31: Desperately Seeking Losin'

CHAPTER 31

Desperately Seeking Losin'

Though I was forever contemplating the true ring within Maggie's words regarding Tanya, a portion of my heart still agonized over Tanya's unknown fate as I had no idea if I would ever see her again. Still haunted by the brainwashing I endured, I carried heavy doubts as to whether or not I would ever be able to at least explain my passage as to what separated our paths.

I knew that the longer she and I were apart, the chasm between us would only grow by every ounce of Jehovah programming that fed her system. Having once shrivelled beneath their posse pressure, I sensed the lifespan of her mind's independence was rapidly shrinking.

Out of a desperate desire to at least know she was OK, I hired an investigator to do a little checking. He told me Joe immediately married a Jehovah divorcee with a young son. I was given a slip of paper with their new local address.

Cowering low in my car, behind fear and dark glasses, I sat outside their home for what seemed like a year of hours, hoping for a glimpse of Tanya. Though I never saw written proof, the Auctioneer lawyer told me I was banned by the courts from ever seeing her again. As he warned: “If you don't want to be arrested and tossed in the clinker, you better stay away! They’re Jevhovah’s, so, face it, you are religiously unacceptable.”

Sure! Now I bet the Auctioneer's “stay-away” counsel was part of his buy-out deal with the cult. Sure! Now it seems ludicrous that I bought his bull. Having become more legally savvy, I'm flabbergasted by how I was advised and how I bowed, without question, to all his official intimidation. But bow I did as I still felt like an alien to society.

I was still operating on the polluted fuel that I as a person didn't matter. And that to survive and be a good girl, I had better stay out of other people's way, voice no personal opinions, keep my wants and needs undercover, and never cause the smallest wave with my opinions. By being a good girl and obeying this patriarchal lawyer, I felt I was doing my best not to hurt anyone, especially Tanya.

Now I see the main person I hurt was me who spent years kicking myself for how easily I let my kid-hood disc of I'm not good enough control my adulthood mommy decisions.

Throughout those lookout sessions, I used my unlimited solitary time to figure what my next step ought to be, though I now see I was working with a limited reference disc. I still thought I had no right to see the papers I was told to sign for the court regarding my divorce and her custody. I figured I'd never know what happened. I felt my only recourse, in order to be socially OK was to back off.

Running on scant data, I assumed it was futile to hire another lawyer, even if I had the big bucks, if I didn't have a socially proper image for the court. Joe was married. I wasn't even dating.

My life was consumed with working day and night to build a secure career and survival account. I was determined to never again let my freedom be stuffed into another's hip pocket wallet, be it an ex-mom or mate.

Though ignorant of my rights, I was beginning to learn the court system was simply one more Show & Sell arena where Truth matters less than who hired the fastest gun.

By dwelling on that assumption, I felt I didn't have a hope in heaven to even think of gaining joint custody of Tanya if I didn't marry again. With that passing thought I unsuspectingly asked Kismet to rock it to me.

Ergo! At the most delicious point to date, when I was achieving successful creative and sociable independence, financial solvency and brimming with great feelings of my personal worth, I unconsciously flung open the door to the most intimate area of my soul yet to be resolved: my ability to discern who I needed to fall in love with, and why, before making any emotional commitment.

Considering the El Slicko who was galloping over the horizon, I'd soon have the chance of my life to discover the strength of my spirit via the most challenging opponent ever to my self-esteem.

Bespeaking the fact: Often our most hostile adversary, who shovels the greatest muck onto our personal liberation, may be (albeit subconsciously) providing us with the greatest challenge for growth, if we accept the setup as a crossroad and not as a dead end.

Understanding how we karmicly re-up with souls we dealt with in prior journeys, I know there are many people who reappear in our lives just so we can finally gain the guts to tell them to: “Get lost!” They reappear until we're finally unwilling to accept the negativity they seek to saddle us with.

Fate was about to set me up for a date with one of those Goodbye-Whirls. Guess I'd grown strong enough to handle the next seminar in Hard Knocks R U called: Life Battering.

My knight in stunning armor was Les. A rebel with a cause. Cause being the need to arbitrarily rebel without regret or excuse.

