to provide some clarity into my latest debacle. It also gives some insight into some of my more "simple minded" priorities.

Most Basic Obsessions with No Alcohol in my System:

1. My Dog
2. Ernest Hemingway
3. Dogs in General
4. Italy
5. Italian MEN!!! (Realistically, this should be listed much higher on the list, but I'm trying very hard to give the impression that I'm a more reasonable person than I actually am).
6. Sour Patch Kids
7. Candy in General
8. Numbered Lists
9. Having Children
10. Halloween
11. Ghosts and Haunted Houses

For those readers who are not already well aware, I feel like it is important to disclose the fact that I have struggled with an irrational attraction to Italian men for all of my adult life. And by irrational, what I actually mean is senseless, irresponsible and actually quite deranged. This statement is best evidenced by the fact that I met an Italian man on an Art History trip to Italy when I was in college and decided to peruse and intense and fantastical relationship with said Italian man. And to clarify, I should probably mention that I "fell in love at first sight" with an architecture student who worked at the local Irish pub in Venice.

This is where the story gets ridiculous...

I stole a phone book out of the hotel in Mestre the night before I was supposed to leave Venice. I called EVERY Irish Pub in the Veneto trying to reach this man whose name I could not even manage to properly pronounce. Finally, I reached him, and he said he would try to make it to Mestre that night to see me before I left. He did not get off of work in time, and we did not meet. The next day in Assisi, I told my sister that I had to see him again--that it was "fate" or something ridiculous like that.
My sister replied by nearly shouting at the top of her lungs, "Liz! Life is NOT a Jane Austin novel, grow the f**k up!"

Not liking the advice my sister had given me, I went and asked the Italian tour guide what I should do. The lady told me to "follow my heart...it is Italy." And thus, being entirely deranged from watching Only You one too many times as a teenager, I left with about 70 Euro, hitch-hiked down to the train in Assisi, took the train all of the way to Venice, and tracked down the guy at the Irish pub. In the meantime, my sister was distraught and flew back to the US alone before the trip was over. The state and national police were also called. Soon after, I dropped out of school moved in with him in his tiny efficiency in Venice.

Therefore, reader, I have had a quite lengthy history of irrational attractions to Italian men. I wish I could say that that was the only time I did something that stupid because of an Italian man, but it isn't. I also wish there was some deep psychoanalytical explanation, but I don't think there is.

In an effort to uncover the root cause of such irrational thinking and behavior, I have come up with a list of possible explanations from my formative years.

Possible explanations for irrational attraction to Italian men:

1. One of my Grandmothers very much admired the celebrity, "Fabio." This may be significant because she died 24 years ago, and I very clearly remember the fact that she loved "Fabio"(an Italian) and "Rambo" (a fictional character of Italian-American/Navajo descent).


2. My other Grandmother had several novels with "Fabio" on the cover. I remember going upstairs in her house to the room where she stored her books and pointing out to my sister, "That's Fabio. Fabio is handsome." My seven year old mind probably had no idea what handsome even meant, but I knew enough about Fabio to make a point of educating my sister on the importance of Fabio.


3. Vivid memories of Fabio on TV commercials, particularly in regard to romance

4. Teenage obsession with the romantic comedy, Only You, that takes place in Italy and stars Marissa Tomei and Robert Downy Jr.

5. Looney Tunes episode where "Pepe LePew" chases the cat with the white paint down its back in Venice...and the cat, "Penelope," almost submits to his advances

6. Robert DeNero in the Godfather trilogy (enough said).

7. Panettone?

8. Pasta?

9. Pizza?

Italian-American Crush

I realized this week that I have a crush on an Italian guy. Well, Italian-American, but that can be equally devastating to my logical reasoning. While I noticed him and found him attractive before this week, things escalated to a level of urgency this week with one too many conversations about him being Italian, his Italian family, a few cute expressions in Italian, and the fact that he offered me all of his green skittles and told me that he would "have to remember" that Sour Patch Kids were the key to my heart--and various other small conversations about candy and Italian things. This crush has reached the point of distracting. For the sake of this poor man's privacy, I'm going to call him, Fabio with Candy, or FC for short.

Reason for current inner struggle

Reasons why I like FC:
1. He is Italian (Grandmother right off the boat)
2. He also appears to have a fondness of candy
3. He said that he would "have to remember" that Sour Patch kids are the way to my heart
4. He gave me all of his green skittles on Thursday
5. He has a great smile
6. He has a great laugh
7. He has a great sense of humor
8. He smiled at me

Ladies, if this is not good cause for a totally irrational infatuation, I don't know what is! The real question here is: what happens if he actually gives me Sour Patch Kids? As I have never actually been presented with this scenario, it is difficult to say how I would react. But I'm thinking it would be something like this:

What happens if....

