by East, Ginny;
“Well, we did retire with a plan to devote time and resources to family,” I pointed out. “And family doesn’t just mean our kids.”
“I didn’t work hard for all those years to just give everything I have to others,” he said. “Not like my family has ever been there for me in times of need.”
I was dismayed by his selfishness. We’d turned to his family and mine numerous times over the years for help, and they never let us down. If he could so easily turn away from parents, friends, and our former students and employees, might he as easily turn away from his wife if I dared become a liability rather than an asset?
My knees shook as I recalled the many times in our life when Mark had seemed capable of leaving me on a selfish whim. When we first met, he begged me to walk away from my thriving business and comfy little home to drag my two-year-old back to New York City to resume the career I had left behind. He wanted me to return to New York, so I could help him forge his career in dance. I wasn’t all that invested in our relationship then, so I told him to go alone. I had gone to great lengths to protect my child from that kind of instability and there was no way I’d ever go back. If he wanted a career in dance, he should take his shot, just as I did when I first moved to New York with ambition and dreams. But Mark didn’t go, claiming he loved me too much to leave.
A few years later, when our new son Kent was two, Mark became obsessed with Tony Robbins, the life coach. He announced his life’s purpose was to join the road crew of the organization as a volunteer. He wrote letters obsessively every day for 30 days, begging for Tony’s acceptance, thinking his determination would impress the powers that be. I remember waiting for a response daily, wondering what I would do or say when Mark packed his bags to run off with the Tony Robbins circus. I didn’t know how I’d survive without his help if he left me with a toddler and a small baby to raise. The business had grown too large to manage on my own now, but I waited quietly with an odd sense of acceptance to see if he really would walk out on his family. So offended was I that he dared write those letters and his childish hope that they’d let him join the tour that a part of me wanted him to go. I was unnerved by his ability to put his own desires in front of the family’s very vital needs; and wanted a good excuse to end a marriage with someone so lacking in responsibility. In the end, an acceptance was not forthcoming. Mark took one last shot at joining Tony Robbins by taking us to a “Walk on Fire” convention. Gripped by the excitement of hearing the inspirational speaker’s empowerment lecture, Mark insisted we charge eight thousand dollars on my credit card for another convention in Tahiti a few months hence.
“We can’t possibly afford that!” I said.
“Aren’t you listening to what he’s saying? There are no limits in life, if you just believe! The universe will provide us a way to fund the rest of the trip and pay off the credit card in thirty days when the bill comes due next month. Tony just explained how one couple won the lottery when they needed money. That could be us.”
He expected us to win the lottery to solve our problems? All attendees at the convention were asked to write questions for Tony, to send forward on the break. I wrote, “What gives you the right to seduce people into spending money they don’t have, Mr. Robbins? You say you want to inspire people to live a better life, but your lecture is destroying my marriage!”
I sent the note forward. To this day, I wonder if Tony Robbins ever saw the message amidst the pile of happy, soul-lifted questions.
“What did you write?” Mark asked, giddy with enthusiasm for the entire experience.
“I asked a question about the firewalk,” I lied.
We never did attend the expensive Tahiti seminar. Instead, that $8000 charge was the final blow to our already stressed budget and I filed for personal bankruptcy. Mark had long since ruined his credit and had been using mine ever since we had gotten married. So now, instead of a trip to a glamorous retreat, I was treated to the experience of watching companies come to remove the furniture from my house and tow both our cars away. I drove a junker for the next three years and lived with laundry baskets in place of a dresser as we worked our way out of that crash.
After the Tony Robbins incident and the bankruptcy, I took over the family finances. My dad loaned us money to save the business from going under, but only if we allowed him to take control of the studio accounts. I started doing things like opening college savings plans for the kids in my name only, planning quietly for the needs of the family. I paid extra on our mortgage payments to take our thirty year mortgage down to seven years. I made the mistake of sharing how quickly our equity grew, and Mark took a second mortgage to remodel the kitchen and build a cabin-style porch and garden.
I just had to accept that Mark’s commitment to family took a different form than mine in regards to honoring our children, our parents, or our marriage.
We’d recently had a huge falling out with my parents. My father had long played the role of financial counselor since that early fiasco, so naturally he voiced concerns now about Mark’s mismanagement of our funds, feeling that our life was spinning out of control again. Mark had absolutely no intention of turning over his financial freedom ever again, and the truth is painful to hear, so my parents became the enemy in his estimation.
Mark convinced me that my father’s criticism was unfair and unfounded, and his conservative attitude about money was limiting for artistic people like us. Not wanting to admit we were making foolish mistakes any more than Mark did, I found it remarkably easy to align myself with his attitude. Delusion is a large part of love, and I would do anything to avoid facing truths that shed my marriage or my husband’s financial savvy in an unflattering light. So, defending Mark, I wrote letters to my folks trying to justify our losses and to explain my feelings about Blue Ridge hoping to soften arguments and misunderstandings. This only made matters worse between us.
