Chapter 4: Nice Life if you can get it

Harry and I dated for a couple of years before our wedding day. Our relationship was tumultuous and passionate. And toxic. Yet we didn't realize it then. Or, at least I wasn't aware of the toxic behaviors, nor what that meant. There were days filled with complete bliss, laughter, and sexual chemistry off the charts. There were also days and months filled with miscommunication, silence, deceptions, and abuse. We could go from making love numerous times a day to Harry calling me "Bitch" or "C**t" at any moment in the same day. Mostly, this was an effort to change focus when I would question his lies and deceptions.

But, for this chapter, I thought I would describe more of the "why" in why I stayed and ultimately married him and continued to stay for 13 years of marriage. It could also shed some insight into why some domestic violence victims may remain in an unhealthy relationship with their perpetrators. Years ago, I had questioned "why" a victim would stay in an abusive relationship. I thought to myself, "why wouldn't a victim simply leave?" I realize now that I was judgmental without having walked in another person's shoes or having any actual knowledge or insight about domestic violence. I have since educated myself and, unfortunately, walked the walk. I no longer ask the judgemental "why".

Harry surprised me with a trip to Aruba, departing from New York the day after he ran the New York marathon. He told me to pack a bag for a beach vacation before leaving for New York. As you may imagine, I was thrilled! Even more thrilling, he proposed to me while we were on a romantic catamaran sunset cruise. He later told me he was planning on dropping to one knee after he crossed the marathon finish line, but a few deterrents occurred along the way. He became injured along the way (still finishing the marathon), delaying his anticipated finish by about two hours. My girlfriend and I tracked him along the course- trains, buses, taxis, and walks, while enjoying sips of tequila (as one does when not participating?!). By the time he arrived at the restaurant where he had told us and a few others to go on ahead, we were all pretty "happy", shall we say. Unfortunately, he had written his proposal out on paper, in French, which was drenched in sweat by his point. I have to admit that it was a lovely gesture. Nonetheless, it waited until Aruba.

Harry was beautifully romantic and chivalrous for much of our dating life and marriage. The Jekyll side of Mr. Hyde. He took great care in walking on the outer side of the sidewalk, insisted on holding my hand or having his arm around me, or would sweetly say to me, "You are too far away from me" if I wasn't sitting close enough, pulling me closer to him. He was an incredible cuddler (at times, even too tightly), kissed me almost every time he would leave the room, was a wonderful party host, and funny. He was intelligent, had an outstanding career with fabulous perks, welcomed my kids into his life as though they were his own, and eventually grew to love my family. He was generous to all.

We had fabulous dinner parties in Chicago and lovely soirées in our French garden. We took joy in the tandem planning of the menu and cocktails, prepping and cooking together, and cleaning up afterward. We had friends all over the world and, for the most part, had a blast traveling together, whether visiting wineries, meandering a foreign city, or sharing a group boating excursion. Our Director from House Hunters International claimed we were "the most romantic couple" she had the pleasure to direct. We also enjoyed our quiet time together. Whether while reading a book or dancing in our beautiful garden, beach days, walks, bubble baths while chatting about our goals, snuggling by the fire while watching movies and eating popcorn with our dog, theater, concerts...

Bonus- he loved shopping with me! He would love to pick out clothing for me, holding it up while exclaiming, "Let me see how this would look on you", as he dropped it on the floor while laughing because he would imagine taking it off me. We would walk store to store, breaking for periodic wine breaks and people watching at a nearby cafe. Harry would shower me with beautiful gifts of Louis Vuitton, jewelry, shoes, a fur coat, a surprise trip, or highly sought-after theater tickets. He even insisted I had such excellent fashion sense that we needed to open a boutique together! Which we did. He would come to work with me here and there, sipping wine, and it was a fun joint venture for a while. Unfortunately, we opened at an awful time just before the market crashed. And, to be honest, I wasn't great at pushing sales. Luckily, the closing of the shop provided the perfect opening for us to be able to live abroad.

