A Deep Dive into My Past Uncovers a Disturbing Pattern
Born a disappointment
My story in its skivvies would read like this:
I was born, grew up, got married, had two children, divorced, got a college degree, remarried, stopped drinking, found God, and lived happily-ever-after —
The End.
Now you know everything, and yet, nothing at all.
To know, the me, inside my shell, you need to hear the stories I’ve lived, meet the co-stars, listen to my heart’s response, love whom I’ve loved, and taste each teardrop.
If I could rip my heart out, for you to see, I would. I am the cliche open book, but please know, that I am not arrogant enough to believe you need to know every dust bunny under my bed. I’m confident you have your dusty secrets hiding in the dark as well.
Don’t we all?
Nevertheless, raw, truth-revealing stories help the reader shoo their revelations out into the light; as a bonus, they gain understanding for others around them. I hope to inspire the reader to look within, look beside, look back, then look forward.
Looking Back —
I imagine the day I was born, the world hushed a collective sigh of — disappointment.
As the third, and last ditch effort to produce a bouncing baby boy, alas, I showed up, just another girl.
From the beginning, I knew I was not what they’d hoped for.
I wonder, do babies eavesdrop while floating around the womb?
Even if I didn’t hear it there, all the hoopla surrounding the birth of my surprise baby brother, Danny, proved it.
My response to this hurt did not send me to a corner to sulk. Au contraire, the fact I was less than desired gave me a powerful drive to prove myself worthy of the 18 inches of personal space allotted in this world.
Knowing my arrival was lackluster at best, left me with a “game on” drive to prove I deserved to breathe air as much as anyone.
Had I directed that energetic need to prove myself toward anything positive, I might have changed the world for the better. Regrettably, I spent my enthusiasm chasing disposable kites through storms, leaping over the real gems life offers.
I carried a big bag of “neediness” into friendships, lugged it along the rocky road of boys, and packed it to the workplace hoping to impress my bosses. I didn’t know there was a black hole in the bag allowing love to escape. To complete my usual wardrobe of mini-skirts and go-go boots, I should have worn a T-shirt warning “I Have Something to Prove!”
Somewhere along my yellow brick road, I stepped over the edge into my version of insanity, making a snap decision that seemed right at the time. Looking back, I wonder if I was under a spell, carrying out orders like a retro robot with no will of its own.
Trading the therapist’s couch for the psychiatrist’s chair, here’s my diagnosis —
Exhausted from a life of pleasing others to prove she was not a disappointment, Deb made an unconscious plan to destroy whatever chance there was to be a worthwhile person. Now she could rest in agreement with the world that she was, is, will always be, a huge disappointment. Deb was her happiest as a young wife and mom, choosing to kill the marriage was a direct act of self-hate, a way to confess before getting found out.
As a young wife and mother, I looked good to the world. There were times I felt like I’d found my calling. It was a peculiar, uncomfortable place I wanted dearly to rest in, but never could quit looking over my shoulder. I’m not certain, why I did what came next. My reasons are tainted by the edits made over the years by emotions, time, and guilt. I just know I felt like a fraud, often confessing my worthlessness to whoever sat on the barstool next to me.
I’m tempted to write around what I did, letting you guess, never knowing if you got it right. There’s no way you’d imagine something worse. The idea of my confession in black and white, next to the blinking cursor with no excuses or people to blame, sends my heart racing.
No way back
After two years of pleasing my boss as an employee, wanting to believe the flattering words he so fluently spoke, I caved. I knew the affair would end my marriage. Call it a lie, stupidity, or both, I told myself no one else would be hurt.
Once the damage was done, I settled in as a divorced mother of two. I didn’t ask for forgiveness or a second chance because I knew I would never forgive myself, besides, the new uniform was comfortable. It didn’t take long back riding in the disappointment saddle, before the need to prove my self-worth returned.
I enrolled in college, somehow managing to work full-time and maintain good mom status. That is, except for every other weekend when the kids stayed at their dad’s. I’d wave them off in my good mom apron, and go back inside, promising I’d behave this time.
But I never did.
The vodka made sure of it.
