Beyond the Facade

The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead provided a soothing backdrop as I methodically ticked off items on the inventory sheet.

“Did you tell Rich I was smoking pot in the shop?” Roy's tone was sharp, breaking the peaceful quiet that I was enjoying.

I looked up, my mind scrambling to shift gears and respond to this sudden confrontation about what I may have or have not told our boss. His eyes bore into mine unapologetically, demanding an answer. “No," I defended.

Thick, heavy silence filled the space between us. Each second seemed to drag out like an eternity as we stood there, locked in a silent battle of scrutiny. He was gauging my honesty while I braced myself for the backlash. I had no expectation of him believing me, but I was desperate that he did.

I had recently left behind the world of corporate jobs. Despite the lack of advancement opportunities and much to the surprise of friends and family, I took a position as an office manager in a small auto body shop in a small town. For the first time, I loved coming to work. Advocating for what made me happy versus what others expected of me was new territory. The last thing I needed was a confrontation with a coworker to put it all at risk.

But there was something deeper at play here.

The tight sensation of being doubted filled my chest and gave rise to a hard lump in my throat. A sensation I knew all too well. My childhood was riddled with those moments. One of my earliest memories was when I was eleven years old, and I had hurt my leg at camp.

Home under doctor’s orders, he made it clear that because of the numbness I was experiencing in my shin, I needed to keep my leg elevated. Otherwise, I was at risk of developing gangrene. He anticipated that the numbness would subside within a week or two. After two weeks, I told my mother that it hadn't, but she was skeptical.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed. “Tell me when you feel this.”

“I can't feel that."

Her response was swift and cutting, “If you don’t feel it, then how do you know I’m touching it?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

I couldn't find the words to express that I could feel something touching my leg, but I couldn’t tell if it was hot or cold, sharp or dull. Regardless, the matter was concluded. As far as she was concerned, it had been long enough. I was fine.

Over the next few weeks, I lived in fear waiting for my leg to blacken and require amputation. Fortunately, that never materialized, and I eventually found my peace with the numbness, which lingers to this day.

What no one had prepared me for was the deep psychological scar left by being dismissed and abandoned with my fears. I hadn't known that until I healed my childhood wounds, they would resurface whenever I faced similar situations, force me to relive those painful moments over and over again and disrupt my relationships.

A decade later, that childhood wound echoed loudly as I stood frozen before Roy – braced for the accusation of being called a liar and the powerlessness to defend my truth that would inevitably follow.

Surprisingly, Roy's face softened, "Okay," he replied. 

"Wait. So you believe me?" 

"Sure. I didn't think you would try to get me in trouble like that. I just wanted to hear it for myself." He grinned and left me to my inventory. And with that, my psyche's rigid tendency toward power struggles began to defrost ever so slightly. 

Roy's ability to form his own opinions and not be swayed by rumors allowed him to see me for me. It was a gift I didn’t take lightly. And it was then that I found myself deeply respecting and falling in love with this special man.

Over the next few months, the romantic spark between us grew, and eventually, I moved in with him. While that moment he interrupted my inventory had a profound effect on melting my social defenses, they didn't just disappear. Fortunately, Roy had the strength and commitment needed for the long haul.

Another one of my social challenges that would show up was that whenever I felt wronged, I'd go silent and ruminate for hours, maybe even days. I had learned it at such an early age that it felt completely normal and justifiable, despite the negative outcomes it consistently evoked.

People often responded by leaving me alone, sometimes for good, sometimes expecting everything to blow over. But my suppressed feelings would simmer and inevitably boil over, leading to an explosive end.

From the get-go, Roy made it perfectly clear that he wasn't about to stand for the silent treatment.

"What's wrong?" he asked with stifled frustration.

He shouldn't treat me that way, I told myself.

"What is wrong?!?"

How can he not know? It's so obvious. If he truly cared about me, he would know.

"Hellooooooooo????!!!!" he shouted, his face inches from mine. The tension in my body ramped up as my thoughts revved in an endless loop that would have made the Indy 500 look like a Sunday afternoon cruise.

I gotta get out of here.

"NO! Don’t you leave!" he shouted, stopping me in my tracks. Both of us stood toe to toe, and he continued to yell. "Enough with the silent treatment! Just say what's on your mind!"

He had never raised his voice to me like this before. But it must have been what I needed, as it seemed to strip away the facade of my indignant righteousness, leaving me with an unsettling view of myself.

What am I doing? What is wrong with me?

"At least look at me. It's bad enough you won't talk to me. At least look at me."

With my guard starting to come down, his words reached me.

"Just talk to me," he said, gently running his hands up and down my arms.

"You said remodeling the bathroom was for me, and that this is my home too, but everything I suggest you dismiss."

"Telling you tile with 24K gold trim is out of our price range is not dismissing your input, Honey," he grinned.

"It's not the tile," I said lowering my head. I wanted this conversation to be over, but I knew there was no turning back. I awkwardly brought up the bathtub situation, certain he would tell me how overly sensitive I was being. Because, again, it's what I had become accustomed to growing up. And again, Roy offered something different - a solution.

"I've been thinking about it. I know you want something more modern than that old clawfoot tub. But it's been in my family for so long, I don't wanna just toss it. What do you think of encasing it in tile? I can make it look like a sunken tub."

It may sound trivial, but this was a milestone in my life. It was the first time I could recall resolving an issue where there was no winner and no loser, nor having my feelings dismissed and ridiculed.

Gradually, these scenarios all but evaporated from our relationship. By the time we were ready to take on the task of remodeling the rest of our home, we had forged a strong partnership.

We managed to get through the demolition phase of the remodel without any major incidents, despite it being more intensive and taking longer than we had expected. We even had a lot of fun along the way. But it was our last night of demolition that remains etched in my mind even now...decades later.

After the last sledgehammer was swung and the last of the debris was carefully scooped up, we stood side by side, our arms around one another admiring our accomplishment.

"One more day, and it's the weekend," Roy said. "How about some takeout tomorrow night? We could have a quiet night in, and relax?"

"Sounds like a perfect Friday night," I agreed.

"Saturday, we'll go to Home Depot and pick up the sheetrock."

"And grab some paint swatches," I happily added.

Silly with exhaustion, he climbed up the ladder and serenaded me with a rendition of "You Are My Sunshine."

Roy and I would never have our takeout or quiet night in, nor would we pick up sheetrock and paint swatches.

The following morning, just as he always did, he would wake me up before leaving for work and kiss me goodbye. 

Our last kiss.

Our last goodbye.

The detective who oversaw the crash scene would later comfort me by telling me that he didn't suffer.

Brian "Drew" Chalker says people come into your life for a reason, a season, and a lifetime. To me, Roy was all of those.

He came into my life and gave me the experience of love and acceptance. I can only hope I did the same for him. He taught me that it's okay to sometimes get angry with and disappointed by those we love, but not okay to shut one another out. He showed me that we create space for more joyful memories (like serenading from a ladder) when we choose to resolve our challenges rather than ignore them or blame one another.

Our few years together seemed like barely a season in comparison to the lifetime we intended to share, but the love and acceptance he gave me will forever remain a part of me. Death can rob us of the ones we love, but it cannot take away the love we've been given. Nor can it steal the growth and healing born by love.

I believe that true acceptance extends beyond others' perceptions. It involves embracing circumstances beyond our control, welcoming change, and living in alignment with our authentic self.

Reflecting on those years with Roy, I now understand his acceptance of me as a cornerstone in my journey. My life with him had come to an end, but my journey into the realm of acceptance had, in many ways, only just begun.