Im a Goddamned Starburst!

April to October 2015 -
It's funny. Not in the way things used to be funny to me. The uncontrollable laughter fit way that literally gave me a bit of a high inside me. That joy seems a bit far away right now. But in the Dr. Suess way; curious, odd, peculiar. It's a bit funny. The way I feel. The way sitting down and finally deciding to write about this subject now that I'm back in the land of reality and no longer running away. I feel ashamed, and guilty, and terrified, but also indignant, angry, and obligated .

A significant person who probably knows me better than anyone these days said something to me a couple of days ago; "You're so full of fear and worry all the time." And I had to just admit that I was. I've never really been here before. I've felt some of the things I'm feeling, but my false ego and fake defenses kicked in so much better back then. I was more outspoken. I was able to more easily bounce back, move forward, move ONward and UPward.

But it's funny. I'm so much smarter about these things now. So much more aware of myself. So much more accepting of the reality of it. My defenses, walls and false ego and pride were intentionally and systematically stripped from me BY me.

I got "better" or so I thought.

That was awkward and sometimes a little crazy, but I did it. I made myself raw and open and honest about every little feeling, and I probably seemed a little nuts to some people. But that ended up backfiring on me. And I guess I developed one new defense I'd never had before; avoidance. Reluctantly, I have to admit, it's time to stop avoiding now.

Several months ago a friend of mine had been talking to this new girl he was interested in. He had just barely met her and she noticed that we were friends. She asked him what "team" he was on and then said she'd "heard" that I was "psycho." She'd "heard" that the person on the other "team" was "the nicest guy in the world." She made it clear she was on his "team." She also said that the opposing "team" wouldn't say a word to anyone about what had happened between us and remained silent about it to at least most people.

When I heard this, I laughed. Truly. I laughed. I had never even heard this woman's name. I had no idea who she was. And my thoughts wandered to how happy he would be to hear that his name was still in the clear. How proud he'd be that I was being regarded as a "psycho" and he was being regarded as an innocent.

And I thought it interesting that he was not widely discussing his failure. And I knew why. And he knows why. He knew it was possible that I might tell the truth if pushed too far. He knew I'd eventually stand up and defend myself. He knew there was evidence out there. So much in writing, photographs, narrative. He knew and he knows. And he knew I was vocal and unafraid of what others might think of me. He knew I'd want and even need to tell my story. But, I didn't. Not really. Not right away. Maybe never.

I guess he'd so succeeded in shaming and conditioning me that even over a year after we separated, I'm still afraid and feel guilty and wrong for telling the truth.

His precious ego and "appearances" are still something I subconsciously feel a strong compulsion to protect. I'm still terrified of what will publicly or privately be said or done to discredit, humiliate, and shame me to protect that delicate and fragile person on the other side. So afraid that it makes my chest hurt and my face hot and my hands shake a little.

And it's funny. And embarrassing. I really am ashamed. I'm ashamed I let it happen. I'm ashamed I got so entrenched. I'm ashamed of my own behavior. I'm ashamed of the realization of how much I let him control me. I'm ashamed of some of the things I did to avoid. I'm ashamed of being afraid and I'm ashamed of being quiet.

That's what he wanted when it was all said and done. To shame me, guilt me, break me down so I could be controlled and pliable and afraid. And he succeeded. Kudos to him. He'll be very proud under his mask to know that.

Another friend told me that they'd talked to him and he'd said "I would have done anything for her and those boys." That didn't make me laugh. That made my skin crawl. That made me feel nauseous. There it was, that theater mask. That ridiculous face he put on of being such a sweet, innocent, giving guy who was nothing but wonderful to this "awful woman." He was playing heartbroken? He was playing at being the good guy and throwing that implication around like he'd just exhausted every resource to make these unpleasable people stick around.

It would be laughable, if it wasn't so disgusting. But it wasn't surprising. Hadn't this been the game all along? To appear as the guy who was sickeningly sweet to the woman he adored and the family he wanted to project to the world. To appear as the guy who showered gifts and "took care" of us. Hadn't that always been the face he wanted the world to see. Hadn't he threatened and coerced and demanded that that be the face that I showed to everyone as well. The reflection of what he wanted the world to think he was. And I complied. At first because I believed it was his true face, later out of pity and compassion, and even later because it was easier to comply than to bear the punishment of not complying.