There is a good chance that I'm going to see FC either tonight or tomorrow night. Definitely on Monday. And what I want to say to him is this:

"Are you serious, buddy? Just because you have mastered the delicate and complicated art of 'Liz seduction' in less than a week, it does not mean that I'm going to fall for your sophisticated charm and endearing smile...I'm working on me!!!!"...I think...




The Poem from Only You:

The Honeymoon Part 1: How to Have a Drinking Binge in 5 Different Countries While Putting a Bun in the Oven

**Note to reader: Husband has asked for his height to be more accurately represented in stick figure drawings--husband is, in fact, taller than self, and have, unconsciously made myself "larger than life." Thankfully, husband also has an amazing sense of humor.

The Honeymoon

The Honeymoon served as a temporary antidote to the bitter taste in my mouth left by the wedding. In the back of my mind were still lingering memories of all the embarrassing, reveling and uncomfortable situations I had put myself in when preparing for, and actually participating in, the wedding. That being said, our honeymoon was undoubtedly the best time of my life. Our honeymoon was not the relaxing, beach-side trip that my husband had envisioned. As the wedding had largely been tailored to his wants, needs, and ideas, he let me have free reign with the honeymoon, and I took it!

I have had a lifelong obsession with Ernest Hemingway. The Sun Also Rises is my favorite novel of all time, and in retrospect, it is actually quite fitting for me. In all truth, my Hemingway obsession borders on creepy. And by "bordering" on creepy, I mean it actually is creepy. I think about Ernest Hemingway more than any young woman should think about any old, dead writer that was clearly an alcoholic and depressive. I actually asked an Ouija board once if I had known Ernest Hemingway in a past life--and by asked once, I actually mean many times. When we went on vacation to Key West for his birthday one year, my husband very patiently allowed me to try to "talk" to "Ernest Hemingway" on a ghost tracking/voice device that I had downloaded to my iPad during the trip. Can you imagine being on your birthday vacation with your husband/wife and having to follow that person around an island with an iPad asking said iPad if they were a lover of Hemingway in a past life? Yep, I did that.

Being actually quite tolerant of my little "quirks" like that, my husband allowed me to tailor our honeymoon to fit the path of Brett and Jake in the novel, The Sun Also Rises.  Thus, we spent quite a large portion of our trip at the San Fermin festival in Pamplona and at all of Hemingway's favorite haunts in Paris.

However, due to the fact that an overwhelmed drunkard planned the trip, things didn't necessarily always go smoothly.

Paris 

After a long overnight flight from Boston through Reykjavik, we arrived in Paris for the first time. I was hungover as I had drank quite a bit in the airport and on the plane before I passed out. I had also let a few small details fall through the cracks when I started to become overwhelmed with all the details involved with planning a wedding and honeymoon. Rather than take a cab from one airport to another in order to make it on time to our flight to Bologna, we decided to take a train between airports. We did not make it in time, and ended up stranded in a tiny airport outside of Paris. The tickets were non-refundable. This was my husband's first time in Europe ever, and within just hours of landing, things had already become overwhelming. We lost our non-refundable tickets and had to purchase new ones to Pisa. We stayed the night there before taking a train to the Tuscan countryside to meet my old roommate from Venice, Vera, where she was currently living and working.

Pisa/Bologna

There continued to be a series of debacles in Italy. First, when we arrived in Pisa, the hotel we had booked in Paris was closed. We had to ask some students going to school in Pisa where we could affordable stay at the last minute. They kindly helped us. Yet, for good reason, my husband remained a bit weary after the day's events and was frustrated that he couldn't understand what I was saying while I was speaking Italian to the students. I tried my best to translate the entire conversation, but a lot was said, and eventually got to lazy to translate anything but the highlights of the conversation. It was actually quite rude and inconsiderate of me.

The next day, we climbed the leaning tower of Pisa and took the train to Bologna. It was beautiful. We arrived in Bologna and waited for my friend Vera at a restaurant near the train station. Due to lack of WiFi, we were unable to successfully let her know where we were before we had to catch our plane to Barcelona. I drank quite a bit of red wine while we waited and was very drunk and sleepy by the time we got to the airport. Our flight got delayed and I went off on a drunken, embarrassing rant about the inconvenience of it all. My poor husband, I caused quite a bit of a scene.

When we arrived in Barcelona, we rented a super fast car and drove through the Spanish countryside it the middle of the night. We arrived in Pamplona just as the day was breaking, and went promptly to bed at the hotel.

