Orange; My Former Favorite Color

My head was resting on a pillow flatter than a failed souffle. I was wearing a county issued get-up that memory has erased all details of; I cannot recall the color, or if it was a two-piece combo or a jumpsuit. I had a small plastic cup of water wedged between said pillow and the metal bars of the frame that supported a rubber wrapped mattress. I had woken up in the Criminal Detention Center, or some such euphemism, to describe where I had slept on the worst night of my life.

The incident that landed me in the hospitality of the El Paso County Jail was singular. But the events, years really, that led up to my one-night stand with the Sheriff’s department had been steadily simmering. Like many women who endure abuse, he never hit me. Not with fists anyway. Instead, he threw barbs, wielded insults, and chipped away at my sense of self. His tools of control left no visible bruises; no one would have suspected that behind the closed door of our split-level home, a family was splintered. We’d been together for twenty years, ¾ of which we were married, and had three kids in elementary school.

We had met in Denver at the end of the 1970’s. He was a beautiful young man, mostly innocent, with an alluring touch of a bad boy. Just a hint. Not a harbinger of what lay underneath. I was a bit more worldly and much more outspoken. These assets he claimed initially attracted him to me became a repulsion. His willingness to help others was a seemingly good quality that went awry in later years, when he was always doing something, for somebody, just not me or his kids. 

I had never been yelled at the way he raised his voice to me. Only occasionally had my own father spoke so forcefully to me or my mom, but dad never berated us and always seemed to stop short of unretrievable regrets. My first reaction was to simply not listen, then I began to walk away. Finally I became like a turtle, finding comfort in a shell. But when the fury became derogatory, and the kids were often the focus, I began to yell back. Today, as an avid meditator and practitioner of healthier habits, I am saddened to think the only way to be heard was to be louder. If I’d had better tools, and remembered the words of my long-gone mother, a whisper may have been better. Mom would say if one whispered, others would quiet to hear the message. I’ll never know.

There were other ways I went tit-for-tat with my wusband. He had a voracious appetite, and I would match him at meals in quantity consumed. At 5’5’’ to his six feet, it didn’t take long for this coping skill to become visible on my body. Then I realized it was a blessing in disguise. If I disgusted him, he would leave me alone. I could eliminate at least one way he paid attention to me. Now if I could just figure out the rest of it.

After that night at the gray-bar motel, I knew I should have left him. It was fear that held me back. It wasn’t money, I had money. A nice inheritance from my deceased parents that my ex was constantly laying claim to. He drove a Lexus and I had a silver Saturn with a duct taped door. He denied himself nothing and I was a burgeoning agnostic ascetic. As if his go-to punishment of rage followed by silence weren’t enough, I began an unhealthy practice of denying myself of even necessities. If he spent lavishly and the kids needed soccer cleats and band money, then something had to give. It was me who in turn gave up. Gave up on the way I looked, and self-care modalities like haircuts and an occasional massage. 

After the incident, I slept on the couch, and he would tip-toe down the stairs and invite me up to our king-sized bed. Most nights I declined, but not always. I still had a visceral attraction to my then husband. He had grown more handsome as his boyish looks faded and his chiseled features became apparent. Eventually we had an unspoken reconciliation. That was a pretty big rug we had to sweep all our mishaps and woes under.

I never forgave him for having me escorted from our home that winter evening. For obtaining a temporary restraining order on me to protect our kids. (A laughable constraint.) For his smug way of thinking that anything and everything he did was within his rights. I know that resentment is a hostile form of self-pity. Over the years I have journaled and meditated and therapied the incident, the before and the after, the what ifs and so what’s. Yet here I am again. Giving this event some air.

There was much hype in December of 1999. Y2K would ravage computers. Doomsday prophets had us stocking up on food and water. Once again firearms were a hot holiday item. For me the turning of the calendar page was personal. How did I get here? Here meaning stuck in my marriage, here meaning raising three kids with an absentee father who made scant vociferous appearances. Here meaning my head on a pillow in the county jail.

