I became a mother at 24 years old with a man whom I was not married to and I did not love. I never said it, even to myself, but I was so lost and scared at this time. But I didn't dare even shed a tear and instead put all my energy to battening up my defenses from the attacks of "how could you do this?," that came from just about every family member. If they weren't saying it outwardly, they held an air that said, "this is what we expected of you- to mess up your life." And so I defiantly held up my chin, and told them all, " this was what I wanted, to have a child with this guy at this time, and we will be fine." I couldn't even let the shock of my pregnancy hit me, and that I was bound forever to man I didn't even want to date any more. There was no one I could admit my mistake and confess: I was actually devastated.
It was a very miserable pregnancy, pretending to build a life with my daughter's father. We lived very separately behind closed doors, and outwardly planned the arrival of our daughter. I lived with Bill until P was one and a half. Up until that time, I had not considered admitting failure and moving out and hearing the chorus of "We knew it" that would come when everyone heard that I couldn't remain a couple with the guy that was providing for me and whose child I had born. I did not see any alternatives, until I befriended a young man I met randomly on the street and got to talking to. He told me that even though his parents were together only for one year after he was born, they remained friends and he always felt well adjusted and stable in his back-and-forth life. The key to this, he said, was how they made each other welcome in one another's homes. His dad would sit and have a beer at his mom's, his mom would have some dinner when she picked him up from his dad. I now had a respectable model for how I could raise my daughter as a single mom apart from her father. We would go into each other's refrigerators and help ourselves. This was my only plan to finally get out of the shadow of my mistake, and I would prove finally that I was a person who knew what she was doing and had it all under control. My life was not a mistake, and it could be even better than those who married the loves of their lives, planned their children, only to end in bitter divorces with judges dictating how often they see their kids, and who got what of the possessions. Bill and I were going to be above that. We would be flexible with scheduling whose house our daughter went to, he would provide me with whatever child support he wanted, and mi refrigerator would be su refrigerator. All Fixed.
It was about four years that I deluded myself in pretending that such a friendship with Bill existed. I would indeed help myself to a snack from his fridge when I came to pick up our child. But I felt his scathing annoyance at my presence and I became very good at ignoring it. And he never stepped foot in my home and would instead wait on the doorstep for me to hand her over- always leaving the car running. I would call him constantly and tell him stories about our day, or ask for his help fixing stuff around the house, or to weigh in on decisions regarding discipline, but I never stopped to notice I was the only one talking or that my phone never rang back when it was his weekend with her. And still, I told everyone what a great relationship we had. My spiel went something like: if two parents can't be together happily, the next best thing is to be great friends separately." I convinced people of this so much, that I was told more than once that I should write a book on the topic. (This was years before Gwyneth Paltrow became the icon for Conscious Uncoupling. But now you know, I had the idea first.)
I gave up the act when there were no more delusions to hold on to. I met a man that I thought I would marry when my daughter was five. When I told Bill this news, all this hate and vile came out that I did not see this coming. I thought the "friendship" with him was so well established that he'd be happy for me, albeit maybe it would be awkward at first. But surely after he saw what a great guy Chris was, and how respectful he was toward Bill as Prairie's father, he would have nothing to worry about. Chris even latched on to my fool-proof plan of simulating friendship and spoke of how he'd like to get to the point where he and Bill could crack open a beer and watch a game. But Bill made it very clear that this was not going to happen and that he would not be any party to my fantasy lovefest where we all got along and sang Kumbaya (his actual words). But not only wasn't Bill open to this idea. My family never accepted that I could be in a relationship with anyone besides the father of my child. It was selfish and trashy and dangerous. And here I thought I was finally making grown up decisions, creating an open dynamic where we all were comfortable and mature- and happy!! But really I was just making yet another big mistake. It was less than one year later when I found out that Chris was astonishingly deceptive and engaged to someone else since before he met me. And so here I was again: lost and devastated, looking like a complete screw up- and now deeper in the red on my mistake quota. DeeSo I wasn't together with my child's father, I hadn't managed to form this utopian friendship with him either, and the first new man I brought into my home and our life was a hands-down sociopath. If I had no room for error before, now my head was pressed against the ceiling and the walls were completely caved in. And in this position it was really hard to move. So for eleven years (and counting), I didn't.
In these past eleven years, my daughter has grown from a soft-spoken, sweet child, to a confidant, self-assured young woman. I have made quite a few career moves, constantly trying to find a work life that provided a good income and time to be home. We made tons of new friends and developed a wonderful community around us. And I did date, here and there, very briefly guys who I saw no future with (i.e. guys that were not a threat to me and I had no desire to introduce to my child). But as far as me attempting a real relationship- or even drawing the possibility of one to me- nothing. I completely gave up any thoughts of getting married and creating a family with someone. And that became ok. Throughout my thirties I watched people pair up. I was like that kid in gym class with the bad attitude that never got picked to be on a team, but it didn't matter, because I didn't want to play anyway. Marriage was for suckers who couldn't stand strong on their own. Who were afraid to be alone. I actually wrote essays on why marriage was not for me. I sought out movies and books where women chose a life of solitude and single-parenting. I surrounded myself with as many examples of why it was better, easier to be alone. I perceived every married couple I knew to be miserable or living a lie- and I would diagnose their circumstance. "Oh, that husband is misogynisitic." "I bet that one is abusive." "There is no way he is not gay." I felt above the fray. I was not needy and weak. I was not diving into a train wreck of a relationship out of fear of being alone. I was stable on my own. Better yet, I was free. Free to raise my daughter how I wanted. Free to make new friends and travel wherever I wanted. Free to not shave my legs 8 months out of the year.
It's now, that my daughter is looking at colleges and planning where she will go after high school (yeah, time travels FAST), that this freedom is petrifying me. I always said I would move out of New Jersey once she graduated. In two years I will be free to do that. And I have no idea where to go. My freedom does not feel freeing. It feels lonely. Alone at one time felt good. It seemed so easy and uncomplicated.- smart even. And now that is turning on me, too. The safe, unfettered life I had strived for in order to be sure I would not make another giant mistake is coming full circle back to what I was trying to avoid- loss and devastation. In working so hard to avoid another mistake, I made no choices, took no risks, and let no one in. I painted this all as being strong and free, but now see it as afraid and small. It is occurring to me that freedom is not freeing when you struggle so hard to uphold it. When you are bound to one particular idea of it, and feel you have to defend it at all costs, even if those costs are joy, security, and love. Freedom isn't free when it costs so much. It's actually quite constricting.
And now here I am, soon to be as free as a bird, and really only wanting to be tethered.