Pamplona

I want to preface this part of the story by saying that there is no way that my words could do justice to the experience we had in Pamplona. It was a once in a lifetime sort of thing, and I am in no way able to replicate such an experience in words. I can say, with certainty, that my husband feels the same. The San Fermin festival was, without question, the best time I've ever had in my entire life. First of all, Pamplona is almost an entire town devoted to the festival and Ernest Hemingway. Thereby, it is the coolest place I've ever been. And yes, we did run with the bulls. 

The morning after we arrived in Pamplona, we woke up and looked out the window to see our rental car being towed by the police for parking in an area and not paying the parking fee. This had us both in a bit of a panic as my husband and I garbled some strange blend of Italian, French, English and Spanish in an effort to communicate with the officers. Through a series of gestures, my husband was able to resolve the issues (albeit after a bit of a panic) with the officers.

Crazed look of excitement at the discovery of Hemingway bar

We then proceeded to the festival, buying festival appropriate garb along the way. We meandered through the maze that was the old part of the city for a while before I felt myself drawn in one particular direction. We walked up the crowded, narrow walk-way before I eventually found a large square where people were eating, drinking, and playing music. Just moments after we entered the square, I found the famous "Hemingway" bar. I was elated. And by elated I mean almost manic and most certainly crazed. We grabbed a seat and sat down to start drinking some sangria.

We sat down, ate a bit, drank a bit, and stuck up a conversation with two big guys from the DC area that were going to run with the bulls the next day. After describing my lifelong Hemingway obsession to these two strangers in my crazed elation. One of the two men told me that he knew the grandson of Ernest Hemingway and he would be happy to introduce me to him the following day. Before I even had enough time to react, Hemingway's grandson and great-grandson entered the bar. He brought me to meet him and needless to say, I made a bit of a scene. Upon my introduction to the family members of Ernest Hemingway, tears welled up in my eyes and I began to cry. I told his grandson how much his grandfather's writing meant to me. He looked at me curiously and said, "It doesn't make you depressed?"

I replied, "No, his writing has saved my life in my darkest hour. When I read his writing, I don't feel quite so alone in the world." He seemed a bit taken aback by my answer, but he accepted it and we chit chat a bit about the festival before I returned to my seat to take it all in. It was one of the most meaningful experiences in my life, and I am very grateful that my husband was there with me at such a big moment in my life.

Me, Hemingway's grandson, and one of the guys from DC.

We ended up staying a while after that talking to the guys from DC about the experience of running with the bulls, and going to a bull fight. After about an hour of questions, we decided to run with the bulls the following morning, and scalped tickets to the bullfight that night.

The bullfight was a very unique experience, but we did not make it very long. As a vegetarian and avid animal lover, I had to turn away when the bullfighters began stabbing the bulls. My husband watched the first bull die, and then we left. On our way back to the hotel, we ran into one of the two guys from DC. He didn't even make it as long as we did. He had left the fight almost immediately after it started, and went to drink while waiting for his friend at the Hemingway bar. We chatted with him for a bit before returning to the hotel early so we could get up the next morning and run with the bulls.

We woke up while it was still dark the day we ran with the bulls. There were still drunken people wandering the streets from the 24-hour San Fermin festival. This time I was sober. I wasn't sober because I was concerned for my safety, I was sober because the festival officials kick the drunken people out of the pen for their own safety. Running with the bulls, unlike most things, was way more important to me than drinking. My husband and I waited in the pen for over an hour before the bulls were released. It was chaotic and exhilarating. At one point, some little French guy asked me, in French, what direction he should be running when the bulls were released. We were astounded that people were running with even less knowledge of what they were about to do than us. We had gone through the course with all the details the day before with the guys from DC. While we were inside the pen, with the spectators safely on the other side of the large wooden fences, the event organizers showed videos of people getting gored by the bulls in years past, and a brief visual description of the rules and warnings. An hour to stand there and think about what dangerous thing you are about to do is a lot. We were both nervous.

Finally, the moment arrived and the bulls were released. We stayed safely in the middle of the pack while the bulls ran past us. Some people had fallen and were walked/run over in the panic. But eventually all the bulls ran by and we were safe. In my moment of victory, I ran alone into the middle of the empty pen. I was shouting, laughing and raising my fists in the air in celebration of my survival of the event. I looked to my right, and a bull was running right beside me, literally two feet away. It was the bull that got away from the pack. The most dangerous and unpredictable bull in the entire event.Luckily, he seemed like he had more pressing concerns than goring me, and he trotted on by with an almost insulting indifference.

The whole event was invigorating and unforgettable. I highly recommend running with the bulls at least once in life. We got to the end of the course and discussed our experience with the two guys from DC. They had had an equally exciting run. We saw Hemingway's grandson again at another bar before we walked back to the hotel.

Before we left, we went to the spot that Hemingway allegedly had his heartfelt and heartbreaking discussion with "Brett" described in The Sun Also Rises. We took pictures and took it all in. And the remainder of the festival we relaxed, listened to live music in tiny little squares and back walkways. It was the happiest, most romantic time I've ever had.

