For months, we sit at the pool, shop at farmers’ markets, and take long walks together. We resist new friendships and activities that might complicate our lives. Slowly, I get browner, stronger, and happier. The rest of the family follows suit. We are without structure for the first time. Craig is working from home and I am writing from home. There is no one to respond to but each other. Craig and I sit on our lanai together each evening, watch the baby alligator who lives in the lake float by, and say again and again, “I can’t believe we did it. We are the people we used to be jealous of. We’re free. This is our fresh start.”
The flaw in this thinking is the fact that wherever you go, there you are. We did not escape the mine. We brought our poison with us. There is no becoming, only continuing.
8
ONE DAY MY LAPTOP gets a virus, so I log on to the family computer to write. I click on an unfamiliar file and an image of a snarling, naked woman crawling toward the camera pops up. I jump backward in my seat. I try to exit but every time I click the “x” another pornographic image lunges toward me, each more raunchy than the last. Now there are two women, naked and pale and kneeling side by side on a tile floor. A smirking man hovers over them with his hands on the back of the women’s heads as he shoves both of their faces toward his penis. I try frantically to close the window, but now two women pop up, naked, kissing, clawing at one another while a group of men watch and laugh, like these two women are an inside joke among the men. These images feel designed specifically for men who hate women.
I gape at the computer as a paralyzing understanding washes over me: I was wrong. I was wrong I was wrong I am wrong. I thought the rules were different in my family, in this little world I’d made. I thought I was safe here. But the rules are the same as they’ve always been. I am back on the laundry room floor. I am back in line looking at a NO FAT CHICKS sign. I am sitting on the shoulders of a frat boy holding up my beer, singing, “We drink beer and fuck women and don’t let other pussies get in.” I am complicit in all of it. I am part of a system that agrees that women are for being implanted and teased and painted and then arranged and dominated and filmed and sold and laughed at. That sex is something that men do to women or watch women do to each other. Like these women, I am an inside joke to my husband. I click on a folder and there are more files, more women, a whole world of jokes being saved here. This is the computer our children use each day. I slam down the screen, shut my eyes, and shake my head hard. The discovery of what my husband has been bringing into our house makes me dizzy. Just like the black box mixed with Craig’s soccer tapes and porn videos, my children’s math games are mixed with these images. I grab onto the table’s edge to steady myself as my mind explodes with fear.
What if the kids have already opened these? They’d understand that one of their parents saved these files intentionally. What would my girls have learned here about what it means to be a woman? What would my son have learned here about what it means to be a man? What would the faces in these images have taught my babies about how sex is supposed to feel? Oh God, they’d be poisoned. They’d have felt pain and shame, which is one too many layers for a child to carry. It occurs to me that saving pornography on this computer is like pouring whiskey into Amma’s sippy cup. It is like leaving a few lines of coke in the playroom. Can’t a parent be arrested for that? For a passing moment I actually consider calling the police. Please take my husband away.
I want to throw this pain portal into the wall and watch it shatter into a million pieces. Instead I push out my chair and run down the stairs and out the front door. I feel like sprinting away but my legs are weak, so I sit down in the driveway, cover my face with my hands, and scream. My behavior is as surprising to me as the images were, but this specific anger also feels familiar. It is as if this fury has been bubbling, slowly rising, and it’s finally exploded to the surface. It feels primal, all-encompassing, and ancient, like a wildfire, sweeping and general and impersonal enough to burn the whole world. This indiscriminate rage scares me, so I decide to narrow it into a laser and point it directly at Craig.
As I sit there in the driveway with my head in my hands, I think, We are in danger. For the first time in a decade, my we does not include Craig. We is my children and me. We are in danger and Craig is the threat. And then I think, What if this is all my fault? I was already cold and then I got sick. What if I’ve driven my husband to porn and I am getting what I deserve? Then, just as quickly as the thought occurs to me, I reject it. No. No, No, No. We are each responsible for our own sanity. He’s weak. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck them all. I decide I am done with Craig and done with men. But just as that decision brings a wave of relief, I think of Chase; how can I possibly write off all men when my son will grow to be one?
