I tried to stand, but the shock of what I had heard left my head spinning. Perhaps it was the ceremony the women had just performed on my head. When the women left the room, I wept. When I saw him again, it was two o’clock the next morning. His ceremonies were complete. He, like me, was now a Yoruba priest. The voice in my head was gone, and I tried to convince myself that all would be well. I was going to have a beautiful wedding as I once again married a man I did not know.
I told myself that the man I was marrying—who had cheated on me during our first relationship and left me once for another woman, and who had come back to me at a time when he was down on his luck—was the brass ring, the prize that would prove to me and everyone else that I was worthy of my father’s love. The truth is, everything about him reminded me of my father. I had a tremendous amount of unfinished business with my unavailable daddy. The men that I married were the souls who volunteered to spend time in my life so that I could work through that learning agreement.
I was beginning to claim success in my life, but emotionally, there was a piece of me that still felt like a failure. To the naked eye, I looked amazing. I was earning more money than I ever thought possible. I was traveling the world and doing things that I never imagined I could. My children were grown and making it on their own, with the broken pieces of myself that I had given to them. I loved God but I didn’t really know God, not then, not yet. I was transforming from who I had been into who I was becoming, but I still wasn’t quite sure of who I was.
Finally, I had a home and a husband. I thought that would make me feel whole and complete and make everything all right. I was wrong.
Love does not die easily.
It is a living thing. It thrives in the
face of all of life’s hazards, save one—neglect.
My brand-new husband was critical of me, my life, and how I did almost everything. I am sure that was not his intention. In fact, he probably thought he was being helpful and supportive. However, when you grow up the way I grew up where everything you did and said was wrong, you can hear disapproval where none is meant or offered. That was not my case. My husband had a way of saying things in his soft, gentle tone that left me feeling criticized and wrong. Things like, “Why do you always …” Or, “Why don’t you stop …” Or when I was really upset or concerned about something and would turn to him for support, a curt “Oh, please!” Or “Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything?” These remarks would leave me doubting myself and feeling crushed.
But it was what he didn’t say that shook me to my core. It was the way he looked at me without opening his mouth that let me know that what I was thinking, feeling, or doing was unacceptable. It was the way he would answer my question with a question that flung me face first into the vicious cycle of self-criticism.
There was this certain way that he fell into silence that alerted me that he had some information, some opinion, that I wanted. “What’s wrong?” was usually how I would start the conversation.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
This was not an answer.
Just the way I used to gauge whether it was safe to ask Grandma for something I wanted, now, in response to his response, I had to make a choice. Either I would share my observations about his behavior, which he would dismiss, or I would lie and say, “Just checking.” I usually went with the first option. Whenever I questioned him about the emotional distance I felt or his unwillingness to share what was on his mind, it would lead to an argument. We had those snipping, biting little arguments where each of us would try to get in the last word on the way to being right. We became very good at it. So good, in fact, that by the end, all we could remember was how bad it had been.
I now understand that we simply didn’t see things the same way. He saw life as a series of fun-filled adventures that you moved through one by one, making no plans or provisions for the future. I saw life as a battlefield on which you had better be prepared to meet the most deadly of forces moment by moment in order to stay alive. He saw home and family as a safe haven with a revolving door, where people could come and go to share in all that you had. I saw home as a temporary refuge at best, where the people inside could be as dangerous as the people outside. A place where you had to make yourself as comfortable as possible in the moment, because you never knew when your refuge would be disrupted or destroyed. For him, home had been a safe but lonely place. For me, home had been a dangerous and unhappy place.
He saw our home as my home because he had not contributed financially to secure it. Despite the fact that he had his own office, a 52-inch television where he could watch all of his favorite sports events, and a wife who loved to cook for him, he said he felt out of place in our home. When he moved from Atlanta, a huge project he was working on had just gone bad and he was deeply in debt. I saw our home as the fruits of my hard work, something that I deserved, that I wanted to build and share with him. I wanted us to be comfortable. I wanted us to be happy, damn it!
He saw money as a necessary evil that you used when you had it; when you had none, you borrowed from other people. I saw money as my ticket out of misery, a way for me to fill all of the holes in my soul; it was something you had to plan to have, work hard to get, and intend to hold on to. He saw me as a workaholic, a dramatic and controlling woman with little time for what really should matter: spending time with him. He saw me as wanting him to work for me rather than with me, and that, he said, disrespected and dishonored him. I saw myself as a successful entrepreneur working diligently to build something I had never experienced: personal and financial freedom. I saw him as my partner, someone who had benefited from—and therefore needed to support—my intentions and my vision.
In the beginning of the second time around, he lived in Atlanta, in his element as a community organizer. He brought the right people together to make things happen. In Maryland, I too was in my element. I was teaching classes, conducting workshops, traveling for speaking engagements, and writing books. We talked about everything on the telephone. We shared our thoughts, hopes, and dreams. What we did not do was plan our life together. We knew we were coming together, we knew we would be together, but we never discussed a shared vision. He told me what he wanted, and I told him what I was already doing. Rather than building a life together, we brought our two lives into one place and tried to make them fit.
