Divorceymoon Part I

So, I finally moved out of my marital home and stopped talking to my husband. It happened over a series of months, and a series of uncomfortable realizations.

First, I'll be honest: my husband and I had continued to be physically intimate, flirtatious and friendly until Thanksgiving of this year. In spite of everything that had happened, the relationship was still a lot more comfortable to stay in than it was to leave. Garrett and I get along, we laugh a lot, we genuinely care for each other.

That being said, there was a tipping point for me that occurred around Thanksgiving. Preceding this tipping point, I had reconnected with, and been emailing off and on with the first man I genuinely fell in love with--mind you, this was an adolescent love interest that was never able to come into full fruition because he was five years older than me. When I met him (and obsessed about him for years), it would have been both illegal and unreasonable for anything to actually happen. He did promise me though, that one day, when I was older, things would be different.

I kept in touch with this man, on and off, over the years and wondered about him from time to time. Among other things, he always reminds me of what it felt like when my heart was young, pure and undamaged by the battlefields of adult relationships. There is something about him that is still able, after all of these years, to evoke a feeling in me that is truly pure. My feelings for him where not ever about ME, how he made ME feel, or what he could do for ME. In fact, it was more about HIM--how interesting and exciting HE was, how kind and genuine HE is, and the indescribable beauty I have always seen, and continue to see, in HIM. I do, and have always, deeply admired who he his, and how he lives his life.

When I reconnected with him this fall, I was a bit taken aback about the fact that he was exactly how I remembered him being: intelligent, interesting, curious, well-spoken, and above all, very, very kind and considerate. Unfortunately, he is also married to a beautiful, talented, and interesting woman. Exactly what I would have expected of him. And, in a sense, that was comforting. Often I have felt that when I reconnected with past loves, they were very different than I had remembered--and to be honest, I struggled to understand what the initial attraction may have been about. In this case, it was comforting to know that he was perhaps even better than I could have really appreciated in my youth, and I had shown good judgement in my attraction to this man. And, that he had chosen a mate that seemed very appropriate for him. I felt happy about this.

I also felt very emotionally attracted to him, and struggled with the morality of my most basic interactions with him, knowing my own feelings, and knowing that he was committed to another. While we were merely catching up, sharing nostalgic memories of our youths, and talking about mutual interests/passions, I knew better than to trust myself and to trust my motives in such a situation. Thus, I tried to keep things as restrained and appropriate as I possibly could.

The breaking point came when my husband informed me that he was romantically perusing his co-worker who was in a committed relationship/marriage to another man. I noticed that something was "off" with him when he told me that he was going to a rave. Mind you, we are in our 30's. The last time I went to a rave was way, way over a decade ago. And, to my knowledge, my husband had never shown any interest in electronic music or had been to a rave in his life--definite point of curiosity. Next, he texted me to ask how to make pies. Hhmmm..... I gave him my advice and even asked my mother if she had any additional tips. I stopped by the house several hours later to find he had been furiously working on these pies to bring to his co-workers house for the greater part of the day. This, with the attendance at the rave, and his changes in communication patterns had risen some red flags. I had noticed the day before that he had not replied to my texts about some plans we had. Garrett always responds to my texts about practical matters. Perhaps he doesn't respond to every text about how cute or special the dog is, but he definitely responds promptly to practical matters.

At this point, I confronted him, and he confessed. I know how to draw answers out of my ex-husband, and I did. He informed me of his feelings for his co-worker, his ongoing relations with her, and that he was going to this woman's house, and was going to have dinner with her and her partner.

This bothered me. Initially, I couldn't put my finger on exactly why, it but I knew that I didn't like it. After over a month of pondering over the matter, I have concluded that him having dinner with his new love interest and her beau was not only odd, but it was deceptive, sneaky, callous, and inconsiderate. This sort of encapsulated my own experience with him during our relationship and marriage. And for me, it was enough for me to see that it was time to cut ties and truly, completely move on.

So, I blocked him from all social media, said what I needed to say to move on, and then blocked his phone number.