There were cracks in his reflection. People saw glimpses of the other side of his Jekyll and Hyde behavior. Occassionally, he'd get too drunk and have an outburst in public. Other times, he'd consider some people "safe" enough to do these things in front of them. And I wasn't exactly an easy target; it took him a long time to condition me enough to not just spill out the truth in the beginning.

Granted, it sort of made me look like a "psycho" because I was reacting to crazy-making by being crazy, but the truth was still being told.

And I did stick around after I saw the mask drop. That was my fault. The thing that causes me the most shame. I didn't leave. I got sucked in. I fell for the gaslighting and the compensating and the cycle. I'm quite shocked at myself that I did, but I did. I guess I thought I was immune. But for someone who, quite frankly, seems very unintelligent, he was an expert at that. I'd defend anyone who said he seemed "stupid" and say that he was deceptively smart. He was. He was a master at one particular form of manipulation. And interestingly, I pitied him. I sincerely felt actual pity for him because I knew where those skills had come from. And I know how, deep down, he is a fragile hurt little boy. I still pity him a little.

So I pitied him. And goddamn me, I wanted to help him. That is the worst thing of all. That isn't his fault. That isn't what he wanted from me. That was my ugly codependence rearing its head. That was something I thought I'd overcome and thought I had totally avoided.

I had no idea he would even need help for a long time. I didn't chose a man who needed fixing. I didn't know, consciously anyway. But by the time I realized it, I was entrenched. I was already pretty broken. And the big stuff started to surface. The codependence. The fear of abandonment. The toxic "caring" that has destroyed me before.

When I realized, I tried to stop it. I tried to send him to someone else to deal with himself. I tried to distance myself. I tried to keep my mouth shut. I tried not to pity him. I tried to understand for myself and deal only with myself.

But, in all that time, he never stopped trying to "fix" me. The thing was, there was nothing wrong with me. I viewed him as a human being with human feelings that I could understand and even support him in trying to navigate. He viewed me as an object that needed to be continually improved and changed to meet an impossible ever-changing standard that would gain him acceptance from, well, anyone and everyone. (I'm going to resist my urge to go full psychoanalytic mode and explain who he really needed acceptance from, maybe another day).

 I was nothing more to him than his big "impressive" house and his big "impressive" vehicle and his big "impressive" array of things. I was a thing.

And like his house and his vehicle and his "things," I was never good enough to fill the need inside him.

He needed a better house, to make his vehicle bigger and better, to get more and more and better and better things. He admitted to me, more than once, that he thought I "looked good" to other people. He even called me his trophy once or twice. And I almost found that flattering, until I realized that he believed he could keep upgrading me. Until I realized that he viewed me as an object. Until I realized I'd not only never be a human to him, but that I would also never be good ENOUGH.

Our entire relationship had been, for him, a tool to advance his "appearance." And when he'd start feeling like I wasn't serving that purpose or I was making him "look bad", he'd tried to put a new bumper on me or get me in the body shop to perfect some dents. He'd try to shine me up to meet whatever it was he'd decided wasn't giving the right impression to others.

Except I wasn't an object. I was a sensitive, deeply feeling, emotional, and yes, fairly previously damaged human being. And I wasn't prepared for that shit. I'd never quite had this kind of experience before. I'd been torn down. I'd been abused. I'd been devalued. I'd even been loved. But I'd never been treated as an object with no human feelings. I'd been in highly emotionally fueled relationships. I'd been in highly abusive relationships. I'd been in highly emotionally manipulative relationships. I was pretty sure I'd experienced everything. But I'd never been a trophy.

It's laughable to use the word trophy to me. He spent a great deal of time and energy making sure I felt like I was less than nothing. Completely the opposite of a shiny trophy. I certainly was never the kind of girl who anyone would ever characterize as a "trophy wife." But that's what he wanted. And I filled that need for a while, until he realized that I wasn't as shiny as he thought. Until someone told him this or that or he got some idea in his head that "impressive" was something different. It changed all the time.

At first, my reaction wasn't good. He would make comments or attempt to control what I wore, said, did, looked like, etc and I would react appropriately. I would inform him that I was who I was. I liked who I was. I was awesome the way I was.  And that it was not only not OK for him to say/do these thing, but it was just wrong.