I was fortunate, a spoiled gal, and I still feel gratitude for those times together and the beautiful memories I now have. However, there is no question that I had paid the price; my mind and lack of boundaries were "bought and paid for". Much of it felt dreamy at the time. What wasn't so dreamy was waking up to the nightmare of Mr. Hyde. As is the case with many domestic violence situations, the abuse doesn't rear its ugly face from the start. It builds slowly and continuously with the need for power and control, and thus, the cycle of domestic violence begins with love bombing as an enticing drug. However, as time passes, the duration of the love-bombing cycle becomes shorter.

Although I'm not qualified to diagnose Harry as a narcissist, it was at the suggestion of our marital therapist of approximately four years and my individual therapist that I considered the possibility. And ironically, just before they offered their insights, I was shocked when my wonderful girlfriend of 40 years, who had stayed with us for a week in France, suggested this possibility after she departed. Harry and I had already been struggling for years with our marriage during this time. She sent me an article regarding narcissists and their behavior, and while reading it, I had my first panic attack. It also brought to light that I had been in numerous relationships with this same personality type, just to a lesser degree. Please don't misunderstand; naturally, we all have some degree of healthy narcissism in our makeup, but hopefully, it doesn't extend into unhealthy, abusive, and controlling tendencies.

It didn't take long after I went down the giant rabbit hole, researching everything I could find on the subject, that I had more panic attacks. Uncontrollable sobbing, sleepless nights, bottles of wine, smoking, anger, rumination, confusion, begging God to "take me", and forgetting to eat became my new "norm". I was questioning everything, including my sanity. Was this love? Was he capable of feeling genuine love? Did we still love each other? Was I to blame for his rage or abuse? Was it my fault he had an emotional affair or became addicted to porn? Was I bi-polar or a sociopath as he had claimed I was during our final year together? Fortunately, I was in the gentle care of my therapists; I then had signed on two- weekly. One to help me gain my self-worth and strength back- emotionally and physically, and one who was there to help me process my anger and depression and keep my fears in check. They worked in tandem and ensured that I knew I was neither bi-polar, a sociopath, a narcissist, nor the other numerous mental health diagnoses as I questioned my sanity through the ugly divorce. And to ask the poignant question, "Are you feeling suicidal?", from time to time. I clearly remember that during one dismal week during the divorce period, I had to answer "yes". Thankfully, I had the most incredible "success team" one could ever ask for—friends, neighbors, doormen, and a team of doctors who constantly watched over me and allowed me to cry. I'm sure a few angels as well. However, it was certain that one person was not- my soon to be Ex. Harry was already off pretending to be "Prince Charming" to someone else and fighting to destroy me further. Nonetheless, this is for another chapter.

It wasn't until after my divorce and investing in deep personal work that I became aware of the type of partner I had been attracted to and attracted. Although my Mother had some imperfections (don't we all?!), she also showed love through gift-giving, shopping, hosting over-the-top holidays and parties, grand gestures and, unfortunately, high expectations of perfection. This type of behavior and how love presented itself was what was the "norm" for me. Growing up, I was born into an environment where I was "trained" to be a lil' princess. Interestingly, "gifts" is not one of my top love languages.

As early as age five, I remember being taken to beautiful "adult" restaurants- sipping kiddie cocktails while wearing adorable dresses, patent leather Mary Janes, and bows in my perfectly coifed pigtails or bun "pouf", as she called it. I slept on pressed bedsheets, and at age seven, I had a more oversized bedroom than any master bedroom I've slept in as an adult. That enormously large room actually creeped me out, to be honest. In that same room, I would retreat while having a tantrum and told that I could not come out until I had a smile on my face and was "company ready". I don't recall what the tantrums were about, but I think that the demands put upon me by my Mother to be perfectly adorable probably had something to do with it. Although it's understandable not to allow your child to throw tantrums in public, there is a balance in the standard "children should be seen and not heard", which was in full effect in our household. We didn't speak of feelings. However, my feelings were expressed in my wordless-solitary tantrums.