He brought his belongings to my home. I did my best to make room for him, but some of his things just didn’t fit—they didn’t fit in the space and they didn’t fit the decor. There were things he had that were important to him that looked like junk to me. There were things he wanted to put into places where I simply did not want them. It felt like he was seizing territory, and as an independent woman, I could not, would not, submit to being taken over. What I didn’t see was how his belongings left in those boxes made him feel unwelcome, like a boarder rather than a partner.
He brought his many years of organizing expertise into an established business. He brought his ideas into a system that was already in motion and moving rather successfully. He brought his masculine energy into an organization that was predominantly female. His vision was to create for men what I had built for women: a process and a safe place for personal and spiritual empowerment. The challenge was that I had done the work—the arduous internal and external work to master my craft and build my brand. He was just beginning. He had not done the work. He had, for the most part, watched it be done around him.
Did I have some personal issues that I needed to work through? Absolutely! Yes, I spent a lot of time on the telephone and on airplanes and in hotels, but I was manifesting my vision and building an institution that would serve the world long after I had left it. My work had grown into an opportunity for me, for us, to create a life we enjoyed and a future for our children and grandchildren. We just saw it differently. We responded to it differently. And we argued about it very differently.
His way of arguing was to shut dow
n and shut me out. I now know it was the very same emotional abandonment I had experienced with my father and, quite frankly, with my brother. My husband’s approach was to grow deadly quiet. If the silence went on too long, he would ask if he could share his thoughts and feelings with me. By then, I was so hurt, so afraid, and so furious, I would say, “Of course,” knowing that I was just waiting for the right moment to verbally attack him. And boy, could I attack. Venomous assault was a skill I mastered in childhood.
Often, in the midst of a silent standoff, I would busy myself with work and shopping. I would buy things that I didn’t need or want just to have something to do rather than go home. When we did speak, he would tease me about being a “workaholic” and a “shopaholic.” He would criticize me for having too much of everything or for trying to do too much. I suspect he had no idea that I overshopped and overspent because I was afraid that I would not have what I needed when I needed it. I guess it would have been too much to ask him to consider that I kept my cupboards overrun with food because of the fear of being hungry. A childhood of deprivation and denial will do that to you—cause you to expect lack where none exists. My husband had no idea of the conflict and chaos my success stirred up in my mind.
My husband and I had puzzle pieces that fit together, but painfully; patterns and pathologies that seemed to get tangled up in each other. We had a knack for bruising each other in our most vulnerable places. His parents were divorced. Mine were never married. After the divorce, his mother became a working mother and he became a latchkey kid, alone and lonely at home. I grew up in homes where someone was usually at home and usually wanted me to do something for them. We both grew up believing we should not, could not, ask for what we wanted, and that it was essential for us to make do with whatever we had.
He had the experience of women being soft, gentle, and demure. I had the experience of women being hard, tough, or beat up. He had come to believe that women were meant to support and satisfy the needs of men. I had come to believe that women should expect men to leave, and that when they were around, it was your duty to do whatever was required to keep them happy. This was one place where we kind of saw things the same. But there was one problem—it was an affront to my spirit! I hated feeling like it was my responsibility to carry a man and do all of the work, all of the time. Unfortunately, I was so deep in denial that I didn’t know how much I hated it.
When we were married, I was renting a house on the way to purchasing one. My second book, Acts of Faith, was selling very well, and I was squirreling away the money I needed for a down payment, although I had spent a big chunk of it on the wedding. I needed another six to nine months to amass what I thought we would need. Since he wasn’t working full-time yet, I took it upon myself to find ways to get and save the money. We didn’t talk about it. I guess we both assumed I would do it. In fact, I had talked to the landlord about buying the house we were living in at the time. He was willing and accepted a $1,000 deposit to seal the deal. The agreement was that I would pay an additional $200 per month toward the down payment. In a year, I would have 10 percent of the asking price. We shook hands on it.
Then one day, out of nowhere, the owner’s wife showed up on my doorstep to inform me that I had 30 days to get out of her house. There was an ugly back story about her philandering husband, but the bottom line was that my lease was up, she knew nothing about the lease-purchase agreement, and she wanted me out—period. We had been married for about two months when we faced the possibility of being houseless. My writing career was just taking off. I had several lucrative speaking engagements scheduled. My classes and workshops were filled to capacity, and I was about to be out on the street. It just didn’t make sense to me. In his gentle way, my husband would simply say:
“Something will turn up, don’t worry.”
Don’t worry! Doesn’t he know that this opens all of my childhood wounds about being moved from place to place, not belonging anywhere, being put out? Don’t worry? He is out of his mind. Of course, I didn’t say this to him. I acted like I thought he could make it better. Yet someplace inside of me, I knew nothing could be further from the truth.