Spot described in The Sun Also Rises

It is hard to believe that I will ever be happier than I was with my husband in Pamplona. The experience was almost magical, and to this day seems like a surreal dream in the midst of our crushing reality.

The truest sentence that I know: I love Garrett

“Oh, Jake,” Brett said, “we could have had such a damned good time together.”
Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.
“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”- Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

For Full Blog: mcwooski.blogspot.com

On Hemingway: http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/hemingways-hidden-metafictions

Being a Weirdo and Other Wedding Related Blunders

Is this a vision of true love or what?

Crap! Nowhere to hide!?!!!??!! :< (extra frowny face)

My husband had his bachelor party in Orlando. We were living in a small apartment there. In addition to being reasonably close to Disney, there are generally a lot of fun things to do in Orlando, so it made sense to have the bachelor party down there. However, our apartment was tiny, without much room for guests. My husband had his brother staying at our apartment for about a week or so during his three day bachelor party event.It wasn't the most graceful moment in my life, so I'm sure that no one is surprised to hear that events unfolded in a somewhat uncomfortable manner that was a bit too self-revealing for my taste. The state of the apartment, with a huge Bloody Mary stain that had been left of the living room floor for at least a month, provided even the most casual observer an unflattering glimpse into my lifestyle and priories. The more intricate details of my debauchery and dysfunction would be revealed over the course of the week--as three people shared an extremely small living space.

I did have a conversation with my husband about my concerns, but being the passive-aggressive, people pleaser that I am, the conversation went something like this:

ME: Soooo, your brother is going to come stay with us for a week...

HUSBAND: Yep, that's OK with you, right?

ME: Of course! It will be so much fun to have some company!!!!

What I wanted to say was something like this:

ME: Um, husband, how are we going to convince everyone that I'm psycho-socially stable if we let them stay in our tiny-ass apartment where my dysfunction is readily apparent by the box of wine in our bedroom, the Bloody Mary stain on the living room floor, and the knife on my bedside table?"

HUSBAND: Good point, babe, maybe you should ask one of your friends if they could go stay with you at your parents condo!

ME: You are so brilliant, hon, and that is why I'm marrying you!

Besides the fact that I was trashed all day every day, I slept for very long periods, didn't have a job, barely ate, endlessly spewed my drunken, ridiculous ideas, and had a knife on my bedside table in case my crazy strangling ex-boyfriend tried to break in. Although he had given no indication that he would do so, and had actually written me a letter of apology at that time, in my drunken stupor I remained convinced that he was coming to Orlando to either steal the dog or murder me.

Husband in no way concerned about Cercei Lannister eating children

My cousin also stayed at our apartment during the bachelor party. I put on a strong performance to hide my dysfunction, but I'm fairly sure he wasn't buying it. He's known me since he was born, so he already knew I was ridiculous. On the plus side, he forgot his tea tree oil Paul Mitchell shampoo and his goose down pillow. I "forgot" to mention that to him, and relished the tingly and refreshing feeling of his hair products. His pillow is still in my position and remains my preferred sleeping utensil. I suppose I owe him a new pillow and some shampoo.

Panic Attack at Disney

The night before I was supposed to entertain the wives of my husband's friends at Disney, I had one too many libations while out with the guys. The next morning I was feeling a bit "under the weather" and a little "nervous." Overwhelmed by the idea of spending a hot, summer day hungover at Disney's Magic Kingdom (where no alcohol is served), I drove to meet the other women. When I arrived, I looked as crazed as I felt. A crazed, frothing, rabid raccoon is really the best description I can come up with for the way I feeling that day. I had one of the other women drive my car there because I had started putting a few back to cure my hangover with a little hair of the dog. When we finally paid the exorbitant fee to enter, I found out there was no alcohol served, and then I quickly realized I had left my Xanax at home. I was crushed. Crushed. So we proceeded to get in a 45-minute to an hour long line for the small world attraction. It was sweltering hot, and I was extremely dehydrated and hungover. I remember looking at the fans on the ceiling and thinking I was in some bizarre version of hell. When we got on the ride, the endless creepy ,singing statues and nauseating perkiness of the "happy"" songs started to rub me the wrong way.

It was hot, I was hungover, it was cheerful, there were happy people and excited children everywhere, and I was not. I did not want to be there at all, I had just paid over $100, and stood in line for an hour, to go on this very creepy (in my opinion) ride.