I steel myself and walk back into the house. I stay away from Craig until after we put the kids to bed and then I enter the bedroom and say, “I found all of your porn. You promised to never bring that shit into the house again. You not only brought it back, but you put it right on our kids’ computer. You’re a dangerous liar. Do you even love us?”
Craig doesn’t try to defend himself. He doesn’t suggest that I’m overreacting. He hangs his head and says, “I’m so sorry. I’m going to get help.”
Craig starts therapy. We hardly talk about it and we stop showing affection and there is no mention of sex anymore. I can’t open myself up to what I cannot trust, so I shut down to Craig. My body and my heart are now mine to protect. Craig and I become business partners, and our business is raising children. We are polite, as colleagues should be.
And then, of course, there’s more.
* * *
A few months later, I’m being swallowed up by a big black leather couch in Craig’s therapist’s chilly office. My knees don’t reach the cushion’s edge, so my legs stick out straight like I’m a doll someone has propped up. I decide that if I can’t make my feet reach the floor, it’s best to pretend that I don’t want them to, anyway. I pull my legs up toward my chest and wrap my arms around them. I am my own shield.
Craig has told me that he discussed the porn with this therapist. His therapist sympathized because he’d almost lost his wife for similar reasons the previous year. Now this therapist is sitting four feet from me and I don’t like the looks of him. I know how we try to save others in order to keep saving ourselves. I don’t want to be part of this man’s quest to save himself. Plus, he’s jumpy and awkward and he keeps smiling hopefully at me—like he needs my reassurance that everything will be okay. I have no idea if everything will be okay, so I keep my face neutral. I am used to smiling at everyone on earth, and it is clear that this man is accustomed to being on the receiving end of women’s reassuring smiles. I can tell that my refusal to put him at ease is throwing him off. He clears his throat and says, “Hello, Glennon, thank you for joining Craig here today.” I feel jarred by the sound of our names pouring so familiarly out of this man’s mouth.
The therapist goes on. “You look angry, Glennon. Would you mind sharing why you’re angry?”
I want to say, How do you know I’m angry? Because I’m not smiling? Craig’s not smiling, either. Why does a woman’s neutral face mean anger, while a man’s neutral face means neutral? Instead I say, “It’s possible that I’m angry.” He asks me why. I reply, “Because my husband has promised me for years that he’s not watching porn, but he’s been lying to me. Because he’s been bringing porn into our home, where our kids might find it and maybe already have. Because he’s putting my kids in danger. Because he’s using the bodies of other parents’ daughters to get off even though he has daughters of his own. And because for a decade he’s been letting me believe that all of our sex problems are my fault. And maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re not at all.”
The therapist looks at Craig. He’s concerned about how Craig is receiving this. Craig is silent, sad, and distant. The therapist looks back at me and says, “I understand. But, Glennon, let’s give Craig some credit. He’s being honest.
He’s telling the whole story now.”
The silence that follows the words whole story is electric and expectant, like the pause between lightning and thunder. The three of us look at each other and somehow, in that instant, I understand that the whole story is exactly what we’re missing.
I flash back to two months ago. I’m standing at our kitchen counter and Craig is telling me about a friend of his from work. Craig says, “He cheated. It was really hard, but his wife eventually forgave him. They got back together. They’re happy now.” I’m surprised Craig is talking to me about this. I don’t want him to. I don’t want to talk about infidelity in my home, especially not while I am making lunches for my children. So I don’t ask any questions. I don’t look at Craig and I try not to listen too closely. But now, as I strain hard to remember Craig’s voice, I hear the pleading tone there. I hear what I missed before: Craig is not just telling a story about his friend’s marriage, he is asking a question about our marriage. I remember how I kept cutting my kids’ sandwiches into perfect triangles, pressing down hard on the knife—slice, repeat, slice, repeat. I’d said to Craig, “Well, he’s a creep and his wife’s a fool. I’d take my kids and never look back. I’d never forgive that. Never, not in a million years.”
Craig was quiet. “Yeah,” he’d said, as he started clearing the table.