The first thing I felt was shame. Here I am! Miss Iyanla! Inspiring the masses, and I won’t have a place to live. Then, fear. People are going to know! People are going to find out that I got put out of my house, and they will talk bad about me. Next, a major mental meltdown about the thousands of dollars I had just spent on a wedding. Then I thought about the children. Gemmia and her daughter were living with me. My son had just been released from prison and was living in my basement. Nisa was still living in Philadelphia, but what if she needed to come home? My children had to have a place to live. Even if my own life was falling apart, I had to take care of my family.
So I got busy. I signed myself up to work anywhere they would have me. I scheduled three more classes at my center. I had 30 days to find a place. We looked at houses and apartments to rent. We were willing to settle for anything we could find. The challenge was the number of people in the family. There were six of us and only two had verifiable income. In addition, my credit score at the time was just below acceptable. In fact, it was actually unacceptable to every apartment complex where we applied. With five days left, I was hardly sleeping or eating. My husband seemed totally unaffected. He ate. He slept. When we talked about it, he always had the same deep insight:
“Something will turn up, don’t worry.”
When there were three days left, we decided to put the furniture in storage and move into a hotel. By then I was scared to death. We had referred a great deal of business to a local hotel where out-of-towners would stay when they came to take a class with me. We asked them for a weekly rate, and they were more than happy to support us. Then I had a brilliant idea. Rather than put the furniture in storage, why didn’t we store it in the back room of our office building? That’s right, I was renting an office building. Two stories. 7,500 square feet with three empty rooms we had not renovated yet. Everyone, including my husband, agreed this would be best. After all, it was only temporary. Surely we would find something in the next week or so.
My husband rented a truck. I mean, I gave him the money to rent a truck. On a bright and sunny Saturday morning, we loaded all of my household belongings and transferred them to the first floor of my office building. Between moving the furniture on and off the truck, I cried. When everyone was sitting around eating pizza on a break, I was in the bathroom puking my guts up. Of course, I didn’t say a word to anyone. But every once in a while Gemmia would cuddle up to me and say, “It’s all right. Remember what you taught me. You can do anything for a little while. This is just for a little while.”
Really good friends always know what you are feeling. And in that moment I thought she was right. I was wrong.
We lived in the hotel for two weeks to the tune of $1,100 per week. Searching for a house or an apartment to rent had become a full-time job. My husband and I made a wish list of what we really wanted. He closed his eyes and told me what his ideal home looked like. I wrote down everything he said. Then he did the same for me. Each day, as we thought of things, we would add them to the list. It was a beautiful experience and one of the few times we really worked together to create something for our shared life. But we also realized that spending $1,100 a week was pushing the dream further and further away. I was still the only one working full-time, and sharing a hotel room with a six-yearold was wrecking havoc on our sex life. We were about to embark on our third week in the hotel when I had another brilliant idea; at least it seemed brilliant at the time. Since our furniture was in the office building, why didn’t we live there also? We could pull out everything we needed at night and put it away before the staff arrived in the morning.
My son had found an apartment three blocks away from the office so we could go there to shower. Brilliant! Everyone thought it was a brilliant, although uncomfortable, way to save money and expedite finding a real home. We left the hotel that day.
The first night of living in my office, my husband made us a lovely pallet on the floor of my office using all of the sheets and blankets he could find. Gemmia did the same in her office. We put the children in the conference room with the television so they could entertain themselves. Gemmia put sheets across the conference table and made a fort. She played with the children until they fell asleep, and we both retreated to our offices to lie on the floor with the men we loved. I would have been fine had my husband not acted like he wanted to make love. The moment he started to make sexual gestures toward me, I think I lost my mind. No, it wasn’t then. It was later, after I submitted to him and he fell off to sleep.
At that moment, I didn’t recognize the pattern, and I couldn’t believe what was happening. When you are in the midst of the healing, you can’t recognize the pattern because if you did, you would stop yourself.
I lay on that pallet on the floor of my office reviewing my life. I had survived unimaginable horrors in my childhood to emerge a reasonably sane individual. I had worked my way off welfare, through college and law school, to practice law, leave law, and emerge an up-and-coming motivational specialist. I had raised my children for the most part alone, and they were all what I would consider good people. I thought about the people I had helped as a lawyer, a writer, and a regular person. I thought about the cities I had traveled to, the thousands who had heard me speak. Now here I was, lying on a pallet in the floor of my office next to the man I had loved and wanted all of my life. He was perfectly content, sexually satisfied, and sound asleep. I, on the other hand, was realizing that somewhere along the way I had lost myself.
Something happens in a woman’s heart and mind when she realizes that she cannot lean on the man she loves. Three months into my marriage I found that I was losing respect for my husband and it was not okay. Nor was it okay that he was okay with us sleeping on the floor of the office I had worked so hard to create. It was not okay that he would get up each morning, fold up the sheets, stash them away as if they did not exist, and walk down the hall to his office. It was not okay that he was on my company’s payroll and seemed totally uninterested in finding any other work, knowing as he did that we needed money to buy a house.
Peace From Broken Pieces: How to Get Through What You're Going Through Page 14