Frothing rabid raccoon lady (i.e. me)

By the time we got off the ride, I thought I was going to lose my mind. I had already revealed to the two other women that I suffer from severe anxiety and that I was feeling a bit hungover. The two fresh-faced women were cheerful and supportive, but I knew they had no idea what sort of state I was actually in, and this made me feel very isolated, alienated and different. When I compared myself to those two other women, I started to feel bad for my husband. I was a lush with a lot of personal baggage. These were healthy, stable, successful women without drinking problems or years of personal baggage to lug around with them everywhere they went. I missed my husband. I missed him mostly because he was the only one who knew the whole truth about me. I didn't have to hide around him. I didn't feel vulnerable and exposed.

I told them I was going to have a panic attack and I excused myself to run home and get my Xanax. The happy, laughing families and cheerful music were worsening my sense of panic and I couldn't stay a second longer. I was so anxious at that point, that I couldn't even figure out how to get out of there. I called my husband and he calmed me down. But...I was exposed.

There was no time that I felt like more of a fraud then that moment. I can't ever remember ever feeling so out of place and so dislocated from myself, other people, and humanity in general. I went home, got a Xanax, journaled, and relaxed by myself for a few hours. But in an effort to appease my husband, my husband's friends' wives, and to maintain some sort of mask of dignity, I went back to Disney and joined them again for another ride. Later that evening, alone, I called my husband again panicked, and one of his friends drove him over to stay with me that night. I felt horrible. It was the night of his bachelor party and he was supposed to spending the night with his friends at a hotel. I just couldn't hold it together. I didn't know what to do, so I flew back to Massachusetts the next day. I had barely had a moment alone with my husband in over a week, and there were not many opportunities in sight before the wedding. Going home made the most sense. My family could comfort me, and they did. Thanks to my family, I was able to gather enough grit to make it through the events ahead...without making my breakdown obvious to the general population. I had some glitches, and I had revealed more about my state of mind than I was comfortable with, but I managed to get through the wedding. Unfortunately not the marriage.

Wedding Woes and Alcohol Part 3: The Finale

It is ridiculous how excited I was to post this on Facebook, truly ridiculous.

Oh well...

At the moment I am writing this, my wedding ceremony started  two years ago on this day. It hurts; it literally hurts in my chest. But that is because I miss my husband, not because I joyfully reminisce about this day.

Gemma did an AMAZING job, and I know that a lot of people really enjoyed the wedding and reception. I just wasn't one of them. And that wasn't her fault.

Proposed location of wedding

The day before the wedding, I started panicking. I went to my father and started ranting about all of my frustrations. He asked me if I wanted to cancel the wedding. I said I didn't, and I meant it. I still mean that. As a solution to my litany of complaints, my father proposed that we go up to his hunting cabin (affectionately known as "the camp") and get married by the Green River in front of the waterfall. Only immediate family.

That idea calmed me down a lot, and I spent the rest of the day considering the suggestion. The camp is a place that is very sacred and special to me. It reminds me of my grandparents, being little, having fun swimming and making forts with my cousins, and other fun stuff. The good parts of life. I have many, many fond memories of the people that I love the most, hanging out at that river on the fourth of July.

Fourth of July 2011

Small, private, sentimental, personal. My Dad really had an excellent solution to all of my worries and complaints.

I remember mentioning this suggestion to my husband, and it was met with a lukewarm response. He wasn't opposed to it, but he wasn't a fan of the idea either. And of all the people in the world whose approval I seek (and I literally seek the approval of EVERYONE in the world), I seek my husband's approval the most.

That was where I made another huge mistake.
If I had to do it all over again, I would have said something like, "Look, buddy, this is my wedding day too, and we are going to compromise!"

Fourth of July 2011

But frankly, standing up for myself and drawing some boundaries would have been a little too healthy of a response for me at that point in time. And that is NOT my husband's fault. I had not set any personal boundaries for myself during the course of our relationship, and it would have been odd to start setting those boundaries on our wedding day. Besides, if I set any boundaries for myself, he might decide he doesn't want to be with me, and I would end up a childless, old spinster with an unhealthy obsession with her dog! Wait, Oops, that happened anyway :(

And besides, as a passive-aggressive, I was definitely going to need some grievances from the past to throw at him at some undetermined time in the future, when there is nothing he could do about it, and I could therefore assert that I had been victimized by him in some way. I mean, how am I supposed to bolster any unrelated argument against him if I didn't save up some ammunition? These are some things to consider.

The Betrayal

Truth be told, very early in our relationship I had compromised my boundaries and dignity in order to make the relationship work. My husband had dated a girl named Megan the summer before we met, and he had very strong feelings for her when we started dating. After 3 or 4 weeks of dating, I asked my husband if he wanted to date me exclusively. At that point, he told me that he loved spending time with me, but if Megan ever called, he would most definitely ditch me to be with her. I broke up with him that night.