My father helped us plan and negotiate the sale of our business, with the understanding that we would compensate him for the risk he had taken way back when he had put his entire retirement’s savings into our school. After a great show of self-congratulations and recapping our brilliance for pulling off this financial miracle, we gave Dad his promised bonus. But instead of writing the check with a sense of gratitude, Mark deeply resented sharing even a fraction of our windfall. He insisted only an unloving parent would take money from his kid. Eventually, his twisting of facts and constant reminders that our dreams were being hindered by those dipping into our resources—especially my parents—penetrated my own psyche. I found myself criticizing my family too, forgetting that love begins with gratitude and appreciation for the faith your loved ones display when they take risks with their own savings to support your personal dreams or help you in times of crisis.
Mark’s insistence that everyone was trying to rob him of the fruits of his labors continued to expand until I became suspect, too. One day, finding myself without a cent in my purse and with no money at all left in the only account I had access to, I slipped some change from the enormous quarter jar in our bedroom to give my son so he could buy lunch at school. The jar was teeming with thousands of dollars of change that Mark had dumped into the container over the years we owned and operated our family business.
I told Mark I had handled the need for lunch money by taking a few quarters, assuming he’d be as embarrassed as I was that we were so broke we were scraping change, but he became furious, claiming I had no right to steal his money. He may have been the one to empty his pockets into the jar each night, but the money nevertheless came from our joint earned income, so naturally I thought he was being silly. I wasn’t taking his quarters to pay my bookie; our son just needed lunch money! Certainly he was willing to crack open the jar to support the cause.
Mark felt differently and the next day he took the jar to his real estate office so I wouldn’t have access to its contents. I pointed out that if we were so broke that we couldn’t buy lu
nch for our children, perhaps we should put the contents of that jar into our family bank account anyway. Mark was adamant that the jar was his private savings and for something special he might want for himself someday. Only three days later, the entire jar was stolen. I thought the theft an appropriate end to the whole episode, dripping with karma.
Pondering this new turn of events, I now stood at the window of our grand house looking out at Donkey in the pasture below, taking count of the things that mattered most to me, and how many of them were broken. My husband was disconnected from me, physically and emotionally. I had lost the friendships and meaningful connections I had forged with students and fellow workers. My parents had been cut from our lives and I was ashamed because I knew deep down that they deserved better. My oldest daughter was destitute and needed direction, and despite what I felt was a mother’s right to nurture and protect her children and give them an edge in life, Mark would not permit her to live with us. His mother was lonely and unhappy and his sister was broke. I had lost the power to influence the welfare of those I loved most in any real way. I had allowed myself to be systematically removed from doing or saying anything that affected my own financial life, too. But the most distressing thing was being expected to accept things as they were and to stop complaining or crying about it. Mark insisted I was going through a midlife crisis, when in truth it was a life crisis I was facing. I was fearful of what would happen to everyone I loved who had been counting on me for years to keep the status quo because I was systematically un-empowered.
What can a woman do when she needs grounding? What can she do when she feels inadequate, unappreciated, and undervalued? What does she do when she sees the answers, but is not allowed to ask the questions, much less offer the solutions?
She can cook.
After years of working nights and weekends, I now found opportunity to celebrate family in the old fashioned way: the traditional sit-down dinner. I didn’t take this gift lightly, and made a noteworthy occasion of dinner each Tuesday. Mark may have been distracted by his building aspirations and the kids by their friends, but by God, one night a week they would arrive home by six to break bread as a family or there would be hell to pay. Life was falling apart, and things were going to get worse. I needed this connection badly, and so did they, I told myself.
My weekly family dinner was a means to fill Grandmother’s empty days. Cooking was a way to lend a small hand to Mark’s sister, who was running ragged trying to fulfill her mother’s endless need for company while struggling to making ends meet. My family dinners became a means to seduce my husband at least once a week to stop shopping and attend to his domestic role. The weekly meal was an attempt to keep my kids connected to each other and their relatives and to create feelings of family normalcy, even if I knew, deep down, Hendry family harmony was smoke and mirrors. Tuesday dinner was a way to catch up with my oldest child and get to know who she was dating and keep abreast of her plans for escaping Blue Ridge. Cooking was a way to feel useful. And preparing a meal for those I loved took my mind off of our financial nightmare.
I took those dinners to heart, striving to prepare elaborate menus filled with country goodness. I used veggies from my garden, eggs from my chickens, and served homemade wine. I prepared apple cobbler from apples I picked at the local orchard. I cooked twice as much food as necessary so there would be ample leftovers to send off with everyone. Feeding my family was my way of loving them, so I drowned them in casseroles, side dishes, and muffins. Even if their bills weren’t paid, their stomachs would at least be full. Even if my family no longer saw me as a dynamic, efficient woman who had the respect of an entire community, at least they would see me as a worthy homemaker.
After each dinner, I’d clean up while everyone gathered downstairs with dessert and coffee to watch American Idol. I loved knowing they were all cuddled up before a fire together, even if I was upstairs alone washing dishes. I’d spent 40 minutes with my hands sunk in suds, happy to know that I had connected my family and nourished them. But I’d also be thinking of my own mother, of how she would have loved to spend one meal a week with her grandkids and been a casual part of their everyday lives. For years we lived right by my parents, yet we were too busy running a business and juggling kids and work to spend any quality time with them. Now that we did have the time, these moments were entirely devoted to Mark’s family. I imagined my own daughters growing up and having families of their own, showing consideration and care to their in-laws while pushing me away. I didn’t know how I could bear losing my own daughter’s trust and respect, and as a result I suffered guilt over my own mother’s pain.