In the interest of keeping your attention, I am fast forwarding this eight-track of my life. I divorced the bastard in ’08. Afterwards I had a slip off the rails of sanity. Two alcoholic boyfriends in quick succession. I forgot I had kids that still needed nourishment. I worked a series of jobs that paid well but were physically demanding. A fire ravaged my neighborhood. Maybe you’d like this poem I wrote about Waldo Canyon. That next to last line is probably not true, but the rest of it is.

Fire (written in 2017)

Fire took my neighborhood

But left a house for me

And though I had a place to live

My heart yearned to be free

Fire took my friends’ abodes

Houses turned to ash

And though my house was standing

Still… I wanted a new path

Fire took my life purview

Of want and need and stuff

And though ‘twas hard to let it go

I knew I’d have enough

Marriage done and children grown

Fire roared - go it alone

Sold my house, family treasures

Fire whispered - find new pleasures

Fire took part of my soul

Singed me to the core

Yet embers of the life I loved

Live in me evermore

And I did. I sold the house where I raised my kids and my ex raised hell. I moved around a bit, up and down the Front Range, until I settled in a suburb just south of Denver. I took a poetry class at the local community college, the same school I flunked out of in 1980, and it blew my mind. The prof said I was a good writer. The critiques from fellow classmates were kind and encouraging. Maybe I had found a path? I had started writing poetry in third grade and wrote avidly as an angsty teen and requisite fan of Sylvia Plath. I wrote sad stanzas about death and dying and being distraught in my marriage - instead of leaving my marriage. Once he asked me why I only wrote depressing poems and I wanted to tell him to look in the mirror; instead I wrote a poem about it.

Positivity is contagious. Especially when it comes from within. Shortly before the end of wedded bliss (not), I started to exercise. Yoga, Nia, swimming laps. One thing led to another. Before I knew it I’d dumped the post-divorce duds of boyfriends. I started meditating, going to drum circles attired in broom skirts and coin belts. I went to a Native American ceremony that was held in complete darkness. The exit signs and doors covered with black tarp, firmly taping us into this cavernous room with no furniture. Many participants had revelations, out of body experiences. As an event planner I was overly concerned about the wanton disregard for the fire code. When would I get out of my own head and abandon the rules that held me hostage.

Slowly it began to take place. I relaxed self-imposed restrictions, spent some money on myself. Did someone say convertible? In some ways I was crazier than before jail and the long years of plotting my escape. In other ways I felt a newfound independence and complete sense of calm. My kids tell me now, like yesterday and almost every day, they felt neglected in this time. How to explain to them that a constricted snake when finally uncoiled cannot help but explore the lush grass of life. I joined a 12-step program and thought I had made amends to them all. The eldest said he understood and did not think twice about it. The girls still hold umbrage and are capable of unleashing their wrath to me; on the phone, in parking lots, through silence. Silence, the weapon that triggers me the most.

And so, it is. I am here now. Regrets? I have a few. Thank you Frank. And it is a good thing this chick didn’t have a spouse named Earl. All pop references aside, I am in a good place, most days. What I know for sure (Oprah), when I see my ex I am neutral. I don’t want to strangle him or jump his bones. Progress. Not perfection.

I realize I didn’t expound on the incident. The singular blow that put me in orange and changed my life. I will tell you this. The most shameful memory of that time is when I laid on that pancake of a pillow, I stared up at the jailhouse ceiling and thanked G-d that my parents were dead. I was oddly happy they would not bear witness to the disgrace of my life. I still rue having those thoughts. What kind of person is happy that their parents died? 

I apologize for leaving you wondering what transpired the night my son didn’t finish his fifth-grade project and my ex cornered me in our U-shaped kitchen. I wanted to get through this writing without shedding a tear. And when I lay my head on my pillow tonight, in a room of my own (Virginia) I’ll sleep just fine. Because I know that you know.