Southern Garbage Revisited

“It was 1978 and after my first divorce all I missed was someone to take out the garbage. After my second divorce all I missed was someone to take out the garbage and sex. But it was 1990 and times had changed.”

These are the opening lines of my memoir I started 30 years ago. I discovered the typed pages as I was recently going through one of those mystery boxes labeled “miscellaneous” that we stick on a top closet shelf out of sight and out of mind each time we move to a new address. For me there had been a total of five moves within three states since I had started writing about my life. There were five typed chapters folded in the middle of an old journal. It was surprising to know these words from my 42-year-old self still resonated.

“I’m from the Deep South and grew up in a period when young girls were taught by their mothers that the primary goal in life was to find a good man who could take care of you.  It was fine to get a college education, but not necessarily with the objective of ever having a career or needing to work. If you married the right guy, you would lead a fulfilling and successful life just by staying home being a loving wife and mother. College merely presented the best environment for finding that perfect provider. Why would I question this formula since my mother had never had a job outside of the home? My dad was breadwinner, problem solver, and the model Southern gentleman. And he ALWAYS took out the garbage. My parents had married in their late teens and their marriage was a smooth running machine. Each had their roles and responsibilities which were pretty much set in stone, and I don’t remember being aware of either of them coloring outside the lines. Neither did they seem very happy, but there wasn’t an emphasis on individual happiness, especially for the woman. Happiness for the wife meant being “taken care of”.  Young women went from the protection of their parental homes to the safety of their husbands.  All of this sounds so foreign to my senior self, but my mother died still trying to mold me into her image.

So like the dutiful Southern naïve, young lady that I was, I went away to college and met Steve, my future husband, at the end of my freshman year. He was an engineering student working as an intern for a large engineering company during the summers, so he was guaranteed a stable job upon graduation. Check! He locked his site on me after our first date and never wavered until I agreed to be his wife. I was flattered by the attention and he was more mature than the other boys I had dated. Steve was from a “nice” family, dependable and my mother adored him. Check, check, check! She decided right away that I had found my future mate. Perfect! If it sounds like an arranged marriage, I really can’t disagree because I had always been and done what my parents expected, so why should this be different?

Flash forward seven years and one child later, and I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me.  I say “me” because Steve was a great provider, good father, faithful partner, and he even consented for me to take a job as a research analyst three mornings a week. I convinced him that work would really be good for me since Anna had started school and I needed the stimulation. I was never interested in being part of the ladies that lunch or tennis crowd and felt my brain was atrophying.  For a while the job was a distraction and it helped quiet the unsettled feeling that had been coming over me for a while. At first I thought having another child was the answer to my despair. So I approached Steve about trying for a boy although I knew he didn’t want another child, but he was adamant and there was no changing his mind. My growing unease turned into depression and then fear. Steve was pretty consumed by his job, but he noticed I was different and getting more and more distant. I tried to talk to him about what I was feeling, but I didn’t really know myself. He became frustrated and dismissed my behavior as moodiness. Finally, after many months of no improvement, I suggested we see a counselor. Steve was definitely growing more impatient with me, so I felt relieved and appreciative he was willing to help get some answers. I was exhausted from worrying about my condition and just wanted someone to tell me what was wrong with me and how to fix it. My daughter was four by now and I tried so hard keep her from being affected. I felt miserable and lost and guilty. After all, I had everything any young woman could want…a faithful husband, a beautiful child, and a lovely home. Why couldn’t I just be happy and realize this life was exactly what I always wanted?

One of my friends had confided a couple of years before that she had suffered from depression, and I remembered the clinical psychologist’s name whom she had seen. I felt hopeful that he could help me too. At the beginning of the first visit he asked why we were there, and Steve took the lead. He described my behavior over the last year and I couldn’t really disagree with his depiction. He said there were not really any issues with our marriage, but I had become increasingly unhappy and moody. I felt nauseous and sad as he told the doctor about me. When Dr. Connor turned to me for my input, I concurred with Steve’s account of our present circumstances. We all three agreed that I was the one with the “problem”, so I made an appointment to see Dr. Connor without Steve. This was my first introduction to therapy and I didn’t know what to expect, but I was honest and candid so the doctor could assess my situation and put me on the path to being “normal” again. After six months of weekly sessions he informed me on one particular Wednesday afternoon that this would be our last meeting. ‘What do you mean? I’m not better. I still feel unhappy at home, I cry for no reason and you haven’t told me what’s wrong.’ I blurted. Dr. Connor calmly said, ‘There is nothing wrong with you. You are just not in love with your husband and I’m not sure you ever were. You want a divorce and I think you deserve one.’ ‘Are you crazy? I have a great husband and family. I do love my husband! You were supposed to make me okay and you haven’t helped me at all!’ I shouted and stormed out of his office in hysterics.’ I cried uncontrollably in my car and then threw up in the parking lot.”

The memories of so many years ago swirled around in my mind. I sat back and just let the feelings settle into my body wherever they chose to land. After what seemed like a very long time, I laid the five chapters on my desk, opened my laptop and sighed: CHAPTER 6