I'd break up with him over it and then he'd come apologetically and feign ignorance. Maybe he just genuinely did not know he couldn't do these things then. I don't know, to be honest. I think it is possible that he really had no idea those things were not ok. And I'd say ok and I'd continue the relationship and let it slide.

But it kept happening and I kept correcting and eventually, I started doubting myself. He had learned the things that would hit my most vulnerable places. He had learned how to manipulate me to get the biggest possible emotional response and break me down into the floor. He began to use those to get what he wanted. He readily admitted that he'd do absolutely anything to get his way. I'd have a major breakdown. He'd play on my abandonment issues like a maestro. He was good at that. And that would send me reeling for his approval and acceptance.

Somewhere along the way, I started to lose myself. Then I started to be embarrassed by my emotional reactions. The crazy-making made me feel crazy and yes, act crazy. He was pretty good at doing and saying things in the background and then letting me spin out of control in the foreground. Then he'd look on with a bewildered face or play a victim or do whatever he needed to do to make sure that I looked like the lunatic and he could claim nothing he did was behind it.

The day he proposed to me, he'd told me that morning and regularly for a month before that he'd never marry me. No one would want to marry "someone like that." "Look at you. Who would want THAT?" He called me THAT a lot. I think he thought it was my nickname. The entire time he was planning the proposal with a friend of mine, he was telling me adamantly that he'd never propose and a magnificent list of reasons why.

But my friend had, out of sheer pity, told me what he was doing all along the way. She wasn't trying to betray him, I had just come to her in one of my heavy emotional states he'd crazy-made and tried to get some perspective on the things he was saying. I felt like a lunatic. And she'd told me what he was doing. And I was even more bewildered by his behavior.

That behavior continued and got worse leading up the moment he proposed. And I cried and said yes when he did. Abandonment issues. I was honestly relieved that he apparently hadn't meant the things he'd said. I later asked him about this several times, his enduring response was "I wanted to throw you off. I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted to feel afraid you'd say no." (Brain explosion). When I pointed out to him how cruel that had been and how extreme he'd gone playing with my emotions for his own game, he'd tell me not to dwell on the past. I'd make it ok in my head. Somehow.

And that's when things started to get really insane. I'd moved me and my children into a house with him. He'd bought me a car in his name that I couldn't pay for myself. I'd given up my house.  I had become entrenched in a way that wouldn't be easy to get out from under.

That's what he wanted.

I had tried to buy a car myself that was affordable for me alone. He'd told me that he couldn't have me "seen" in a car that was below his standard. When we moved into the house, he threw away quite a lot of my things and replaced them with his things or new things. He'd tell me my things were "shit" and not good enough.

I tried to talk him into a normal sized house. That was out of the question. And I needed to adore and appreciate what he was giving me. So I just did. It made me uncomfortable, but I decided to view in a positive way and be optimistic. Other women wanted all this shit, right?!? I was SUPPOSED to want all this shit, RIGHT?!?  This was supposed to feel like a Cinderella moment. Sometimes it did. But I was entrenched and I knew and would verbally express that he could throw me and my children on the street and we'd have nothing.

Occasionally, he'd threaten me with that. Most of the time he'd swore he'd never do that to us. After we moved in, bought the car, and I was still working, he'd told me that I was required to pay exactly half of the bills. Except, I made in a year what he made in a month. And paying half the bills on these expensive things he'd insisted on (and I'd participated in) was more than I made in a month.

I was also suddenly expected to keep everything perfect. When he'd come home from working, he'd go through the house and do insane things like wipe his finger across something and inspect for dust. Who the fuck actually does that? And how was I supposed to be expected to work 60 hours a week AND keep a 4000 square foot house fully spot-and-dust-less. He refused to get a housekeeper. He could afford one, but... Anyway, that stopped eventually, then came back, then stopped again.

But he started expecting me to be perfect as well. I'm going to give one example of the craziness. One of many, but one of the most emotionally impactful ones for me. One random day, I'd gotten dressed. I have no idea what I was wearing, but he told me that it was unacceptable, to burn the clothes and change. This wasn't the first time he'd done this and not the first time I'd fought back.

But this time, I asked some questions. I asked him what was wrong with what I had on. I asked him why he thought he could do that. The fight that ensued after that is blur to me right up until the point that I was standing in my bedroom and he looked me straight in the face and said "Yes, ok. You are not attractive. You are fucking disgusting, but I love you and I'll marry you anyway." That was devastating enough. All the pain that I'd been bottling in my little vial crashed down on me right then. It was like a culmination of every perfectionistic, abandonment-fear-fueled, low self esteem fear I'd ever had and worked so HARD in therapy and 12 step groups and self help and meditation just exploded. Right then. And he knew it would. He knew me well enough by then. And I tell my truth. Always. I gave him that fuel.