Unfortunately, this whole situation caused me to evaluate my own motivations and personal integrity. I wasn't necessarily happy to face the fact that I was doing something very similar in communicating with a married man, with full knowledge of the fact that, if I was truly honest with myself, I wanted more than just friendship with him. I always have. So, I think it was mutually understood that I needed to pull away for a while. Not to say I would never check in with him again, but I needed to draw back and focus on myself.

That left a bit of a void. But I was determined to move on, and move forward. So, I ended up flirting with a young man that I had seen around, but didn't really know. Smart, fluent in French, attractive. But I'll be honest, I was looking for a shiny object--a diversion from my uncomfortably. As he is in recovery as well, he quickly saw through me and called me out. He did it in a very arrogant, presumptuous way as well, so I did not take too kindly to his observations. My knee jerk reaction was to tell him exactly how self-righteous he came across to me, and that it was inappropriate for him to be advising me on my recovery and personal life when I barely knew the man. Of course, there was truth to what he said, and I knew he was right at the time he said it, but he wasn't entirely correct and I was determined to move forward come hell or high water. And that I did...

Remember FC from my posts more than a year ago? Well, I texted him and suggested that we meet to catch up. Long story short--one thing quickly led to another and we hooked up. It was actually pretty great! I really care about FC and have a deep respect and affection for him, and I believe that I made the right choice. The feeling seemed mutual, and we made plans to reconnect when I got back to Orlando a month in the future--I was traveling to Denmark, Sweden, Ireland, Massachusetts and New Jersey over the holidays, and I expected to be very busy and distracted--and I was.

In any case, my Divorceymoon started out on a very positive and hopeful note--I felt good about where we left things, and I felt very satisfied with my decision, BUT....

To be continued..

On Internet Stalking, Obsession and DIVORCE!

I've been meaning to write for a while, but I haven't been motivated. Unfortunately, for me, the biggest motivator to do something good for myself (like write) is feeling uncomfortable. I can say with confidence that I have felt very uncomfortable during the last week.

Two weeks ago, after a year and three months of separation, my husband and I decided to end our marriage. I cried. I blocked him on my phone. I changed his contact information in my phone to remind myself what I was doing before calling or texting him. In my mind, I've decided that I'm not longer going to hold out hope for a reconciliation. In fact, I'm not entirely sure that is even what I want. 

It stung for a few days. I cried. I had arguments in my head with him that lasted for hours. In these imaginary arguments, I made sure he knew exactly how mean and unfair he was, and how much he hurt me. And after about a week of contemplating my sadness, I randomly talked to this guy at a meeting. I didn't say much, and certainly nothing compelling was exchanged, but soon after the meeting I started thinking about him.

As the days passed, I started thinking about him more. In fact, I could not get him out of my head. I had been seeing him at this very same meeting for about a year, and never really took a keen interest. I had noticed him before, but dismissed it; engaged in only the most minimal ways and then almost immediately forgot about him. Over the last month or two we made eye contact. I briefly spoke with him--thought he was cute, but really didn't feel the need to engage. So what happened last week to totally go from zero to a hundred? From not thinking about him at all to thinking about him constantly?

Yesterday it started to occur to me that I was being slightly ridiculous, and had done something quite similar in the recent past.  

Last month I had a brief obsession with another guy. I saw him at a meeting (a different meeting), didn't bother talking to him, but proceeded to start a relationship with him that existed entirely and ONLY in my imagination. After considerable rumination, I decided his nails were too well groomed, he looked far too fastidiously put together, could perhaps be a serial killer and probably wouldn't let my dog in his bed. So, basically, I had the entire relationship in my head. Turns out we just weren't a match--but he has no idea. In fact, I am sure he has no idea I was even interested in him. And now I'm not, I'm obsessed with some other dude.

After thinking about him A LOT for a day or two, I started calling my friends to ask the typical sorts of questions, "Is he single?", "What is he like?", "What does he do?" , "Should I be concerned?", "DO YOU think he is cute?", "Do you think he would think that I'm cute?" etc.