Now, in the therapist’s office, I hear myself say, “Actually, I don’t believe Craig is telling us the whole story. I don’t think he’s ever told the whole story.”
The therapist’s voice cracks when he replies. “Glennon, I hear you. But I know Craig and I believe he’s being honest.”
I shiver and pull my sweater tighter. For the first time I notice that both Craig and his therapist are wearing T-shirts and shorts. Why don’t men ever notice the cold? Why don’t they ever carry sweaters and curl up and make fists of their sleeves and wrap their arms around their legs? Why the hell are they so brazen and unfurled and warm and comfortable all the time?
“She’s right,” Craig says. “I need to tell her something.” Craig’s voice injects a deeper chill into my veins.
The therapist is scrambling now. “Okay, apparently there is more Craig needs to reveal. There is a right way and a wrong way to do this. Craig and I are going to meet a few times and then we will reconvene to discuss this new information in a few weeks.”
I explode into sudden, loud laughter that sounds like gunfire peppering the quiet room. Both men jump and I am pleased. A woman’s laughter grabs a man’s attention faster than tears ever will. I point at the therapist and say, “Ha! That’s funny. You said right and wrong! You are a funny guy!” I stop laughing as abruptly as I began. “No, there will be no reconvening. Craig is going to tell me everything now.” I look at Craig and feel ice for him. Sharp ice. Icicles. I say, “Start talking. If you leave out anything I will leave you and never look back. You know I’m capable of that.” I stand up from the couch and walk across the office. I sit down in a chair as far from Craig as possible.
He looks away from me and starts talking. The first words he says are, “There have been other women. They’ve all been one-night stands. The first was a few months after our wedding.”
I stop breathing. I’m staring at Craig and he’s waiting for me to respond, but suddenly I’m not in this therapist’s office. I’m holding my dad’s arm, walking down the aisle. My dad and I are getting closer and closer to Craig. Stop! Stop! I am screaming this warning to myself and my dad: Turn around! Go back! But we are still walking. It’s done. None of this can be changed.
Craig keeps talking, saying things that can’t be true. While I’ve been home changing diapers, doing dishes, and feeding our children, he’s been sleeping with other women. While I’ve been begging my body to heal, he’s been lying down with other bodies. While I’ve been apologizing for my inability to connect during sex, he’s been connecting with strangers. For years, he let me take all the blame. He let me cry on his shoulder and ask: What is wrong with me? Why can’t I feel safe during sex? He patted my head and said he didn’t know. He knew. He was the reason.
When Craig seems finished talking, we all sit still for a moment. The men are between me and the door. I will myself to stand up and walk toward it, but my legs refuse to carry me. The therapist looks concerned. He says, “Glennon, are you okay?” I consider this to be the stupidest question ever asked. I do not attempt to answer. I glare at him and silently dare him to say my name again. I red-hot hate him. I turn my chair away from the two men and toward the floor-to-ceiling window facing the parking lot. I lean over and put my hand on the window to steady myself. I look down into the parking lot and see a blond woman hurry to her van. I wonder what she knows about her people and what she doesn’t know at all. I hope you really know your people, I think. But quickly I consider that maybe it’s better for her not to know. During the past few minutes I’ve gone from not knowing to knowing, and so far knowing is much, much worse than not knowing. I am not certain that this knowing is even survivable. I take back my wish for her.
As she drives away, a scene from one of my favorite movies enters my mind. It’s the sword fight between Inigo Montoya and Westley in The Princess Bride. There is a moment when Inigo recognizes that Westley is a skilled swordsman, just like he is. Inigo’s face lights up in a fleeting expression of surprise, then fear, then wide-eyed respect, then finally settles into an amused expression that says, Well, he might kill me, but at least this duel is going to be interesting. I laugh again. Awkwardly and bitterly. For the first time, I recognize Craig as a formidable opponent. I thought I was the dark one. I thought Craig was simple, true, golden. But it turns out that he is a dark, skilled swordsman after all. He’s just been hiding his tremendous capacity to inflict pain. Ah, I think, here you are. Well played. I underestimated you. You’re a complicated character after all, and things are about to get interesting. En garde.