As I look back at that battleship, I'm amazed by how little our 2 year clash remains in my memory bank. How quickly I deleted that nightmare, despite how often I felt the refrain of: Don't he make my brown eyes back and blue!

And, despite the untold sleepless nights, I cowered in the back of closets (again!), or clung to the floor to avoid his deep slaughter attacks that exploded from a multitude of trigger points such as a male stranger glancing my way in a cafe, or my not having placed his potato properly on his dinner plate, or simply because it was Tuesday 6:12 p.m. and he had nothing else to do but rearrange my face with a quickie game of kickball.

Though I think in my haste to cut to the chase, I'm racing past how this little marriage made in hell happened.

My one-woman creative agency had expanded to where I opened a second office in Montreal. Though I despised the bone freezing winter cold, I loved that city. It was delicious, fashionable, and so romantically tempting. It was where I lost my struggle to close down my heart. And, during early springtime, vulnerability seductively flew into my tummy on the wings of fluttering butterflies.

One of my record clients threw a lavish promo party at a downtown cafe/disco. An album for which I did the cover art was being released. I was often asked to show for such openings to sign the albums for which I did the artwork, along with the performer signing. I never thought it was unusual, just fun.

The acceptance and compliments for my contribution were even headier than the champagne that amply flowed.

As I danced and giggled one fated night away, riding a perfect career crest, Les entered my lifestyle. He was a promo man for a Montreal TV station. He was tall, sandy haired, well dressed and extremely charming.

Under the intoxicating mood of the evening, I wanted to be in love, which is a very lethal mood as it becomes quite easy to let a stranger fly into your heart without inspecting their emotional passport before boarding.

I was flattered by how closely, yet gentlemanly, he stayed with me through the party; how eager he was to learn everything about me; how deftly he unlocked, by way of listening, so many thoughts and feelings I'd kept unspoken.

As we began dating, I learned bits and pieces about his background. The austere kidhood he had in London, his rarely-home dad who was chauvinistic and compulsively gambled, a man who even ante-ed their family home in a poker pot, and lost, leaving the clan of 3 to be suddenly ousted in search of new quarters.

I learned of Beth, his self-sacrificing mom who did everything for him and never complained, nor asked for anything. After what I endured, I figured she was either a saint or sap.

Whatever. At least she did not seem to duplicate Ashley or Dotty. And, maybe (I hoped) this was my chance to gain a real mom, and possibly a real family, in my life after all.

Ms. Sucker must have been desperately tattooed on my persona.

Les and I dated constantly after that night. The mutual commuting added a touch of intrigue to the tryst. I did not figure that absenteeism was also preventing my knowing the full scope of his emotional makeup kit.

Not liking the single lifestyle and wanting the comfort of a one-on-one relationship that seemed so possible in the land of Hepburn & Tracy, Gable & Lombard, Mickey & Minnie, I was most eager to agree when Les suggested we move in together. However, as soon as we did, I discovered I had again linked with a Dr. Heckle & Mr. Hype. My life was replicating the movies — just not the right ones.

The fuse on his temperament shrunk as fast as a wool sweater in a hot dryer. Suddenly the slightest annoyance became his just cause for rebelling and exploding. Not being able to hang a logical reason on these outbursts, made me search for the true cause.

However, since my personal self-esteem muscles had not been strengthened before linking with Les, I was limiting my search to the wrong back alley: mine.

I figured I must be to blame for his gear shift of emotions, this turning of a new grief, as he was still a public charmer. I had yet to learn of the Street Angel-House Devil guise that is so common with abusing mates.

By assuming I must be the cause of the chaos, I figured I was obligated to right this romance-turned-tragedy. If I just worked harder to give it my all, if I tried harder to make him happy, comfy and secure, everything would be terrific. We could return to the tingle of our first meeting.

I rationalized this flip-flop personality could not be the real Les. Maybe he was stressed by overwork. Maybe he was tired. Maybe I wasn't as terrific as he hoped. Maybe I was just not serving the right dinners. Maybe I ought to perm my hair, or buy prettier clothes. Maybe be another me. Maybe.

I was rerunning an old script, creating endless excuses and avoiding the Truth by weaving yet a cover for another. It took a while to recognize I had fallen into the same old pit — I had just entered through a different trap door.