One of my friends tried to help me Facebook stalk him--but no luck. We didn't even know what his last name was, and he really wasn't friends (on Facebook) with the same people that we are friends with. Then one of my friends told me he was on Instagram. So I got Instagram, and like a total freak, went through several years of his Instagram posts. I surmised about as much as I could about the guy without actually talking to him or getting to know him in any meaningful way. Of course, I'm not going to "put myself out there" without a thorough "background check" (at least that is how I rationalize such creepy behavior in my head).

After a week of obsessing over this new guy, I'm at the point in our relationship (the one that is occurring entirely in my head and not at all in reality) where we have had our first fight. I've already envisioned what we fight about, how he speaks to me, and how I respond. I'm also at the point where I'm questioning whether or not we are a good fit. Mind you, this guy has ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA that I'm even interested. I having given him ZERO indication that he is even on my radar. And something about this is starting to feel a bit absurd. 

I'm not sure what this about, but it is exhausting. I either need to say something, or just drop it. Part of me thinks this is my way of distracting myself from the sadness I feel about my divorce and/or the massive amount of inner work that needs to be done to repair that wound. Another part of me thinks I keep doing this because I am in no way emotionally available. However, part of me also thinks that this is because I am allowing myself to consider the possibility of moving on. And finally, a good part of me thinks this just simple physical attraction. He is tall, very athletic, and has a sort of rugged, exotic quality that I've always found attractive. And he is a little older, and I had resolved to stop dating younger guys soon after my husband and I separated. I have no idea what I'm going to do, or what this is even about. But the point is: I have to stop thinking about it.  

My question is: am I not dealing with the feelings I have about my divorce? OR am I ready to move on after a year and 3 months of separation and dating several other men? I don't know the answer to this question. I vacillate. I have been vacillating for years--even before we got divorced. 

My hope is that, now I'm aware, this situation will help me to reach a point of clarity. So, when I figure out what this is all about, I will write more!

Stop Being Weird, Liz/Be Productive, Liz

Stop Being Weird, Liz (i.e. Stop Googling the History of Ron Howard's Family)

This morning it dawned on me that I've been a little weird the last couple of days. The decent into weirdness was quite gradual, and I only hit my rock bottom when I woke up and started googling stupid shit again--and by stupid shit, I mean stupid, random nonsense that no one really needs to know about.

I feel like this started last Wednesday before I went to mediation for my divorce. I got dropped off at the courthouse three and a half hours before the meeting. This was unfortunate because I had a little too much time on my hands to think about what was actually happening. Free time and thinking are generally not the best for my psycho-social stability. First, I sat down at a diner and tried to do step work for my recovery. However, that quickly got way too deep and a little too boring for the morning of the mediation for my divorce. Then, I started texting everyone I knew saying whatever random nonsense was crossing my mind at that moment. That kept me occupied for about an hour. Finally, I bought and consumed an energy drink, and quickly devolved into repeatedly asking online tarot cards and computer oracles what was going to happen at mediation (Yes, I actually did that).

By the time my lawyer finally arrived, I was crashing off of my energy drink and more or less had deteriorated into Gollum from Lord of the Rings. But rather than "precious" being a powerful ring that held mysterious and magical powers, "precious" became any and every free online fortune telling device on my iPhone. Which, in my opinion, made me way creepier and weirder than Gollum ever was about that ring. I had a seriously crazed look about me as well. Not one of my finest moments.

Soon after, we went into mediation and it seemed like everything was going to be easy breezy. I actually wondered why I had got myself so worked up over it all! Within the first five minutes, my husband's lawyer "accidentally" got my DUI confused with a domestic violence charge. Yeah, because those two offences are so much a like--easy mistake. I'm a buck 10 soaking wet, domestic violence? How did she even come up with that? And how is that in any way comparable to DUI? I immediately burst into tears, and we had to be separated into different rooms. Next, my husband tried to say that there was no equity in the house and that neither of us had any assets. Mediation ended right after that. We spent a grand total of 20 minutes in mediation, and decided it wasn't working out. So, I waited three and a half hours for a 20 minute meeting and spent an hour and a half (or more) asking online fortune telling devices what would be happening during those 20 minutes. None of them predicted that debacle. What a surprise.