In junior high, I took a home economics sewing class. I remember feeling so embarrassed and angry because my Mother would not allow me to make the same dress that all the other girls had to make, which afterward, we were to show off in a fashion show proudly. Having no choice or feelings allowed in the matter, my Mother insisted to the teacher that I make a pastel pink dress with puffed sleeves and a waist-tied bow. I was mortified. That was so not cool for an almost-teenager! Although I no longer was having childish tantrums, I believe this is one of the moments when I learned how to be silent and "smile through". It certainly was not a helpful lesson as I ventured into adulthood.

My self-worth became limited to a smile, negative self-chatter, pressed clothing, a perfectly decorated and maintained home, and the appearance of a happy family. And sometimes, when I couldn't stand by and smile any longer, I would break things while alone—small things, like a glass or frame; nonetheless, a private tantrum. And, still not "okay", nor a healthy way to deal with squelched emotions. I'm reasonably sure that my wanting to have constant boyfriends during my teen years was my effort to seek outside approval away from the disapproval I felt in my home environment—the endless "shoulds" and judgment. If I received an "A" on a test, it "should've been an A+.

I can now chuckle to myself about how years ago, I was engaged to the same man three times, and he gave me three different engagement rings! I will call him- "Lars". He was six feet four inches tall, a European ex-semi-pro soccer player, bald (which I thought he carried off very well even before it was trendy), a "guys-guy", with smiling German eyes and a fantastic laugh. I felt like a petite little charm in his arms. I didn't quickly fall for him; nonetheless, he ultimately won the full attention of my affections.

To my delight, he would shower me with random Tiffany boxes filled with a trinket or have lovely clothing that he had shopped for and laid out on the bed. He would take me on romantic getaway weekends and beautiful evenings out at fabulous restaurants where I would arrive to find a dozen roses and champagne on the table waiting for me. He would take my kids and me for boating days. He was "there" for me when my Father passed away and bought my brother a cat he had fallen in love with. A few years after, we ended our relationship for good. Later, after he had completed a well-known weekend seminar where they strongly encourage you to offer or ask for forgiveness, he returned with apologies. Perfect timing as he became a support to me after a relationship I had just ended. I guess one could call that "closure". In the end, Lars was the only man I had officially become engaged to that I didn't marry. I'll leave it at that- it was a good thing as I learned he was not the most "loyal" of chaps, and he has taken up enough space in my life.

Then came good ol' "Juan". A pilot. Possibly this tells enough of the story and I could leave it here, but... We worked for the same airline, so traveling was easy for us. And we did. Our first date was a weekend motorcycling through October's colorful foliage in Vermont, where on day two, he addressed me as "Mrs. Amy his last name". WTF?! We boated in Miami and traveled with my Mom to Paris- where he gallantly dropped to one knee to ask me to marry him in front of her as we strolled along the Seine together, under the star-filled sky. Fortunately, a ring never made it official as he, too, was a bit of a philanderer. However, afterward, I enjoyed getting to know his ex-girlfriend, a fellow flight attendant, and one of his "proposals" before me. He claimed she was a bit crazy, as he claimed the same about me. To be clear, we were, and are, both very sane. As I think back, the stories of this time are unbelievable, and my oblivion and nativity stymie me. However, it makes perfect sense that my Mother liked him; however, it was later revealed that the rest of my family didn't care for him much.

I eventually learned more about Juan's true character. But, it wasn't until I awoke years later that it had occurred to me the emotional abuse I experienced- the crazy-making, love bombing, deception, being told I had to end friendships, and gaslighting from Juan had primed me perfectly for Harry. I was told that my feelings were "wrong" and that I was unworthy unless I changed everything about myself- how I spoke and behaved. He would gently stroke my forearm and tell me that he wanted to "help me". Sadly, I tried. I genuinely thought this also was "love". It was not.