I didn't get angry. I got hurt. I finally realized that this man thought I was outwardly disgusting to look at and he'd compromised with himself to marry me ANYWAY. All the things he'd said to me that I'd been able to push aside or explain away just crashed down on me hard. I fell in the floor in that lifetime movie dramatic way and just crumbled.

His reaction was to walk away and start shampooing the carpet downstairs. I don't know how to explain that. It's just what he did. It was like a punctuation mark on how little my hurt mattered to him.

So I did something hard. Something the still strong me would do. I took off all my clothes. I walked down stairs. I stood in front of him completely naked and said "This is me. This is what I look like. Do you really think I am disgusting?" I was vulnerable in that moment in every sense of the word.  A kind of vulnerable that I am unsure I will ever be able to be again. The kind of vulnerable that I worked hard to be able to be. He said "Do I really have to say it again?"

For the next 3 hours, I sat in the room next to him with tears rolling down my face researching plastic surgery. When I would try to talk to him, he wouldn't speak. When he finally did speak, he told me I should get some advice from a friend of ours that had had a lot of plastic surgery on where I should go to get "fixed."

It helps to understand how vehemently opposed to plastic surgery I am and have always been. This was a Shannon that I didn't know. A broken Shannon that was willing to compromise long held, deeply entrenched beliefs to gain the approval of a man who she knew didn't love her. A Shannon who was just a lost little girl trying to be good enough.

At some point, the same friend who'd help plan my proposal called me. She could tell something was wrong and with a lot of shame, I told her what he'd said and what he was doing. She spoke to him, or yelled at him. She told him exactly what I would want anyone to tell him at that point. She told him what he said and was doing was unacceptable. Cruel. Abusive.

He told HER he knew he was wrong and he would apologize and he loved me just the way I was and didn't "mean" it. Then he hung up the phone, said something to shame me for embarrassing him and telling people what he'd said and went back to shampooing the carpets.

He developed a porn addiction after that and had sex with me about 3 times over the next 6 months or so. I eventually went and got a plastic surgery consult. That's another story. A terrible, ugly story. But, in the end, a story about strength and the integrity of a plastic surgeon who saw exactly what was happening. The good news is, I decided to eat a cheeseburger, flip him off, and refuse to get any surgery. Because, somewhere deep inside, the real Shannon still existed, and always won.

Things just kept going and going like this. Up, down, good then bad, love then hate. Crazy making. So many stories. I tried to please him. I tried to talk to him. I tried to reach out to him. He would say and do thing after thing and for a while I got numb to it. Then I'd react. Then I'd be numb.

Our friends knew about some of it. I stopped eating. I lost some more weight. It was never enough. I tried to be what he wanted that day every day. It was different all the time.

I stopped having needs. I stopped asking for anything. I praised him when he'd do something ridiculous to keep up appearances. I found ways to keep busy. I made a bunch of money in the stock market. I started a business. I looked for ways to support me and the kids when he'd go on a control kick and refuse to give us any money to survive on because, by then, I couldn't afford to go anywhere or do anything when he wasn't around.

I guess I skipped the part where I had quit my job to "be available to him anytime." When I'd get job offers, he would tell me that being with him was more important than money. Well, unless I could make over 100 grand a year. Then it wasn't. But I couldnt do that because I was worthless and my education was worthless and etc, etc. So many things. They still play on loop inside my head like a torture chamber anthem. All of them.

He tried to make me lose all my friends. He succeeded with some and didn't succeed with others. I met his increasing demands that I put on a happy face and appreciate him and tell the world how wonderful he was ESPECIALLY on social media. Appearance was everything. I did it for him sometimes. And sometimes I did it out of some desperate, delusional belief that if I appreciated him enough or stroked his ego enough, he might not need so much approval from everyone else and would just STOP. It didn't work. It seemed to make it worse, really. It was food for the monster inside him.

And I tried to talk to him. I tried to "help" him see what he was doing. I tried. Boy did I try. That was stupid. But that's who I was. That's who I will always be.

