Deception Ebook EPUB 3-17-2014

by Deception (epub)

  I had to find a part-time job fast. So, at 5:30 on weekday mornings, I would begin my days rolling out freshly made dough at a T.J. Cinnamons bakery in downtown DC. Through the window, people’s faces slowly became visible as daylight arrived. They stood in a line, waiting eagerly for the shop to open, so that they could purchase a cinnamon roll or two on their way to work. After the morning rush, several dozen rolls later, I would leave to attend my morning classes.

  I was determined to graduate alongside Peter. I completed twenty-one credits in the first semester, and I ended the spring semester having completed nineteen. I almost quit playing basketball because I wasn’t sure I could do it all. But after speaking to my coach, Kitty, she helped me figure out a way to remain on the team. On the days I had to fulfill my class projects, she allowed me to arrive for practice late or to leave early.

  Along with everything happening in my life, I was having a rough time with my therapy sessions. Because I had to pay every dollar out of my pocket, I was determined to make the most of my sessions. I showed up ready to tackle my issues, often bringing along notes. In between sessions, I would jot down all the feelings that had surfaced, the arguments between Peter and I, the irrational thoughts that filled my mind, and just about anything I thought might be relevant or worth sharing. I forced myself to talk, and I was attentive to what the therapist had to say.

  And, I cried a lot. Often, my tears continued throughout the day and into the night. My tears would return, as fresh as ever, when Peter and I talked about what had taken place during my sessions. Where did all the tears come from? They fell like a spring rain, hard and without warning.

  Chapter 45

  August 1989

  I slid down slowly, my back against the wall, onto the bare, cold concrete deck of the ship. I didn’t pay much attention to anyone crossing my path; there were many traveling in and out of the bathroom. My period began earlier in the day and I was already feeling sick. The constant rocking motion and the dampness in the air made it worse.

  We were on the ferry on our way to picturesque Nova Scotia for our honeymoon. Peter had taken care of all the honeymoon arrangements and expenses. As avid bicyclists, we had brought along our bicycles, ready for our weeklong adventure.

  The euphoria from the wedding was fast fading from memory.

  Our honeymoon, excitement and all, would begin the following day, but it was hard to visualize – I was so caught up in my own misery.

  Life is like a ferry. Often it sails out of the harbor smoothly. As it travels further out to sea, however, it runs into the unexpected. Doldrums – water so still you get restless. Fierce storms – huge waves that take you under. Pirates – attacks that hold you prisoner for the time being. Our destination may seem like a hopeless dream, but if we keep our eyes and mind set on the land, we eventually get there.

  Chapter 46

  Fall 1988 – Senior year

  In my high school yearbook, I listed “Whatever” as my favorite saying.

  If I expressed an idea and someone disagreed with what I said, I would respond with, “Whatever.” I avoided conflict at any cost by placing others’ opinions before my own. If I was asked what I wanted, I would respond, “Whatever you want is fine with me.” Surely others had preferences, and I didn’t want to be too demanding.

  “Whatever” to this. “Whatever” to that. My opinions stayed with me, always. My thoughts remained my own, always. My feelings were kept hidden, always. I was easy to please, or so everyone thought.

  Peter was frustrated, however. Making decisions was very difficult for me. For instance, when asked which restaurant I would like to eat at, I was adept at shifting the decision back onto him, and we would end up going where he wanted to go. I brought up the issue in therapy.

  “Where is Deb? Who is Deb? What does Deb like?” my therapist challenged me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. A tear rolled down my cheek.

  As my fifty-minute session neared the end, he reached for a book on his coffee table. He held out for me to see. I looked at the title: The Missing Piece Meets the Big O by Shel Silverstein.

  “Have you ever read this book?” He asked.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve heard of the author though. I think I read some of his poems when I was in middle school.”

  “Good. Take the book home. I want you to read. Bring it back next week, and we’ll talk more.” Our session was over; he always ended our hour precisely on time.

  I walked out of his office, out of the building, onto the parking lot, and opened the door to my car. As soon as I flopped into the front seat, I opened the book to the first page.

  “The missing piece sat alone…”

  I flipped to the next page, “…waiting for someone to come along and take it somewhere.”1

  I finished reading the entire book, which only took me a few minutes. Then, I read it again. And, during the next several days, I read the book who knows how many times. I even went to the bookstore to buy a copy of my own.

  It was so simple. And so true.

  I realized that my life could not be “whatever.” I mattered. My thoughts and opinions mattered. My preferences mattered. My life must be whole, I must be complete – independent emotionally – before I could expect to become interdependent relationally. Peter and I would grow only as I became my own person.

  My life as the selfless daughter, the easy-going friend, the timid student, and the self-sacrificing person was really no life at all.

