Transformative Prose
I loved you because I loathe myself.
I blindly pushed through the red flags you were covered with, armed with an explanation for every asinine decision.
‘You did what?’ you asked me, eager to pile on the shame men reserve for the women they dishonor with their advances.
I accepted that I made a mistake but I was mistaken that I owed you anything, let alone my life.
By eating apples, I realized that I am the universe experiencing itself.
I am the fruit of the tree of life.
I dreamt my husband left me and didn’t say why, like when we fight because I fail to read his mind.
I felt unlovable, alone, afraid, sad, and defeated.
I told him that when he drilled the ceiling above our heads it created so much dust, noise, and falling debris that I feared for our lives.
He implied that I should understand his master plan.
Though we may disagree, I woke up with the feeling that my marriage is worth more to me than I thought.
There’s the devil that you know versus the angel that you don’t…at least he keeps me out of the horrors of the dating pool, though gentlemanly bachelors seemed to abound after we got married.
I just need to keep the sky from falling, and the sky is my mind.
I resigned to do time for my crime,
for all the lies to men and lying with men.
I signed up to marry a man I deemed at the time good enough, instead of great.
I felt guilty for my misdeeds, even the alleged ones he still suspects to this day.
Somehow I thought that a life of serving him might come close to redeeming the rough beginnings of our relationship:
a messy row of dominoes of cheating and lying.
Why do I feel that I owe him anything, after he has taken so much and given so little?
How can I build a strong marriage on a foundation of deception and shame?
It was harsh to give myself a life sentence.
I heard today that the obstacle is the way.
So true, and yet, how difficult.
I know what I must do, and yet, I don’t.
I remain married to a man-child who drags me down in every way: he drains my finances with his selfish actions and poor decisions, he uses up my time as I endlessly provide for his needs and clean up after him, and he exhausts my energy with incessant fighting, judging me harshly at every opportunity.
Though likely no one would blame me if I left him, women always get shamed no matter what they do.
Now I have our daughter to consider.
My grandmother said that she stayed married for her children, then her grandchildren, and then felt too tired to do anything new.
That was her path.
My path has a long way to go still.
I see the pixie dust sprinkled amidst the pebbles and pine needles.
Opening myself to the unknown, I sparkle back.
Torn between love and money, I watch as my hard won earnings bleed into the streets with each frivolous purchase made by my husband, who is indifferent to my suffering.
I panic and feel weak, disoriented and dizzy from shock and ongoing loss.
I fantasize about divorce, then gather myself and remind myself that I have survived worse, that I have more savings now than I’ve ever had before, as humble as my life is at present.
Ever industrious, I set to stitching my wounds.
I don’t want to be lonely and rich, but in my marriage I currently feel lonely and poor because my husband is not on my team and he embitters the fruits of my labor.
I’m not sure how I will ever clean up this spill.
Behind the curtain of marriage I treasure the single men I know, each one a potential gem who would surely treat me better than my husband does.
I imagine how they would listen to me as we engage in stimulating conversations over a meal they provided, how respectful and grateful they would act, how passionate as lovers, how giving and attentive.
I fantasize about men who balance their check books and clean up after themselves, men who are calm and communicate maturely, who do the damn dishes, who save money or at least spend it on their family, who let go of past hurts, evolve and hold space for me to do the same.
I try to make myself at home within the sound-proof confines of my marriage, though the walls threaten to close in and crush me; both execution device and tomb.
Within the secret tortures of my marriage, my husband and I fight fervently leading up to the moment that we arrive out our friends’ houses, quickly plastering smiles on our faces as we ring the doorbell.
My veins are scalded by resentment for all the ways my husband takes miles without giving an inch.
I scan the horizon for a silver lining, a way to improve my situation: so far marriage counseling, life coaching and me doing the work on myself have all fallen short.
Yet deep below the cracks in our relationship, I sense a fertile humus.
We share more than our sordid history together; we make a home and a family.
We are united in our love for our baby, though we often disagree bitterly on how to raise her.