When it was finally time to get married, I told him the night before the wedding that I couldn't. He guilted me, shamed me. I felt obligated. He'd spent 14 THOUSAND dollars on a trip to my number one bucket list destination. He'd reminded me of that.

I married him. He burned our marriage license on our weddimg night, after he'd told me to take off the lingerie I'd gotten and, of course, burn it. Why? I don't know. Be aide he was cruel. Because hurting me gave him a thrill. Because he couldn't get it up. I don't know. That's just what he did.

I refused to not enjoy my dream trip regardless. I hung in for another year of increasingly bad crazy making and abuse. I simultaneously became more broken and used the rage of that to become stronger.

Then, we got an apartment in Mexico. We separated a month later. He came and went a few times from that apartment. He didn't accept that we were separated but more importantly, I was to tell NO ONE of our separation. My children didn't even know for a while. As far as anyone knew, I was staying in our beach house and he was working a lot. He even manipulated me into going "home" for Thanksgiving and keeping up appearances to our families. But we stayed in a hotel room by ourselves one night of that. We fought insanely and then went back to the family with our masks on.

He gave me a fierce black eye a few weeks later, right before Christmas. Back in Mexico. I guess that was the LITERAL slap in the face (or more correctly.. Violent headbutt to the face) that I needed. I stopped pretending. I told him I wanted a divorce. My parents got angry. My kids were happy. I lost my mind a little. I even got suicidal one day, for about two hours. Nobody really cared but my brother. Thank you for that, bro.

I also became a dive master and then a dive instructor. I sewed some very, very long overdue wild oats. I did some things Im not particularly proud of and some things I am. I did a lot of things.

But most importantly, I took every tool I'd ever learned. I took every ounce of strength I'd ever had and I ENJOYED myself. By that, I mean, I enjoyed being ME. I enjoyed being WITH me. I found myself again and became better than I'd ever been. I got to know me. I discovered how good it felt to just live for me. I reveled in the joy of not having to answer to anyone but myself. I forgave myself and walked around being unabashedly Shannon.

And boy did I sparkle!

A man walking down the beach came up and sat next to me at my little beach bar one day. He later said to me: "You were just sitting there. I had to come and talk to you. I couldn't help it. You were like a starburst." (I'll forever have affection for that guy, who turned out to be an awesome and fascinating dude.)  I remind myself of that every time I start to remember and feel bad about myself.

I am a GODDAMNED STARBURST!

Updated:  April 2016

I suppose I was running away. I suppose the entirety of my almost year in Mexico was more of an escape than anything else. But it was the best thing I'd ever done. It changed me in ways I can't even describe in words. It gave me strength to leave. To be alone. To know I could be alone. To chuck a LOT of issues. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I'll be forever grateful for that time. Another time, in better words, I'll explain why.

Once he realized I was serious about leaving, he took everything. He made sure I lost my apartment in Mexico and everything else. I left with what I came with materially or what was left of what he threw away. He made sure I'd have less than nothing. All the while being silent and playing the victim. When we finally got around to the actual divorce, I didn't get a lawyer. I knew he'd take everything. I honestly didn't care. I wanted my car, but I didn't fight for it. He could have it. I had everything I needed and none of it cost money. I had more than I'd ever had. I had strength, wisdom, peace.

I got a job and a little house back in Texas. I started dating a man who was NICE to me and didn't think I was at all perfect or a trophy, but absolutely adored the perfection of all my flaws. I scrutinized him to no end for at least 6 months. I went through some harsh PTSD-style stuff once I was back in Texas and there was no ocean to drown my memories in. I am still going through them. It will take a long time to get past it. 

I didn't believe my guy for a long time. I waited, and sometimes still wait for the bad guy to come out. For the fantasy to be over. To see what an idiot I was for not seeing whatever was wrong with HIM. 

But, you know what, it just keeps getting better. Fuck the big house and the big car and the big lie. Maybe I was SUPPOSED to want that. Maybe other girls DO want that but I never did. Not in my life. And I never would.

I wanted love and respect and commitment and acceptance. And I have it. I keep more and more being shown that I'm no trophy. I'm a woman deserving of a man who treats me like the perfectly imperfect human I am. And who does so with an imperfectly perfect amount of dignity and love and respect and acceptance. He's perfectly imperfect too.

Now THAT is some Cinderella shit in my world.

Love,
  A goddamned starburst.