Love doesn’t mean I have to accept bad behavior. Love doesn’t mean I have to stick around.
Love doesn’t mean I have to serve Tom dinner, or invite him for Christmas.
I’d confused love with “being nice” for so many years. When Tom put his hands on my throat, I was glad because they showed me who he really was. At the same time, I was ashamed, because I felt I must have provoked him, wanting him to show his true colors. I wanted free of him, and I was glad he put his hands on my throat because then I would be justified in leaving him. I was ashamed because I wasn’t brave enough to just leave. I wasn’t brave enough to say no.
When he said, “You can’t leave me. No one will understand why. I’m a good guy; I don’t beat you,” I believed him.
When he threatened to take my son away from me, I believed him.
When he told me I was a terrible person, I believed him.
I don’t know why I believed those things.
He lied most of the time, I knew. But I choose to believe his lies because over time, it seemed plausible I indeed had become bad.
I did break all the Lincoln Logs in half when my mother told me to take good care of them.
I did cheat on my fourth-grade spelling test, and probably many others.
I did sleep with a married man.
When Tom put his hands on my neck, I thought I deserved it.
Truth is, I’d put my own hands around my neck, long before Tom put his there. He was just the vocalist for hidden lyrics. Sure, Tom carried out his threats, he lied, he bullied. He abused the mind of a young boy. He did all sorts of things that gave me cause to hate him. Hate his guts for all time. But I didn’t hate him. I know why he made all those choices; he was scared too.
I couldn’t save him from his fear; that was up to him. But I could recognize my own.
Now, I was the one who had her hands around my throat, making me afraid to post words on my blog, making me afraid to say what I mean. I told the lies, long before Tom told the lies. I believed the self-doubt long before I believed Tom. I was no longer bound by the delusions or required to align behind their truth. I could now say no.
When you lose your voice, you lose everything. In love, I could remove all the hands from around my neck. Love meant that I could accept my unique path, in my own way. In loving, I could move beyond fear and find my voice. Again and again.
I should thank Tom, really. That horrible, despicable, unlikable man. That funny, laughing, jovial man. I should thank him—for the anger, for the fear that he riled up until it burst out of me so strong that I had no choice but to release, sprout, and fly.
The next day, when I talked to Granny, I came to discover that when the hands were gone, I could breathe again, I could feel again, and I was no longer in a hurry.
“I had a surgery about five years ago. That might explain my craziness,” Granny said, during the quick phone conversation. Granny had always been crazy in the best way.
“I know. I was worried about you,” I said.
“I was worried about me too. I’m of the age to die, you know. I could go up there. Or maybe I’ll go down. I’m not sure which. I don’t have a reservation yet.”
I laughed, loving my grandmother. Loving that I came from her cloth. Thinking that I would like to be her one day. Fabulously crazy.
But I didn’t have a reservation yet either; there was time.
I had cracked the eggshell and found the yolk of a human who had lost belief in herself. I was an ordinary, extraordinary mole with a grandmother and a shredded alibi, expecting others to dish out the self-love and acceptance I didn’t know how to provide to and for myself, from myself. Yet, when I began to spy on the “should I” or “shouldn’t I” from the lens of self-worth, the answers became simple.
I wish I could say that all decisions from that moment on became easy, that I listened to my heart, heard the answer, and put my foot on the gas. Instead, I teeter-tottered still, forgetting, remembering. Forgetting, remembering.
But at that moment, I reveled in the glorious light that there was nowhere I had to be, no success I had to achieve, other than the one I chose. I had no special purposes, except the ones I invented for myself. My life’s meaning could not come from Gabe, or a publisher, or even a child.
Enough of being in the washing machine of marriages and babies!
Following Maureen’s advice, I grabbed a blue Sharpie, along with a pile of sticky notes, and wrote the permissive words a friend of mine had typed on the neighbor girl’s vintage typewriter: It’s okay to be a little crazy and to want to write.
Chapter 25
Pregnant
Gabriel waited for me outside the security gate when I flew home from Maureen’s baby shower.