Behind me I hear Craig’s therapist ask, “Why now, Craig? Why did you decide to share this today?”
I can barely hear Craig as he whispers, “I’ve been watching Glennon. She writes and talks about her problems. She tells the truth about who she is. She says truth telling is how she got healthy. She leaves in all the bad stuff, and people still love her. I just want to know if maybe I can have that, too. I just need to know if she can really know me and still love me.”
On tiptoes, I swivel my chair around to face the two men. I look at the clock on the therapist’s wall above the window. Time is still passing. The kids will be waiting in the carpool line in fifteen minutes. For a moment I allow myself to wonder what their faces will look like when they find out that their family broke while they were painting rainbows at school. Then I shut that thought down. That pain is a pothole in the road that I need to sidestep so I can do what needs to be done. I push myself up and out of my chair. I pull off my sweater and hold it in my hand. I will my body not to shiver. I stand up, and the men’s eyes lift toward me in unison. I look down at the therapist first and I say, “You should get an adjustable chair in this office so female-size people can put their fucking feet on the ground.”
Then I look at Craig and say, “I have no idea if you can ever ‘have that, too.’ I just know you won’t get it from me. To me, there is no ‘you’ anymore. Whoever the hell you are—you’ve destroyed our family and I will never forgive you. Never. I’m leaving now to pick up my kids. Come get your stuff tomorrow while they’re at school, then stay the hell away from us. You’re poison.”
I pick up my purse and sweater and walk out the door, through the long hallway, and back outside. Then I become the woman hurrying to her car. I wonder if there is another woman in an office above watching me, wondering if I really know my people, trying to get her feet to reach the ground.
* * *
It’s bright, warm, and orderly outside. I stand still to let my eyes and mind adjust. I feel like a tourist who’s just stepped out of the airport and is finding her bearings in a new land. The blue of the Florida sky
is blinding and every sound—an egret, a muffler, a passing plane—feels sharp and foreign. The sun’s heat on my skin surprises me. Warmth still exists; that’s interesting. I beg myself to stay present and pay attention. I need to notice more than I noticed before. The old me missed so much. Her happiness and peace were based on distraction and fantasy. This new me is traveling alone and can no longer afford to be distracted. Reality. Only reality. Figure out what is real, Glennon. My eyes feel propped wide open. My back is straight and my chin is raised, like a soldier. My lungs feel like they could hold gallons, like I’ve just inhaled smelling salts. Everything stings, but I’m awake.
I arrive at my minivan. It’s still sturdy, boxy, gray, and dependable—just as I’d left it. But as I put my hand on the door, I taste hot hate in my mouth again. I pull back and realize quickly that I despise this minivan. I take a step back to gain some ground between us and I stare while the van morphs into a symbol of my decade-long loyalty, sacrifice, and naïveté. The van screams: I am a wife! I am a mom! This is who I am! I might not be flashy, but I love my life! Everything about this minivan is proof that I’m a fool.
I think about tossing the keys into the sewer behind me and walking away from the van forever. But since I am a mother, dramatic gestures are off-limits. I must be steady. I must be calm. I must think about my children, who haven’t yet seen the wave that’s about to hit. I must be the steadfast captain of our sinking ship. I must smile as we go down so everyone can drown peacefully.
I climb up and into my horrible van. For the first time, I notice how little dignity is involved when a small woman must climb into a large car. Why doesn’t anything fit me, damnit? I stare at the mess of coloring books, chapter books, applesauce containers, and dried Play-Doh on the van floor. I wonder if my kids will eventually look at this stuff like I’m looking at my van—like they’re quaint relics from an old, distant world. I wonder if they’ll see this mess with their new, wide-awake eyes and think, Oh, right! Coloring books! I remember when my biggest problem was staying inside the lines! And, Mom, remember the minivan? Remember when your biggest problem was getting us to soccer on time? You used to worry about finding my cleats, remember?! That used to be on your to-do list: Find the kids’ cleats! Coloring books and minivans. We were so precious, weren’t we?
Love Warrior Page 10