His verbal degrading and arbitrary tantrums soon turned tangible. I learned the hard way that his favorite indoor sport was abuserobics: emotional, financial and physical.

Though being under the hammer, being ripped apart for being an inferior woman felt very familiar, the physical threats and follow-throughs were devastating, yet not enough to kick my fanny into walking. Not yet.

I falsely assumed my mission was to cure him of his anger and cleanse his system of this toxic rage. I was so sure I could do it and that my Success Express was always just around the corner, that I vowed to hang in for the happy ever after ending that had to exist — or so I imagined.

The No Pain No Gain philosophy was activating in its most destructive darkest rank. No matter how low the blow to my feelings or body, I felt I'd be a sniveling washout to give up. After each round, I'd pick myself up, declare me OK and prepare for the next onslaught. I was like Rocky struggling to go the distance on the gory road to a stamina victory.

With my Les-life becoming so tunnel visioned on restoring him into a nice guy, I was unaware our home life had begun duplicating my kidhood home. I stopped inviting people over to chat and limited all outside conversations on my personal life to: “Everything's just fine. No problems”.

I mingled less at media and promo parties, even though I knew they were essential to my career. I put all my begs in one casket, I shifted all my wants to the back burner and stored them off in the distant outhouse of my life.

I excused his inability to handle his emotions. I felt I gave our life strength by not whining over his downpour of insults, his flood of slurs to my ability and worth, or his roaring tempests of hair yanking and clobbering workouts.

I truly felt by letting him exhaust his weaknesses, I was being strong. By not complaining and by taking more and more of his escalating fury, he'd see the terror of his ways and cease fire.

The only GAIN from the PAIN was that by volunteering as his in-house punching hag, his abuse muscles toughened and he gained further permission to act out his violence by my giving him the license to lame.

The insane gain of strength I thought I was gathering by being able to stay in the ring to tame this mad dog, was fast disintegrating with every look I took in the mirror after each battle round.

Because the issue of wife battering had not yet become a TV or movie topic (for that matter, I had never even heard of a woman who endured such a dis-ease), I thought: I must be the only one living like this. I figured there had to be a reason for this lunacy. However, no matter how I searched, I could not find it.

Via thinking I was the one and only woman to be treated like this, I feared seeking outside help from an uncaring world. And who could I call? I had no family and there were no shelters at that time. Plus, I had the added dread of: What if I reached out for help and turned on a rerun of my kidhood nightmare by hearing: It's what you deserve!

I now admit, although it was not what I deserved, it was what I asked for by staying in it; hanging in with the hope of Les becoming a happy camper seemed like a noble idea. But it wasn't. It was foolish, inaccurate and self-blinding.

I was ignoring the main moral maxim: I had no right to change another even if my assumed mission was to make that person happy. No matter how virtuous the goal may have seemed, it was my goal. Not his. And dueling goals have no future except feeding ongoing and inescapable conflicts between the players.

If two people don't walk the same path with compatible motivations, they go nowhere. Like Jack & Jill, our union was fated for a downhill tumble. My love energy ran smack into verboten territory, as a dueling destination guided us.

The months added up making it harder to leave as I felt that since I had so much time invested, I would be a coward, and a failing fool, to give up.

Wow! Did I have that conclusion ass-backwards!

My motivation to hang in came from feeling sorry for Les.

I know. That's pity, the toxic emotion I now hate, but at that time, I guess I needed to witness the dispiriting dump that pity can drop us into.

Les seemed so desperately in need of love, positive re-enforcement, and a supportive cheerleader. He had an aura of lost faith. The skepticism that poisoned his being seemed critically in need of a joy transfusion. So, I hired me on as his heart surgeon.

Wrong!

I set myself up for a malpractice suit based on a primo healing Truth: Never force treatment on a reluctant patient. And to think I had retained myself as lead physician.

As I studied him, I realized his way of mighting his right was via: intimidating violence, degrading me in public, being unjustifiably jealous, targeting me at punching bag parties for two where I was his soul hate, and he assumed his favorite post as an unrelenting Devil's Advocate. Whatever I said or mentioned, trivial to towering, he seized as a target to argue against. The Devil never had a better advocate.