Without my children’s faces present, reflecting my behavior, I didn’t care. I scurried down the road of self-destruction like a hungry squirrel chasing nuts. The demeaning, loveless affair continued on and off, as I was drawn to the self-deprecation like a martyr with a whip.
At age 36, I graduated with a B.A. in Communication, a 3.98 GPA, and the honor of being the first to earn a degree in our family. I didn’t attend the graduation ceremony, that I’d dreamed of for four years. I guess the fruit of my labor smelled rotten by then, or maybe, I didn’t deserve the cap, gown, and walk of honor.
In hindsight, I know God pursued me through it all. Yes, I am that one annoying sheep he chased after. No matter how much dung I rolled around in, God insisted I was worthy of his flock. For this, I will be forever grateful.
It’s comical how many people He placed in my path, willing to be kind, despite my stiff-necked attitude.
Crazy things, only God could conjure up happened.
An old guy, named Ike, walked into my business with a book and a prayer just for me.
Whether at the grocery store, the dentist, or the bowling alley, every conversation led to God.
And, only God’s grace can explain how I ended up on a blind date with a man three years sober. To this day I don’t know why I didn’t run, change my name, leave the country, or simply say no to the invitation.
Trust me when I say, that God is a bold, thrill-seeking, matchmaker. I squeaked out a desperate prayer to a maybe God, and voila, I fell in love with a man I would describe as a no-way-in-hell date.
First of all, he was sober.
Secondly, he talked a lot about God.
Despite this, I kept saying yes to this great-looking, broke, college student.
I wanted him to like me, so I — lied.
My new script meant pretending to be a light drinker who occasionally enjoyed a red beer with dinner. When he’d grin, calling me a lightweight, I felt innocent, delicate, clean, like a porcelain tea cup. I did not want to break or soil that cup.
A second chance
The day we married, I wanted to change my mind, running out of the little chapel, as far away as possible. I’m thankful the affliction of not wanting to be a disappointment to the wedding attendees and groom, drove me to stay.
Once again, I was a family, my two children living with us and Sandy’s older children not far away.
It became easier not to drink at all rather than pretend I was satisfied sipping an occasional beer. Everything seemed to be working out. We had beginning careers, happy healthy children, a new (old) house to restore, and a dog.
Until one day —
It was time to pay for my two-pack-a-day smoking habit with a collapsed lung. As it turned out, this was a blessing in disguise. After a week-long gig in the hospital, nicotine patches, and my loved ones pleas, I never smoked again. Thank you, God!
Shortly after the lung collapse, I left home on an out-of-town business trip. Until then, I’d never said yes to parties or after-work cocktails with my bosses or co-workers. In the past they had expressed disappointment, suggesting I thought myself too good for their company.
Out of town, beyond the eyes of those I love, I said yes to a cocktail then somewhere between the first and last cocktail, I blacked out, not before disappointing my bosses, co-workers, the wait staff, two bartenders, and myself.
The good news?
I never drank again.
I’d love to say that’s when happily-ever-after entered the story. The thing is, when you quit drinking, life often gets worse since your favorite and familiar coping method has abandoned ship.
If I’d known God was right there holding everything I needed in His hand, I could have saved myself and those around me a lot of mess.
The good news? God never gave up on me.
Michelangelo was once asked how he went about the sculpting process.
His answer?
“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”
That’s how God sees us, even when we are merely rocks awaiting metamorphosis, He sees something beautiful and worthy.
I was never a disappointment to God. He planned for me and sang over me at my birth. He created me to be a girl. I was always on His to-do list and He awaits my arrival when I leave this world.
Don’t let anyone whisper lies to your heart. If you listen to the lies, you might not see the epic ending God has planned for your story. Thankfully, I stopped listening in time to enjoy 32 years, sober and married to the man God chose for me. I can’t wait to see the rest of my story.
Deb Palmer is the co-author of “In Spite of Us- A Love Story about Second Chances.” She resides in Yakima, Washington with her husband/co-author, Sandy. Deb has published various fiction and non-fiction articles in numerous print magazines and online journals.
In addition, she writes stories with humor and purpose for Medium.