  Therapy – and a simply powerful book – had begun to open my eyes to the life I wanted, life as it could be. And, as I later realized, life as God intended. A rich life. An emotion-filled life. A life to be shared fully, without pretense, secrets, or “whatevers.”

  I wanted this life. Yet there was still so much I needed to learn.

  1Shel Silverstein, The Missing Piece and the Big O (New York: Harper Collins, 1981).

  Chapter 47

  Fall 1988

  Did your mom ever follow through on her suicidal talk?” my therapist asked.

  “While I grew up, no,” I said. And, then I remembered: “She attempted suicide once.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes. It happened when she was twenty-one.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Mom was unhappy. She was having a hard time at home, so she moved out and lived with a Deaf couple. Her life continued to be miserable, so she decided to end it by swallowing a bottle full of pills. She blacked out. The couple found her on the floor, and they called in an ambulance. The next thing Mom knew, she was in the hospital, still alive. The pills she swallowed had been pumped out of her stomach.”

  “So, you were burdened with the fact that she had tried it, and when she threatened about going into the garage, you knew she was capable of attempting suicide?”

  “I guess so,” I said. I had not made the connection until now. “Yes, I was scared because I believed she could do it.”

  I was so young when Mom detailed her attempt. I don’t remember the first time she told me the story. Perhaps it was when I asked about her wedding picture. This same Deaf couple who had found her blacked out was posed next to Mom and Dad. They had served as witnesses in the place of my grandparents who couldn’t (or refused to) attend. I knew this couple. They visited us once in a while. In fact, they were the ones who gave us our first dog – a beautiful black cocker spaniel we named Blackie. Or perhaps, the first time she had told me of her attempt was when she’d threatened to go into the garage.

  Regardless of when she first told me, the truth is that for most of my life, I knew about her suicide attempt. I just hadn’t realized until now the impact it had had on me. Every time she threatened to go into the garage, I believed she would do it. After all, she tried it once; she could try it again.

  Mom’s typical response to any conflict was: “I wish I could die
, then I would be at peace.” Apparently, Mom had never learned to handle conflict or confrontation. In turn, she would make us feel guilty for her own anxiety over the conflict, manipulating us with words like, “I know you wouldn’t care if I die.”

  I had unconsciously adopted her way of thinking and embraced her behavior. I would give people the silent treatment when I was upset with them. That was the only way I knew how to respond. When my friends fought, I became very uncomfortable. When my friends were hurt emotionally, they would work through the pain and move on with their lives. However, I would wish I could die.

  But I learned. When emotions would overwhelm me during a therapy session, my therapist would ask: “What is the worst outcome possible in that scenario?” After several sessions, working through worst-case scenarios, I realized I could, in fact, live through it. I would live through it.

  Both time and practice created greater distance between episodes. And after several years, I had finally been set free from my irrational thinking.

  Chapter 48

  Fall 1988

  Why he was on campus that day, I don’t recall. What I remembered was our conversation in the parking lot, behind the Peet Hall dormitory.

  “You need to talk to someone,” I pleaded. I was really concerned; he was still grieving. It had been over a year since I’d left him, and he was not doing very well.

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling helpless. “Someone you can trust. One of your friends, perhaps?” I saw the value in sharing with someone – I had Peter. I also had just begun attending therapy. Seeing a counselor wasn’t an option, he said.

  “There has to be someone,” I said, trying to think. After coming up with several names, I thought of someone – a friend of his who had moved to a different state.

  “Maybe I could talk to her,” he agreed.

  “Or maybe even someone from the psychology department at MSD?” I suggested. I figured that their policy would require staff to keep information confidential. At the time, I didn’t realize the complexity of our relationship; how the disclosure could land him in prison. During the two and half years we were together, I was mostly fearful about his wife finding out. I hadn’t considered that I was a minor and that it was against the law for an adult to be involved with a seventeen-year-old.

  When we departed, he promised he’d talk to someone. And he did – both the female friend I had suggested and a staff member from the psychology department. The next time I saw him I asked if he’d talked to them, and he said he had. Talking to those two people had helped just a little. Then he told me he had written poems about his brokenness over the end of our relationship.