NOW I know that marital schizophrenia is simply a usual pattern with abusers (thanks to the media). But then, after Les flipped his slug coin while looking at the results of his workout on my bloody, black and blue face and body, and when he would cry and beg forgiveness, yeah, then I forgave … on the outside.

Guess those early programs stuck regarding the traditional martyr line of Turn The Other Cheek so as to love everyone regardless of whether they love you, even when they have no intention of stopping their abuserobics.

Turn The Other Cheek — hmmmm. Though society has centurially served that advice, it fails to say what we're to do when we run out of bruised cheeks.

This docudrama of my past is the main reason I shun the traditional concept of Forgive & Forget. For what does it mean? Should I tell Les it was OK for him to behave like a rabid animal? That we'd pretend it never happened? That he'd never have to take responsibility for his actions? That I had the almighty power to absolve his violence? That I could pardon his spiritual karma? That I could interlope between Les' soul pact with God, whatever it was.

Heavens, no.

Sure, I'm aware that women are said to remain in similar setups out of their lack of self-esteem. But with me it was more of a lack regarding self-awareness of my worth, as I sure wasn't looking out for my emotional welfare. But, there was more to it.

MEANING:

My ego's drive to make a humanitarian con-tribution was far too heart-strong. I truly felt my mission of love could conquer his mission of madness. I thought I could tame his raging bull. Foolishness.

I deceived myself that our union was a cosmic match of Love versus Hate; of Happiness versus Sorrow. I felt if I gave it all the positive love I could crystalize, the good guys had to win. Love HAD to triumph over Anger.

I hired myself as heart director, writer, heroine and stunt woman for this tragic farce. I failed to see this was a real life docu-farce becoming The Punch & Moody Show.

I believed if I could overcome whatever he socked it to me with, one day he'd lay down his warring harms and bring me into his loving arms. If I gave enough I felt he had to evolve into the nice guy I felt sure was hiding somewhere behind his tyrannical facade.

Bull!

I had simply married my own foolish assumption — the Potentiality Vision I imagined for him. I had not married his reality. I didn't notice that while I was struggling to change him, to make him into what he was not and into what he did not want to be, so as to fit my fantasy of a loving husband, he was equally struggling to change me into the skeptical disheartened wimp, full-time sparring partner and life hater that he wanted.

As his passion for physical and emotional abusive contact intensified, his desire for huggy contact plummeted. Sex was a rarity, usually only after a very late night and horrendous explosion when I was too weak or bruised to resist, then he would tell me he wanted me.

But, it was never me, just a body he craved. Sex with Les became an intense motivator for, once again, reactivating my old knack of astral projection. All I felt was: Get this over with, 'cause after all, I have nothing to do with it. This is just a means to stop his erupting volcano from spewing more burning lava.

Les' attitude held an appalling emotional likeness to my kidhood Uncle Scams. Both acted as if I didn't matter. I was there to appease, never to be pleased. The aggressive extent of their trespassing may have differed, but the results were similar: I wanted to vomit and purge under endless showers.

My desire to be anywhere near him dwindled as fast as the supply of my mascara and blusher which Les started dipping into and lavishly applying around his ice chilled eyes.

The hatred he voiced for women was quickly coming out of the closet of his perverted denial.

Why not? Beth, his mom, as I later discovered, was the Madonna of Denial. A sweet, petite lady who turned out to be a very supportive friend to my creativity, but wanted no part of reality. She was firmly attached to her vision of life being “hunky-dory”, seeing her son through blinders that never acknowledged the visual after-socks of her son's violence when she dropped by for a nice cuppa tea.

Then again, I was equally into denial. Playing the quiet martyr role I assumed went with the crusading wife persona, wearing sun glasses on the cloudiest days to cover the bruises makeup couldn't hide. I lied behind many versions of having walked into doors or fallen down stairs when I didn't want to admit to the world, and mainly myself, that there was something very wrong with this wedding picture.

Yes, I had miscalculated the destination of this journey. But, I would never be free to disembark for a new direction as long as I continued to rebook my ticket as Les' derailed caboose, as long as I continued to cover not only for him, but for me as well. I had to realize it was only my ego, my desire to succeed against brawl odds, that was refusing to yell: Uncle! I'm throwing in the scowl! Enough of this slappy everafter ending!