I was later informed that it could take up to a year to go to court for the divorce, so I would remain married for the foreseeable future. This was disappointing because I was hoping to take a post-divorce vacation to Ireland this fall in an attempt to meet a hot Irish guy to ease my pain. Damn it.

I had to work long hours four out of the five days after mediation, so I didn't get much of a chance to process it. On my one day off, I let my roommate, Jake, convince me to send a "suggestive" picture to the Italian guy I've been ogling for the last two months. Good life choice, Liz. Please, continue to seek relationship advice from a 25-year old single dude that has gone on more dates this week than you have this entire decade. I'm sure that guy knows EXACTLY how to reel them in. I mean, I've only dated two guys in the last ten years...what do I know? It turns out that I know A LOT. I know a fucking lot! And, in the future, I am going to trust experience won by my AGE and LIFE EXPERIENCE rather than listen to a millennial. It was, however, fun to "live on the edge" for a minute--I'll give it that.

So, acting like a 25 year old millennial towards a grown man with several children didn't work out according to plan. I wonder why. Luckily, I had to work the next day, so I didn't initially overthink it.

Weirdo in the middle

That being said, Tuesday came along and I found myself with three days off in a row. Thus, I was surrounded by my two worst enemies: FREE TIME and THINKING.

On day first day, I read as much of Florida divorce law and case law as possible. When I came to the conclusion that what I read was basically what my lawyer told me (and therefore he knew how to do his job), I became disinterested and decided to focus on the other blunder of that week: the text to the Italian.

I had not received much of a response from him, so I immediately considered every horrible possibility that might have happened. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that he was probably dead and started crying. I mean, that is the next logical conclusion, right? He hasn't texted me in 48 hours, so clearly he's dead. Children at home? Business to run? Break-up to deal with? Those seem a little too plausible if you know what I mean--and let's face it: none of those reasons have anything to do with me, so it doesn't even make sense.

Eventually Jake convinced me that I was being irrational, and he probably got back together with his ex or simply didn't like me. That made me cry even more. When I got back home, I finally decided enough is enough: my face is puffy and my nose is red! I'll just gracefully exit this situation without making any more of a scene than I already have, and refocus my energies on my dog, the potential hot Irish guy that I would eventually meet when I got divorced and took a trip to Ireland, and accept that I would probably be an old spinster-- the dog version of a cat lady. I also decided to write to my friend in England to confirm a backup plan to my backup plan.

Well, now that that was all taken care of, I should be fine, right? Nope. Of course not. In lieu of obsessing about my divorce or humiliating debacle with the Italian guy, I decided to watch every movie I could find on nuclear war. Then I googled all sorts of facts related to nuclear war. Then I wondered if I just got myself put on a watch list because of the content of what I was googling. Then I decided I was already on some sort of watch list because I had googled the same nonsense many times before. My ex actually made me a nuclear weapons blast calculator for my birthday one year. It was one of the most thoughtful, memorable gifts I've ever received. I still have it in case I have to calculate the size of a bomb against my distance from it. Always good to have, just in case.

Soviet weapons Whiz Wheel and nuclear blast calculator!

After I decided my nuclear war obsession was a bit morose, I decided to watch the last season of Arrested Development to cheer myself up. While this initially did the trick, it eventually deteriorated into reading the entire history of Ron Howard's extended family in order to see whether or not it matched up with the plot line of Arrested Development. Very informative, but I remain unsure about the application of such information in my future en devours.

After seeing the total and utter psychological deterioration and demoralization I had suffered as the result of my days off (including the day that I sent the text under Jake's advisement), I decided to call my sponsor, go to a meeting, tell on myself, and do something remotely productive before I went to work today. And this is what I did!!! Ta DAAAAAA!!!! Thank God new episodes of BoJack horseman just came out!

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

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"