“Welcome home, my darling.” Gabe, always the excited puppy when we reunited after a day or a week apart, asked, “How was the baby shower?” and took me into a big bear hug.
“Sweet. Fun. Nice. The usual. Cake. Gifts. Women. Maureen has lovely friends.”
“Did she like your yellow gifts?” he chuckled.
“She seemed to.”
He grabbed my computer bag off my shoulder and slung it over his. “So? Do we know the sex?”
“Nope.”
“Still?”
“There was no indication. Nothing predominately blue or pink.”
“Strange.” We walked hand in hand to the car.
“Do you know your best friend once told me I should break up with you if I wanted to have babies.”
“Oh, great.” His voice was playful, gentle, rolling his eyes in laughter as he took my hand in his and walked me to the car. I laughed too, no longer thinking about wanting and not wanting.
When Gabe and I got home, he took me to bed, kissing me, missing me, finding me, and I didn’t think about babies. I was pregnant already, with stories, with love.
Epilogue
What It Took
To complete the first draft, it took being mad. Fighting for space. Fighting for my time. Taping pictures of all the characters to the living room wall.
Then it took taking the collages down when company came. Then taping them back up. Then moving them to the laundry wall, then the bedroom wall.
It took typing words (thousands of them) when I was irritated, distracted, clean, dirty, withdrawn, sick, hungry, cramping from my period, blue, and tired. It took typing words (thousands more) when I was excited, confident, preferring the company of the characters, and high from my month-long cleanse.
It took writing what I didn’t know to write, writing what I did know to write, and loving every minute of it.
It took lying about what I was doing. And telling the truth about it. And knowing these words would haunt me forever if I didn’t write them.
It took polite smiles to the woman at the coffee shop who wouldn’t stop talking to me while I was typing.
It took telling the hands around my neck to “shoo,” to “get, go on, scat.” At times I felt the hands tightening; I wasn’t sure they would ever completely go away. But they no longer had the power to strangle.
It took not being good enough, no matter how hard I tried. It took being willing to say, “The first draft of my novel is done” and that the result is good enough.
OMG, the first draft of my novel was done!
Even though my word count was less that I thought it would be.
Even though the neighbor character that dressed in houndstooth wouldn’t identify himself. And the lake where the heroine lived didn’t have a name.
It took three weekly calls with Ellie, a real person, not a character, to keep me sane.
It took saying “no” to some social engagements and “yes” to others.
It took a lot of girl time so the worries about my parents, money, or how I’m going to keep on living with Gabe didn’t get in the way.
It took morning smoothies and sometimes hiding with my computer under the covers.
It took skipping yoga and adding it back in.
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Sometimes it took vegetables, sometimes it took cookies.
It took wanting and wondering.
Then one morning, it took being willing to accept that, no, I didn’t need to write another thousand words. The first draft was done. The first draft was done. The first draft was done!
Because of it, I reaffirmed, I can count on myself.
Sometimes I am sidetracked, or sideswiped.
Sometimes (every morning!) despair and doubt get in, but I would always bounce back, always have.
And so it continued. . . .
The dog slept next to me, and I wrote.
Emails came, clients called. I wrote.
Holidays lingered, three chocolate truffles remained, and the man in the other room spoke of love and dates and maybe a walk together.
Still, I wrote.
I wrote for Maureen. Because Maureen fell in love with Johnny Rose; she wanted to know what would happen to the little girl.
And I wrote for me because writing brings me bliss. Because it’s how I make sense of fever, grace, yearning, and the shocking joyride of everyday switchbacks.
Thank you, Lisa, for punching out on Ava’s new typewriter the exact words I might have needed to know: It’s okay to be a little crazy and to want to write.
It’s okay to be a little crazy and to want.
Acknowledgments
A special thanks to the doulas who helped birth The Elegant Out:
Corinne, this book began as a gift to you and our friendship. Though it morphed into another story, you are the heartbeat without which this book, and (hello!) life as I know it, would not have survived.