I bought the media message of those days: Stand by your man. My heart had also unwittingly bought the traditional strain that marriage was a lifetime sing. That you must give your all to make it work.

I wanted to believe the fantasy of Until Death Do Us Part. But, the violence escalated so rapidly, I feared Death would be mine, and not from natural causes. Reality forced me to rewrite that directive into: Until Love And Sanity Do Us Part! I then thought there ought to be a new escape written into the divorce books based not on Irreconcilable Differences, but on Unrecognizable Similarities.

I recall the pivotal night when destiny galloped into my ruined union, forcing me to Talk My Thoughts. Les must have inhaled a few too many combustible boilermakers, which detonated his abuserobics to a new level of strain. Ironically, it was triggered from an unplanned encounter we had with Rip Taylor at a CTV show taping. I had visited some friends on the set of The Funny Farm (how apropos!). Les was with me as he never allowed me out of his sight and control. I happened to have had my art portfolio with me. Rip Taylor saw my portrait work, and shouted in his riotous style: “Oh, God! You're fantastic! You must paint me! Who would have thought I'd find you in Toronto — and I don't even have my good hair with me!”

After explaining that I could paint any hair-do he wanted, even a pompadour, I too jumped with joy, fueled by the delight in working with him and the joy I would experience via capturing his vivid personality in water colors.

When he asked me how much, I was prepared to give a far lower bid than normal. It was a private deal and not a corporate purchase, and I soooo wanted some fun in my life.

Before I could utter a price, Les seized my arm, yanked me out to the hallway, and demanded to know what I was going to say. When he heard, he thunderously whispered: “No way, this guy's got bucks! I'm your agent now, get it! You're too stupid to know how to milk this deal! So, shut up when we go back in there, or I'll make sure you can't talk again! Don't blow this for me!”

The wet electric blanket of his mandate curdled my joy into acrid Jello. When we returned to Rip's dressing room, Les pulled him into a private powwow. Les never told me what was said, but I saw Rip Taylor's face grimace like a sucked-in Mr. Apple head and his beaming smile transform into a baffled scowl. Somehow, I felt the guillotine drop on this possibility for me. Mr. Taylor's rapid disappearance into his restroom and his slamming the door, told me it was time to depart this scenario.

Les' screams that I had destroyed his (Les'?) opportunity punctuated every inch of our drive home. As his decibel level went through the car roof, his blood vessels reddened his face with crimson crazies. As was his style, the madder he got, the more he felt he was the invincible James Bond in a high speed chase, running cars off his lane, and daring drivers to play chicken with him. This did not thrill me as he always aimed my side toward the potential accident scene.

At the top of my nightmare rerun list, that drive has forever remained as the epitome of Hell On Wheels.

Throughout the chase, racing from no one except Les' arrogance, I repeated over and over to myself: Act don't react. Act don't react. Act don't react.

Unfortunately, the rumble of his anger overrode my GUT Buddy's voice seeking to calm my horror from his explosive TNTs (Too Nasty Tantrums).

Details aren't important, but by the time we entered our home, his fists, free of the driver's wheel, were warmed up to wield his anger on my resistance to agreeing that I was the “downfall” of his success. After a too long Rocky Road round of bloody madness, I was left on the floor after having faked unconsciousness.

Les left and roared off in his sports car, and a neighbor who had heard my screams dared to approach our place and knock on our door to see if I needed help. She said she hadn't called the police “for fear of getting involved” but she got scared when everything became so ominously quiet.

Our home that I deliciously decorated with loving dreams was a disaster of disarray as if hit by a raging earthquake.

Then again, it was.

My mind swarm with confusion, my stomach churned with humiliation for what I'd let happen to me. I could replace my shredded clothes, broken lamps, mirrors and stuff, but I feared my face might be beyond repair — this time.

Exhausted with despair, death seemed to beckon like a grateful peace.

The neighbor drove me to the emergency room where I had become a steady customer. After a flurry of impersonal activity, my torn clothes were replaced with a cold white sheet. Oddly enough in that scenario, because white is my favorite color, I sensed I was being wrapped in a familiar shroud of spiritual safety.

As they loosely strapped the security belt around my waist so I wouldn't fall, I didn't realize the upcoming significance within the flight I was about to take. My flight into the light of the unknown — and the known.