  I must have asked to read them, because he sent me copies of them. One read:

  Although we were

  Worlds apart

  We fell in Love

  And stole each other’s hearts

  Friends forever

  Or so it seemed

  Fell in Love

  Because of our dreams

  Afraid to touch

  Across the hands of time

  I was yours

  You were mine

  Somehow our eyes

  Would always meet

  Together

  The hugs were extra neat

  Happy

  In the world we knew

  Life was mean

  Oh so cruel

  Being together

  You and I

  I saw the feelings

  Watched you cry

  Walks together

  In a mountain park

  Hand in hand – heart in heart

  Heart and heart

  Good times together

  Is what we had

  Made me happy

  Made you sad

  So much together

  The time we spent

  Came so fast

  Then it went

  Happy together

  And what’s more

  Only you’ll know

  I say at four

  Walks by the river

  Initials in a tree

  Love forever

  As it was meant to be

  We left our mark

  For the world to see

  It stands alone

  A single tree

  So much pleasure

  Being with you then

  Will it return

  I wonder when

  The way things are

  (guess they) were meant to be

  Me alone

  While you are free

  Alone for now

  For you have gone

  Strong feelings

  Love lives on

  I Love Yous

  Were always true

  From the (young) girl I knew

  A Lady grew

  There were twelve poems. They were each typewritten on 8 1/2 × 11 paper and were bound with a cover page entitled: “What Can I Say!!!”

  He had said it all. What could I have said? I have no recollection of my reaction to reading them, but I know I experienced several emotions through the years, all of which had come and gone except for one – guilt. And it stayed with me for a very long time.

  Chapter 49

  May 1989

  The day I thought would never come had finally arrived. I walked across the stage in my graduation gown to receive my diploma, graduating cum laude. But also, on my left ring finger was an engagement ring – our wedding was two and a half months away.

  I had suspected Peter would propose on Christmas Day, but it was Thanksgiving morning when he slid the ring onto my finger. I wasn’t ready but I was making progress in therapy. I wanted an autumn wedding, but Peter didn’t want to wait. So we settled for August.

  By the time I graduated, I had been in therapy for almost a year. With the wedding approaching, I was experiencing wedding jitters. As much as I was looking forward to being Peter’s wife, I knew we had issues that we needed to address. So I invited Peter to join me for a few therapy sessions.

  My chief concern was the nature of our relationship – I was Deaf; he was hearing. All my life, Mom had drilled into me to never marry a hearing man. Her message was direct: hearing men could not be trusted. As always, Mom had stories to tell: The phone would ring. The hearing husband would pick up the phone. The Deaf wife would ask who called. He would inform her that it was his mom. He would chat and laugh for a length of time, in front of her. A few days later, another call. This time, it would be his sister. And his wife would be clueless that on the other end of the phone was actually his mistress. Another story: The couple would attend a gathering with mostly hearing people. Everyone would talk nonstop. The wife would ask what the conversation was about. He would say that it was nothing important and that he would explain later. Then, when he did, he would merely summarize the entire conversation in a sentence or two. She would feel completely isolated and left out.

  Mom was not the only one who was concerned. Bridgetta also cautioned me. She meant well, and I must admit that I had given the same advice to others, but my faith in Peter and our relationship surpassed my fears. Nevertheless, there were Deaf/hearing issues that I wanted to address. I later learned that some of these were actually related to our roles as man and woman or our pasts. For example:

  Music. Every time Peter walked into the house or got into the car, he would automatically turn on music. I didn’t understand the value of music. As ridiculous as it may have seemed, I was jealous. I felt I had to compete with the radio to get his attention. When I wanted to talk to him or needed his attention, he was easily distracted.

  Outings. When we went out for dinner, Peter would order food for both of us. Since I’d assumed the caregiver/parental role growing up, I interpreted Peter�
�s behavior as paternalistic that I wasn’t “able.” I would ignore him when he asked my preference and proceed to tell the waitress myself.

  Intelligence. When Peter used big words, on papers or in communicating with others, it reinforced my feeling of inferiority. I was worried that I wouldn’t be good enough for Peter, and he would one day regret marrying me. Also, Peter always seemed to have access to information, and I was concerned that he would one day tire of filling me in.

  Finally, I wasn’t the only one with baggage. Peter had also come from a dysfunctional family. He was the youngest of four, and his mother had married three times. The last time Peter had seen his biological father was when he was seven. Peter’s second stepfather adopted him and his three siblings. His new “dad,” also a divorcee, had served in the Vietnam and Korean wars. He was not able to express feelings other than anger. By the time Peter reached middle-school, he realized that his mom was an alcoholic, and he had to deal with her constant lying.

  We had so many issues to work on. Our few sessions had turned into one year of work together. In the meantime, our wedding plans were underway.

  Chapter 50

  July 1989

  Every day, I waited eagerly to see who had responded; at least one RSVP card would land in our mailbox. I laughed when I read the card from Aunt Marlene. She put down five for the number of people attending the wedding. Below, she scribbled: “P.S. Hope you don’t mind, Rachel is bringing her friend (BOY). Don’t say anything to Bill!!”

  Grandma, who had lived next door all my life, even bothered to mail me the card. I was surprised when I saw the number she had put down – 100. I never knew she had a sense of humor. How much deeper our relationship, my life, would have been if we were able to communicate without paper and pencil.