I had always been kind to Mark’s family, always gone out of my way to help financially and emotionally. I made them a part of every holiday and family celebration. I bought them gifts, and went to great lengths to build positive associations to them in my childrens’ viewpoints. I encouraged Mark to help his sister out even when he didn’t feel so inclined, and insisted she be included in family vacations and special occasions because she didn’t have a family of her own. I did this not because I loved my in-laws (although as the years passed I truly did) but because I loved Mark.
To me, one way of honoring and respecting your partner is to honor and respect their family. Promoting harmony eases the personal torture that can come with complex family dynamics. I desperately wanted Mark to help me repair the damage that had erupted with my folks—as an act of love for me, if not from his own sense of obligation for all they had done for him over the years. And I wanted him to note the effort I made to create positive family relationships on his side and act accordingly.
“I moved to Georgia to get away from your family,” he said. “Sorry, but you can’t make me like them.”
“Can’t you do this for me? I’ve always been good to your family.” “I never asked you to be nice to my family. I think you’re a fool to do as much for them as you do,” he said.
I wasn’t someone who would change her behavior out of tit-for-tat frustration. Besides which, I thought his mother was sweet and his sister a soulful, kind friend. After seventeen years of marriage, I felt protective of them both. They were my family now too, and deserving of the same devotion I felt for my own family of origin.
Mark’s mother was hard of hearing. He thought it was funny to playfully insult her when she was only a few feet away. The insensitivity always disturbed me and I was forever reprimanding his boorish behavior like some kind of uptight prig. Even if Mark wasn’t hurting his mother’s feelings, I believed he should have been more mindful of the message he was sending our own children. He was teaching them that mothers don’t deserve respect, and I didn’t want to grow old and ever experience my children speaking to me with such discourtesy. Belittling one’s mother lacked class and seemed unforgivably rude.
“We’re just having fun. Everyone knows I love my mother. Get over yourself. You have no sense of humor,” Mark said.
I couldn’t defend myself because he was right. I had lost my sense of humor. Lately, fewer and fewer of the things he said and did seemed funny.
“If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment.”
—Henry David Thoreau
SPIT
Death converged on our hobby farm, starting with the animals, and moving on to our dreams, our hopes, and finally, our love...
An opossum, or perhaps a weasel, got into the henhouse and ate the heads off of thirteen chickens in a single night. Trying my best to maintain a stalwart composure, I bagged up the headless birds. Shortly afterwards, four of my six ducks were attacked, leaving me with partial carcasses and a pile of feathers floating on the lake like dandelion wisps blown in from the overgrown weeds.
“Why not leave?” The trees seemed to whisper as I passed by bloody carcasses. “You’re too smart, too sophisticated, and too worldly to spend your days picking up dead poultry. Face it, you don’t
fit in here.”
I started imagining my return to the dance world, older, out of shape and slightly bitter, which drove me back to the barnyard with determination to get a handle on my life. A neighbor’s dog killed off a few more chickens, so I took to keeping poultry in their pens unless I was working around the barn. Now that my birds were no longer in the pasture eating fly larvae, I was battling a siege of flying pests along with my depression.
One day, I went to let Early out of her cage to roam freely around the barnyard. She seemed oddly quiet, so I stroked her and placed her in a comfortable position by the food bowl. Later, she lay peacefully but lifeless in the very same position. I was grateful she hadn’t died by dog attack or opossum raid, leaving me with a gruesome last view of my beloved peacock’s remains, but that didn’t lessen my feelings of loss. Did I feed her too much, too little, or the wrong combination of nutrients? Was the water bowl tainted? Was the floor of her cage so dirty it created a hothouse for bacteria? Who was I to think I could raise a peacock?
“Maybe it was the heat,” Mark said.
“Early usually spends her time in the shade, not to mention that peacocks are tropical by nature. She just died...like everything else around here seems to be doing.”
“I’ll buy you some healthy, grown peacocks. No more guessing or disappointment that way.”
“We are unlikely to be living here next spring. Can’t take them with us after all.”
“Don’t say that. Someone is going to buy my house for top dollar, and you’ll see I was right all along.”
How desperately he needed to be “right” all along. The people who bought our business crashed and burned due to self-indulgence and an unwillingness to make conservative choices in a field they really didn’t know anything about. Mark was quick to point out their stupidity, yet he had been doing the very same thing as he moved along with far more self-confidence than reasonable considering he had no real experience in the construction field. Perhaps karma was at hand, and Mark and I deserved to lose everything. Perhaps life was giving us our much-needed lesson in humility. Perhaps the universe was testing our love, as is the case for many couples who live together for years and years and forget why they came together in the first place. Might we come out wiser and stronger for our mistakes? Might our love grow stronger from this adversity? I prayed this would be the case.
