When I flew home for Christmas a month later, Jack picked me up from the airport. We retreated immediately to his bed. I had imagined that we would wait until Christmas Eve, when I would be wearing stockings, a push-up bra, and a fancy dress. But now that it was a foregone conclusion, neither of us could wait that long. We weren’t rushing intentionally, and we didn’t mean for it to be over so soon, but we were both all in and one thing led briskly to another.
Afterward we were casual and comfortable with one another. It felt good to have removed that psychic barrier. Things flowed much easier without feeling like we had to avoid contact between certain parts. I was not overwhelmed with lusty desire for him, as I vaguely hoped I would be, but I told myself that was okay. We had the future ahead of us to enjoy one another in all the ways couples do. It would come with time, and maybe it was better this way. The sex may have been merely adequate, but our love was abiding and true, as authentic a love as I had ever known.
It did not occur to me that it was possible to have both the security of abiding love and the eroticism of passionate sex, because I had never had that before. I had learned to equate passion with risk and companionship with love. I thought I had to pick one. So, much like I did the first time I got married, I chose safety.
I met my first husband, Ethan, at a Christian camp when I was 15. We reconnected when I was 18 and married when I was 20. He was 24. We went to church every week at his insistence. He taught Sunday school and was emotionally abusive, though I didn’t know at the time that’s what it was. I thought he was just better than me, that he wanted me to be better, and chastising me was his way of helping.
And I tried. When he called me a slut because the brand new Costco sweater I’d splurged $20 of birthday money on showed a crack of skin when I lifted my arms, I took it off and never wore it again. When he told me I was vain and didn’t care about the environment because I was “wasting” electricity by drying my hair with a blow dryer, I limited myself to three minutes of drying time no more than twice a week…in the dark. When he said I didn’t care about my family (him and the dog) because I was going to the gym after work instead of coming home right away, I started getting up at 4:30AM and going before work. When he accused me of cheating on him with someone at the gym—why else would I be so committed?—I stopped going. I served on the Board of Deacons at our First Presbyterian Church. I volunteered at the hospital. And I did everything I could to avoid pissing him off.
Our wedding was the summer after my second year of college. At my bridal shower, my sisters gave me a very pretty silk nightgown. It was a rich cream, as decadent to the eyes as it was to the skin. I meant to wear it on our honeymoon—a modest weekend in the mountains—but never did. It sat in my dresser drawer for over a year before I was inspired to wear it for him, because there was so rarely peace between us. There was appeasement. There was waiting for the other shoe to drop. There were nights of making up (the only times the relationship made any sense). There was rarely peace.
I don’t remember if this particular night was one of the rare times, or if it was an effort at appeasement, but I decided after my shower that I would wear my beautiful gown for him, if only to cover myself. He had told me a few days before that I looked like I was gaining weight.
“I’d say about five pounds.” He poked my stomach when he said it.
Listen to this episode with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Tender Human to listen to this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.