About a month or so later, I texted him in a knee jerk reaction to some other guy being a lying sack of shit. I thanked him for his brutal honesty, in spite of the fact that I had been crushed by that truth. But, like my Italian ex-boyfriend used to say, "Better the ugly truth, than a beautiful lie." It was his honesty at a difficult point that allowed me to have confidence in thinking that he would always tell me the truth. In turn, I opened up to him, made myself vulnerable, and had strong confidence in his honesty and integrity.

Six months down the road, my husband and I were living together (in addition to all my other issues, I'm also very codependent, so moving in together seemed like a great idea! No unhealthiness going on here!).

Our relationship took a turn for the worse in March of that year. I had just finished mid-terms in grad. school, and I was pretty stressed out, so my husband and I decided to go down to Florida to visit my family. My family is in Florida every March for our family vacation. Initially, it was a fun and relaxing trip until my phone died and I used my husband's to contact my Mom. I was trying to figure out why she was late to the beach. While attempting to text her, I ran across text messages between my husband and Megan. He had been texting her the entire time we had been dating and living together. I had no idea. I was crushed.

Apparently, my husband had decided that he should invite Megan out with all of our friends on St. Patrick's Day while I was home, sober, and writing my mid-term papers. I couldn't go out drinking because I was in recovery, and truthfully, I had more important important things to do that day than drink.

Picture taken minutes before I found out about Megan

The betrayal was palpable. I had been with him and our friends having lunch only an hour or two before he had texted her to come hang out with him. He did this, while I was at home in the apartment we shared, with our dog, studying for my mid-terms. Luckily, she didn't show up because she was in graduate school as well and she had a committed boyfriend. But what if she did show up?

The trust I had for him, the trust that made up the very foundation of our relationship, was gone. He hid things from me, he had no problems with lies of omission. I felt a fool for making myself vulnerable to him, loving him, trusting him...and he had done the exact same thing as the guy before him. I felt like an idiot. I kept choosing men that were settling for me while they secretly had their eyes on other prospects. Better prospects than my damaged self. The boyfriend I had a year prior to that specific day had done the exact same thing. Only he did it with many women, on many occasions. The ex-boyfriend actually strangled me until I nearly passed out in his own parents home when I finally caught him for the last time and broke up with him. A year later, I was in the exact same position--minus the strangling. I was still dealing with the legal fallout of that situation and the cops investigation into that event until just weeks before my wedding. So, on top of all the other stress I was experiencing in the weeks before the wedding, I was having to talk to the cops and the district attorney in the county where that incident occurred.

Picture taken about an hour and a half before my husband texted Megan to hang out

At least the first time, I still had the dignity to stand up for myself and put an end to the relationship. The second time I was just too worn down by life. And in the back of my head was the same little voice reminding me that I was in my early 30's and that it would be unlikely for me to ever get married or have children if I broke off the relationship. So I just shut down. I expressed to my husband my hurt and frustration, but I was still so set on taking the traditional trajectory of a "successful" life (meaning marriage and children), that I put my feelings of betrayal and pain aside. I remember even telling myself: with the kind of life you have lived, this is the best that you are ever going to get: there is no such thing as true love.

So I swallowed my pain and retreated back into my inner world that included only studying, going to classes, binge watching TV on Netflix, and sleeping as much as possible. I was just too tired to try to start all over, so I didn't. I even helped my husband come up with the rationalization for his behavior that he uses to this day. I didn't do it for him. I did it for me. I needed to save face, I needed to make this work, and I needed everything to appear beautiful on the outside even if was nothing but a shit storm on the inside. So, I forged on through. Obviously, appearances are way more important that reality.

Thus, if I didn't have enough dignity and self respect to stand up for myself when that whole situation occurred, why would I suddenly have the impetus to do so on my wedding day--a day that I was in an even more fragile state of mind. My husband had no experience with me actually asserting personal boundaries, so why would he suddenly know how to deal with me doing so on my wedding day. So, like I had done in the past, I put my own needs and desires aside and saved my rage for a later date...the day that things finally went too far.

I still cry when I think about the stress of that wedding. I have ever since it happened. It was the beginning of the end, and it was my fault. I couldn't make one healthy decision in regard to that relationship. But those are stories for another day.

Stay tuned for: "The Honeymoon: How to Have a Drinking Binge in 5 Different Countries," and "Being a Weirdo and Other Wedding Related Blunders"

Wedding Woes and Alcohol Part 2: Conflict and Humiliation

Conflict and Humiliation

One thing surprised me about getting married: a lot of people have very strong opinions about how the wedding should go; people other than the bride and groom.

As I mentioned before, I have a profound aversion to conflict and a crippling need for everyone to like me. As I began to plan the wedding, it became very clear that there would be no way to avoid conflicts, and therefore, no way to keep everyone happy so everyone would continue to like me. This revelation was troubling to me and I felt like the best way to deal it was by increasing my use of of alcohol. I mean, that makes perfect sense, right?