Cameron, all the bold steps I’ve taken have been because of you. I love you more than you will ever be able to imagine until you have your own children. It is my great honor to witness your unique journey.
Wise Women (Annie Rose-Candace-Danya-Ellie-Kate-Lettecia-Martha-Sara-Shoshanna), A women’s circle is a gift. You love me and see the best in me and believe in me, no matter how many years it takes me to come around.
Annie Rose, compadre in writing, editing, life creation, and cursing. Your turn.
Martha, matriarch of proofing. T-God for you. You see what my eyes, having scanned this manuscript a hundred times, no longer can.
The Write Club (Jonathon, Carrie, JoJo, Ryan): A brilliant crew! Remember the first draft? Yikes. Your insights, suggestions, and cut-to-the-chase feedback saved The Elegant Out.
Robin, if you hadn’t strummed your guitar in the back of your SUV at that conference years ago . . . if I hadn’t stopped to sing a song with you, stranger . . . if we hadn’t clicked . . . if you hadn’t turned writing coach . . . if I hadn’t called you that day . . . if you hadn’t believed when I didn’t. . . .
Serena, the ultimate doula. You healed, nourished, ran errands and kept me sane with Clubhouse nights, Netflix binges, The Nerdist podcasts, and yummy Indian food.
Mom and Dad, the original birthers, teachers and material. You made me strong.
Granny, I’ve always wanted to be like you. (Post-completion, Granny’s reservation came. For sure, she went up.)
Monkey Muse, I’m listening. . . .
Ben, more than yesterday, less than tomorrow.
The extraordinary team at She Writes Press: You polished and made this book beautiful and took it over the finish line, supporting me every step of the way. More importantly, you advocate for and support authors’ voices. Amen!
For all of you dear friends and readers who lit the fire under my ass with your constant question: when you gonna finish your book? Do it again, please.
And, dare with me!
xoxo,
About the Author
Praised as a “word colorist” with a distinct lyrical style and unflinching strokes, Elizabeth Bartasius is a writer and editor of transformative stories that inspire and engage. The Elegant Out, her debut novel, placed as a finalist in the 2017 Faulkner–Wisdom Competition. She enjoys European cafes, tropical climates, and list-making. She currently lives in the US Virgin Islands with her husband and a rogue iguana. Visit her and read more at www.elizabeth-bartasius.com.
Photo credit: Ann Dinwiddie Madden
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
The Geometry of Love by Jessica Levine. $16.95, 978-1-938314-62-9. Torn between her need for stability and her desire for independence, an aspiring poet grapples with questions of artistic inspiration, erotic love, and infidelity.
A Drop In The Ocean: A Novel by Jenni Ogden. $16.95, 978-1-63152-026-6. When middle-aged Anna Fergusson’s research lab is abruptly closed, she flees Boston to an island on Australia’s Great Barrier Reef—where, amongst the seabirds, nesting turtles, and eccentric islanders, she finds a family and learns some bittersweet lessons about love.
Play for Me by Céline Keating. $16.95, 978-1-63152-972-6. Middle-aged Lily impulsively joins a touring folk-rock band, leaving her job and marriage behind in an attempt to find a second chance at life, passion, and art.
Shelter Us by Laura Diamond. $16.95, 978-1-63152-970-2. Lawyer-turned-stay-at-home-mom Sarah Shaw is still struggling to find a steady happiness after the death of her infant daughter when she meets a young homeless mother and toddler she can’t get out of her mind—and becomes determined to rescue them.
Anchor Out by Barbara Sapienza. $16.95, 978-1631521652. Quirky Frances Pia was a feminist Catholic nun, artist, and beloved sister and mother until she fell from grace—but now, done nursing her aching mood swings offshore in a thirty-foot sailboat, she is ready to paint her way toward forgiveness.
Magic Flute by Patricia Minger. $16.95, 978-1-63152-093-8. When a car accident puts an end to ambitious flutist Liz Morgan’s dreams, she returns to her childhood hometown in Wales in an effort to reinvent her path.
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