Not to be left out, there was good ole' Husband number three before Lars and Juan. I had believed that he was just an ordinary great guy, and for the most part, he was and probably still is today. #Three had a kind face and presence and was a bit of a dreamer like me, possibly even more so. We lived in two different states, so we became engaged just months into our courtship. It would appear that I was still in a deep state of nativity, co-dependency, and lacking self-worth, as I was still going through my divorce from my second husband! I can still picture my soon-to-be ex-husband's jaw-dropping when he saw I had an engagement ring saying, "you're engaged?!!!!". What can I say- "Always the Bride, never the Bridesmaid"!

I have to admit that it was the most dramatic and fantastic engagement event I had ever experienced. And that's saying a lot from me. We were to go for dinner in San Francisco while I was visiting him. He had designed for us to walk by FAO Swartz at the perfect time when a human toy-solder would march over to the large picture window we peered into and invite us into the store after hours. We did accept the invitation, of course. Without a word spoken (after all, he was impersonating a toy soldier), he directed us to take the escalator to the second floor, where a child's table, two chairs, and a dozen roses awaited our arrival. It was surreal, and I had no idea what was happening or about to happen. After we were seated, the toy soldier marched over and presented me with a huge box filled with a life-size teddy bear. To my immense surprise, #Three pointed to the teddy bear's neck bow holding the engagement ring. How could I have possibly replied with anything other than an ecstatic "yes"! I quickly moved to San Francisco, we had a beautiful wedding in Sausalito, and we divorced approximately three years later. The divorce, too, took me by surprise; "surprising guy," I guess one could say?!

I had built a successful wedding planning business during our marriage, which was apropos, and continued modeling at some trade show gigs. At the same time, #Three's career was taking some hard hits during the recession of the 90s. Although he was intelligent and graduated from a top university and master's program, sports marketing was no longer a priority for a company's budgeting. And unfortunately, during this time, understandably, he was diagnosed with depression. I had returned from a trip to Chicago, and as soon as we had arrived home, he quickly told me he wanted a divorce. Although we had had some struggles during this time, I felt utterly blindsided and a tad bit lost.

He and I had a ton-o-fun, whether we were in box seats at various major sporting events, went to the Olympics, took trips to Tahoe and Napa, or enjoyed lovely friendships with other couples. My kids liked him and vice versa. Fortunately, he and I developed a light friendship during the years to follow, including him and my first ex-husband becoming friends! It is still somewhat unbelievable to me, but he stayed at my ex-husband's home when he came into town for my son's high school graduation, afterward enjoying a "family dinner" together. I found it surprising when my first ex and his new wife suggested #Three and I get back together as a couple. Thankfully, I had finally learned "something" (!!!) and said "NO" without hesitation.

So, why then did I stay with Harry so long? I could use my fallback answer that I would occasionally tell people during our struggling marriage while laughing, "I'm too old now to get a divorce. Too tired.". Although there was some truth to my sarcasm, it wasn't the whole truth. The moments of Jekyll were outrageously fabulous, what I had grown accustomed to, and I couldn't imagine anything that could replace the magical spell of the life we had created together. At times, I felt like a princess without a care in the world. Whether I was waking up to him bringing me coffee to bed with a little cookie on the side or his handling all our finances, which I hated. But then, there were those moments when my eyes would open in the morning and he would scream at me while I tried to greet the new day or needed to apply Arnica to my bruises. It increasingly became more difficult to ignore as I began to open up or sobbed to a few of my close friends. One told me, "I don't want to plan your funeral". Now, that will wake a person up more than any gloriously prepared cup of coffee.

Today, one may hear me saying, "I have lived a full beautiful life. It's okay when it's my time to go. I'm good." I honestly feel this way and am truly grateful. Please don't misunderstand; although there was an excruciating time during "Harry" that I no longer wanted to exist, I do not wish for this now. I have genuinely loved and lived life to its fullest. I have learned more lessons than one may need to know in a lifetime. Yet, I still believe in love and romance. I'm just smarter about it now.

And I'm Alive to do so—Sans tantrums.