This seems like a really good idea!

The first mistake I made in planning the wedding was to get one of my good friends involved. This particular friend, let's call her Jane, is a great person and most definitely means well. However, Jane is also but a bit of a "personality" with a little too much time on her hands. When I was struggling to find the motivation to plan the wedding, and having trouble make decisions about the wedding, I started asking her for help. Eventually I paid her to help me plan the wedding. Around that time, things went horribly awry. Of all the people that had very strong opinions, Jane had the strongest.

No pressure or anything..

Jane's strong opinions started to boil over when we went back to Massachusetts to decide some of the more intricate details of the wedding. At this time, Jane met one of my family members that was also helping to plan the wedding. It made sense to have this family member, Gemma, involved in wedding planning because she actually LIVED where the wedding was taking place, and besides that, planning weddings was ACTUALLY her job. While Jane had been a very successful wedding photographer, she had never actually planned a wedding.

Jane met Gemma, along with another person in my family, Maria, at the Greenfield Country Club to discuss the details of  he reception. When Jane realized that Gemma knew what she was doing, the whole encounter took an uncomfortable turn. Jane instantly became defensive, and as a result, started to inappropriately drop information about herself and her very impressive (to be truthful) work history. However, it was apparent to everyone else there, including my husband, that she was feeling very insecure and was being a bit combative with Gemma. It was awkward to watch and I politely excused myself to the bathroom to pop a Xanax. When I returned, everyone was discussing transportation. I jumped into the conversation, and cut off Maria who was, at that moment, was offering the services of other family members that potentially might be attending the wedding as guests. Of course, none of those people had any idea that their services were being offered. This resulted in Maria abruptly getting up and storming out. My husband chased after her when she ran out, while Gemma, Jane and I awkwardly tried to pretend like nothing odd was occurring. The awkwardness was compounded when my husband returned and reported that he had tried to flag that person down, but they drove right past him and ignored him entirely. The meeting ended shortly after that, and the entire ride home Jane ranted about Gemma and her suspicions that Gemma didn't like her. I sneaked into my sister's liquor cabinet that night after everyone had gone to bed. After I began to feel some alcohol induced relief, I popped another Xanax and went to bed. The whole day had been stressful and incredibly awkward and embarrassing, and the wedding was still months away. I couldn't help but wonder what my husband thought of everything that happened, but I didn't have the courage to deal with whatever he might say.

In the months between the terrible wedding planning debacle and the actual wedding, I fired Jane after she lost the second dress I had bought her for the wedding. Also, my husband and I got into our first serious argument that I described in the previous post. As the wedding date got closer the pressure and stress became seemingly endless. I was beginning to fall apart at the seams, and that was starting to become apparent to others. I hate it when that happens, it is really frickin' embarrassing.

Transparency

A couple of nights before the wedding, I went to a small, intimate dinner with some of the people that were directly involved in the wedding. At first, I felt relieved. I knew everyone there very well, and I didn't feel like I had to filter what I said, or pretend that I was doing well. I wasn't. In an unguarded moment, I made a joking toast over dinner that went something like: "Well, we are all crazy here, so I feel very much at home!"

Shhhiiitttt!!!Now I'm the one that made everything awkward

One person at the dinner did not appreciate my joke/toast, Valentina, one of my bridesmaids. This was exceptionally uncomfortable because I hold Valentina's opinion in very high regard. I very much care what Valentina thinks of me.

The next day, I was meeting with Gemma to discuss the final, last-minute details of the wedding reception when my phone started blowing up. It was Valentina, and she didn't to be in my wedding anymore because the toast I made the night before had greatly offended her. She had decided at the last minute that she would not be in my wedding. I nervously read her texts while continuing to discuss the details of the wedding with Gemma and my husband. Something was wrong, and everyone could tell: my phone was blowing up for ten minutes, and my pain and anxiety continued to increase every time my iPhone made the "bing" noise to notify me of an incoming text. I rushed through the details of the wedding so I could escape from the coffee shop and cry in private. When we walked out, my husband and I sat in the park across the street and I just cried and vented. He was there for me, and I felt so relieved that I would be starting a new life with him. He was always very even-keeled and supportive.

