April 2001
Pastor Ricketts was whooping and
hollering away from the pulpit, body in full motion and hands
gesticulating like he was wont to do when he got to the meaty part of
the sermon. For all that I can’t remember the
subject of the sermon, I surely do remember God’s message to
me. “You’re fornicating. Stop
it. Now!”
I looked around me to see if anyone
else was hearing voices. Nope. Their eyes were focused on the pastor in
rapt attention. Ohhh boy.
As the week went by, I tried to shrug
it off, but it seemed as though every sermon for the next three weeks
was directed at me! Forget about stomping on my foot, the pastor was
stepping on my whole leg! He preached about the body being a temple, he
preached about fornication, he cited examples of officers laying up in
bed the night before and coming to church the next morning, carrying on
business as usual. I actually did look around the sanctuary during that
sermon, wondering who he was talking about, because I just knew he
wasn't talking to me... cause I never, ever had intercourse on Saturday
nights.
After another three weeks of this, I
couldn't take it anymore. I spoke to my fiancé about the
cessation of intercourse until our wedding in six months. You know that
went over as well as Bush's election in New York and Pennsylvania,
right? I mean how do you convince someone, when you're reluctant
yourself, that something you've both been doing for twelve years needs
to be stopped... for six months?
Anyway, I gave it a shot. It entailed
weeks of discussion back and forth. Finally, although he
couldn't resist the urge to warn me that I was putting a strain on him
and on our relationship, he agreed to give it a shot. Strain? Heck,
we'd weathered so much in twelve years I was confident that, though
those six months would be a mild to moderate annoyance, we'd be
alright. I had faith enough for both of us. After all, we were doing
the right thing.
Week one was a gosh-durned struggle,
but with reassuring phone calls three to four times a day, we were
alright. In week two, the coaxing and questioning reasserted its head.
Oh don't play; you know what I'm talking about. "So, does abstinence
mean that we can't take care of each other...in other ways...you know?"
For once in my life, I said no and meant it. Why? Because, although I
daily endured physical symptoms of frustration, something strange was
happening to me mentally, emotionally and spiritually.
I began seeing my fiancé,
myself, and our relationship with more clarity than I had in years--or
perhaps more than I ever had, period. I realized that he manipulated my
emotions to avoid discussions, to provoke guilt, to win arguments etc.,
and I had been unaware of it. Well, not unaware--I just thought he
didn't realize that he was doing it. But with my newfound clarity, I
realized that it was a deliberate act.
I also began to realize that I, in
part, had helped to create my monster. I had begun to treat him as God,
and he had taken to the role better than any Academy Award winner ever
could. So now I was taking away his God-like authority without warning,
and he didn't know how to react to my new purpose or my burgeoning
self-confidence.
At that point, abstaining no longer
became a reluctant obedience, but a necessity. I wanted to discover
what else I'd been blinded to ... unfortunately, I found out:
High on the hog and confident that Dom's discontent was just a drop in
the bucket, I never really noticed when Dom stopped asking. Maybe I
just thought that he was dealing as well as I was. Then, with my
newfound clarity, I began to notice that Dom was doing things that
would deliberately anger me so that arguments would begin and he could
exit the scene.
I realized that things were
escalating to a breaking point. Determined to hold things together, I
sucked up the strife and continued to be the peacemaker that I had
always been. Only three more months, I told
myself. But then Dom upped his game of "anger the fiancée"
with really blatant, in your face, you-better pop-your
neck-and-roll-your-eyes-at-me-or-you're-not-a-strong-black-woman antics.
I finally gave in and told Dom that I
wanted to speak with him. I gave him the "it's not working out speech"
and returned the quite ugly engagement ring. We both wept beautiful
tears, hugged each other, and said the placating words that people
usually say in such times: "I love you, but I guess, sometimes, love is
just not enough." (What the heck is that crap, anyway?)
As I watched Dom drive away, I felt
two parts relief and one part disappointment. I knew that Dom had
deliberately angered me so that I would be the one to end the
relationship instead of him. I couldn't help seeing that as a weak and
less-than-manly thing to do. I also figured that twelve years together
deserved more consideration than that.
I went into the house and quietly
told my mother and daughter that the relationship had ended. They
rallied around me, and being the strong black woman that I am, I
pooh-poohed their pitying looks and comforting hugs, went into my
bastion of solitude (the bathroom), turned on the water, and cried like
a baby.
Dom called the next day to check on me ... and the day after, and every day after that. I began to unravel a
bit, and started avoiding his calls. When he finally got through to me,
he said there was something he needed to tell me face-to face. He was
going to be a father. He'd been cheating on me.
Once inside, I listened for the car
engine signaling his departure. Only then did I allow the anger I felt
full reign. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Two
weeks later, via my mother, I learned that Dom was getting married to
the mother of his child. Wedding plans were already in progress.
There were not enough tears that
could be shed to assuage the pain I felt as the news pierced my soul
like an arrow, and embedded itself in what was left of my
self-worth. It burrowed in deep, and it seemed to confirm the
message life had been conveying: “You are
unlovable.”
***
To Be Continued...