We share a commitment to our life together and a vision of our future, though we put different amounts of effort and resources towards both: in our relationship, I do all the earning and handle all the responsibilities for our household.
He drags down my energy and my finances, invoking a slow and destitute death.
Perhaps I’m not in a position to judge him: maybe he is the better one and I am the bitter one.
For now, I remain hidden behind the curtain of marriage, bound to my husband and yet alone.
My man wants to know my whole sexual history
My hesitation to unleash the demons from my trauma box only sets a wildfire of suspicion in his mind
I feel eaten alive at the crossroad of past and present men
He says that his woman must be held accountable for her actions
He references a religious belief that has nothing to do with me
I try to not fall over from the sexism
He interrogates me, my family and friends
Trying to connect loose ends
My body feels criminalized
Every time he learns of another ex-boyfriend
He guns down a line of accusations and invasive questions without end
He longs to latch on to that ethereal number of how many men have had sex with me
God only knows
When he demands that I relive the worst moments of my life
I want to end my life, though I do not tell him the invisible repercussions of his prying
I am a private person
With each new photograph he finds, he looks for clues
‘You were a pretty little girl’ he concludes upon examination of a picture taken during grade school, as if that were proof of my unchasteness
He dissects each word from conversation, trying to find deeper meaning, spinning stories where there were none before
Like a man watching porn, he is only interested in penises and penetrations
He has been marinating in his own scrotal sac for too long
To men like him, women are only important in relation to other men
I feel insane with rage
First I suffer a lifetime of molestation, rape and violation
Then I suffer being shamed and blamed for the crimes committed against my body, judged for events that occurred before we met
He is not worthy of hearing about my pain, he has not earned my trust
He may unearth old rumors kicking around this small town
But he will not find the rivers of tears I have cried
He will not see the countless non-consensual encounters I have survived
He will not hear my inner screams silenced by fear and lack of self-worth
I have learned enough to know that I deserve better than this
Lay down your case, detective
Put down your spy glass and quiet your inquisitive mind
What you are searching for has been in front of you all along
A good woman who loves you, committed her life to you, and wants to do right by you
Please do right by her
My man wants to know how many men I’ve had sex with.
I tell him the truth: I don’t know.
I don’t feel the need to know how many times I’ve been raped. I have no desire to quantify the horror, shame or mistakes. I might explode with rage if I focused on those who eagerly traumatized me for their own pleasure.
During my employment as a happy-ending masseuse, I ended up giving much more than the hand jobs I signed up for. Now I’m trying to create a happy ending for my own life but my man keeps asking me about the past. His questions awaken violent emotions in me.
The customers who paid for hand-jobs knew that I wouldn’t call the police when they raped me because I’d be incriminating myself.
My only crime was being born below the poverty line. Self-abuse and self-neglect were ingrained in me by my parents.
I was hungry and trying to get an education I couldn’t afford. I was told ‘here is the ladder you must climb to reach a better life.’ I set to climbing. I solved my financial problems creatively.
My man fixates on the absence of the number of men. I’d tell him if I knew, maybe.
His questions feel invasive and probing.
I used to be valued by men for what I could give- my young, beautiful body.
Now I am devalued by my man for what I have given men.
Men only value women in relation to other men.
When will I be seen as my own person, my own human, inherently invaluable?
My man bemoans what I don’t know; the quantity of traumas too numerous to count, too common to stand out in my blurred memory.
Yet he doesn’t complain about the food I put on his plate, the home I make, or the bills I pay.
I implore him to wait, let me tell my story when I feel ready. I don’t think I’ll ever feel ready. When he asks me about my sexual history I feel ill, anxious and hurt.
I find my breath, reassure myself that he didn’t mean to inflict suffering, and flirt with forgiveness. I remind myself that my spiritual groundedness is stronger than even my exaggerated stress response, my current perceived crisis.
He knows that I was a pushover, pretty and poor. For all of his scheming, jealousy and time spent thinking about me, you’d think my man would connect the dots.
I finally found my life partner, my love
We’ve lived together for more than a year, peaceful as doves
Happiness pours like sunlight into my life
Sage Burner Poetry 