After I had pulled myself together, we went over to the People's Pint so I could find some liquid courage. I had a couple of drinks, calmed down, ran an urgent errand for the wedding. We then proceeded up to Valentina's house in an attempt to resolve the conflict. When we arrived, her and her husband came out of the house and confronted me in the driveway. She informed me how offended she was and why. I just backed down and agreed that I was wrong in order to smooth things over so I wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of having to explain why this very near and dear friend had suddenly decided that she didn't want to be a part of my wedding. When I finally thought we had come to some resolution, she confronted me about my drinking. I lost it. I argued with her brutally before getting back in the car and driving to the bed and breakfast where I was staying. Before we left, she confirmed to me again that she would not be a part of my wedding, and perhaps would not even attend my wedding. That particular person and her family would have been a very noticeable absence at the wedding. That absence would have wounded me for the rest of my life, and would have been absolutely humiliating for thereon after.

At the bed and breakfast, I wracked my brain for a solution to my certain humiliation. I decided that I would find someone else to replace her. Everyone that I was close to had already been asked to be in the wedding and had already either accepted or declined. My best friend couldn't be there because it was enormously cost prohibitive for her, and I started to feel very vulnerable. At that point, I very uncomfortably turned to my husband's friends in order to fill Valentina's void. It was massively awkward and uncomfortable to ask people I had only known for a few years, but I was pretty desperate at that point. One of them consented, and I put the rest of the mess on the back-burner for the time being.

Within the next day, people began to arrive for the wedding. My bridesmaids helped a lot in smoothing over all the rough edges and keeping me calm. My husband disappeared around that time because he had to attend to his own family and friends. My best friend from high school was in my bridal party and doing her best to keep my spirits up. However, she lived locally, and was not staying at the bed and breakfast with me. I started to feel isolated and lonely at night. Everyone was busy, and there were a lot of long gaps of time where I was alone with little else to do but ruminate on my many worries. I know that people would have been there for me if I asked, but I was too humiliated to talk about all the drama that had been going on. Around that time, Valentina reluctantly agreed to be a part of my wedding party again, but we were still on a very shaky peace.

Finally, the night before the wedding, my old friend from England arrived. He had just gone through the break-up of a very long, very serious relationship. Neither of us were in the best of spirits, so his presence offered me enormous comfort. I was also able to confide in him about my drinking, the conflicts that had occurred, and my general unhappiness about the event.

We slept in separate twin beds in his room that night because I was too nervous and depressed to sleep in my room alone. We drank quite a bit with the other wedding attendees and I went to bed.

The next morning I woke up sober and completely overwhelmed. I was afraid I was going to have a panic attack. I realized that I had left my Xanax in my husband's belongings, and I desperately needed it. He sent over his friend's wife, who had agreed to be a part of my bridal party, with my bottle of Xanax. I popped my Xanax and continued to drink champagne as I got ready for the wedding ceremony.

This isn't risky at all! And besides, it is for a good reason!

My husband and his brother stopped by in between the golf game and the wedding pictures that morning. I made nervous, self-deprecating jokes in attempt from inadvertently revealing to my husband that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown on our wedding day. I think I did a good job minimizing how unraveled I had become. I didn't want to ruin his wedding day just because I was having a meltdown. However, when they were leaving, his brother shot me a look. I can't be sure, but I got the impression he was on to me and the haphazard cover-up over my wedding breakdown.

 A couple of my bridesmaids were late for hair and make-up. One of them was Valentina, and I remained worried in spite of my haze of alcohol and Xanax. Gemma came to the bed and breakfast and talked to me while I was getting ready. I could tell from her eyes that she knew I was having trouble as well. I seriously wish I was not so transparent when I fall apart! We all pushed on, and went to take the wedding pictures before the ceremony. My buzz started to wear off during the lengthy photo shoot, and everything started becoming a little too real for me. On the way to the wedding ceremony, I made the driver stop at the liquor store so I could buy a couple of vodka shooters.

In the basement of the church, I shamelessly pounded my vodka shooters in front of my husband's groomsmen. I already felt exposed and I was about to stand up in front of almost everyone I knew, as well as everyone my husband knew. I was petrified that everyone would see right through me--see my stress, see my fear, see my embarrassment. I felt entirely transparent.

Right before the ceremony, I went upstairs and continued drinking with my bridesmaids in the back room. On the way up, I ran into one of my cousins' husband. He shot a look right through me--but his was a look of judgement. It was not a kind or concerned look like the others. I put it out of my head and went on with the wedding.

As I got married, the rush of alcohol and Xanax hit me, and I started to feel OK. I did my best to look happy and excited. I searched the expressions of my husband's family members to see if they had any indication of how uncomfortable I felt or what a fake I was. They seemed OK.

The alcohol started to wear off as the wedding reception started. People were having a good time, so I felt less concerned about having to put on my happy face. I sat down at the table and relaxed. For a moment, I left my expression unguarded. I looked over, and my cousin was looking right at me. He knew I was miserable, and in some way that was quite comforting. It all would be over soon anyway.


To be continued..TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR THE EPIC CONCLUSION OF THIS SECOND ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL!