Almost a year ago, we were given a collection of books from our good Canadian friend. Not to say that we have a bad Canadian friend, just that our good friend, is from Canada. Eh?
It is an amazing collection, most (if not all) first-editions, beautiful slipcovers, all gems. They span east to west-coast Canadian authors, of which I recognized only one. I was definitely in need of an education. Since this was a wedding present, and we are only one month away from our first anniversary, I found it shameful to acknowledge that I hadn't even cracked one open. Not even to look at the pictures.
So this weekend, when I was socked-in with rain & a well-stocked supply of dry wood, I decided to go full analog. I would read a book. An entire book, cover to cover, from our collection. But where to start? I didn't know any of the titles, again, except for one, but that one was in the middle. And I really like to have things organized. So I decided to start from the left, and work my way to the right.
The book I pulled out of the Canada Dry crate from Kingston, was Margaret Atwood's, "The Blind Assassin." Typing this, I think it's funny that their are two asses in assassin, reverting to my adolescent humor, and then I take a deep breath, try to regain my composure because this ended up being a very serious book for me to read.
First of all, it was the thickest one in the crate. How brave of me, tackling the biggest book in there. I remembered that it is my style to skip meals while reading, so I had to set timers so I would still eat this weekend. I have such a hard time putting good books down!
And this is a really good book.
It's full of family drama, smuggled crooks, business marriages, seedy affairs, secret children-all the dirt that most families have some of, and some families have all of. I red feverishly, or so I thought, but because her descriptions are so dense and interesting, I was reading more slowly than I remembered with other books. I was digesting the entire book, filling my imagination with images of Avilon, dress descriptions, hearing voices of the characters, watching the scenery as she described walking through town. Really a beautifully written book, stylistically how I love to be imagined to.
So as I got closer to the end, I could feel my heart getting more and more anxious, because things weren't wrapping up how I wanted them to. I had been guessing some of the plot throughout, realized I was right on some parts, super wrong on others, and all the while getting more and more heartbroken. Even after I read the last page, knowing it was the last page, I turned to the next page of notes about the author looking for a clue-disappointed that the truth of the story was the truth.
I bawled. I bent my head down and bawled for like ten minutes. I even pointed a digital finger at my friend on twitter, because I was sad the book ended the way it did.
But it wasn't his fault, or even the author's. It was the way the story went. It's the way the story goes, for a lot of families, people get pregnant by other men, people marry out of business or expectation, people parent out of guilt, people grow up to be who their "supposed" to be-not who they really are.
All of these decisions and choices happen every day, in very small and very large measures.
I had such a hard time with the story in this book because it is true. Not the book, but the story. My family has it's own secrets. Every family does. I know what it's like to be a "kept woman", unsure how to act in a marriage-other than what is seen on TV or read in books. Have dinner ready when he comes home from work, act sweet and kind even if unkind things are done. Don't have a job because you're "taken care of" and feel your heart wrenching because you're "being taken care of" in a way that is not what you need.
I lived a life that I was "supposed" to live. I didn't break the laws, or at least, I didn't get caught–only by myself. The things I saved because I was "supposed to" were not sacred things in the end, only assets I was "supposed" to use and truly didn't know how. The beliefs I held were things I was "supposed" to believe in, not because it was my conviction. or ground that I knew I stood on.
I was unhappily living a life that wasn't mine, but it was mine-I had chosen it. But it wasn't who I was. He was not the man I needed. How I was acting was not how I wanted to act.
My bravado in the face of danger, my fear choosing my direction for me, was a role that I was playing, because I signed up for the play.
When I quit the play, it was more than just leaving the cast. I had to face up to my soul's fears. The beliefs rooted in me about where I would go, what would happen to me, if I chose to get a divorce. How could I make it "on my own" and how could God honor a woman breaking her vows by not letting "death do us part"?
I had to realize that it didn't matter, compared to what I needed in my heart. For my real self. The self that was all but smothered out.
I had to believe that the consequence of continuing to live in a play that was my life, was far more damning than the guilt of my religious upbringing.
The choice I made to leave was more than a choice to become a divorcé, it was a stand against what I had been taught. A stand up for my inner voice, my true self, and a stand against social expectations of who I was "supposed" to be.
That singular decision changed my life, altered the course of my reality. It broke mirrors of disillusionment, and started the questioning process that would be the next six years of my life. "Why Do I ____?"
Why do I believe ____? Why do I dress like ___? Why do I eat ___? Why do I drink ____?
Serious self-examination, serious doubts, seriously getting to know MYSELF.
Who was I? Who was Stephanie - the real Stephanie? The Stephanie that I am without thinking. The Stephanie that acts the way she does, laughs the way she laughs, gets a kick out of the things she gets a kick out of. Who am I? And, What do I do?
This was a gnarly process that I wouldn't recommend to anyone. And, at the same time, I recommend it to everyone. That is just who I am.
I am a torch.
I am a light.
I am a passionate, fiery, compassionate being who can't help but want to help.
I am an emotional pool of meaning who wants to impart truth into every avenue available.
It's just who I am. I know that now. I'm getting to know it more. I'm also recognizing that not everyone is this way. Just because I have this drive to continue to refine my life, doesn't mean other people have this drive. (although I'll always end up encouraging them to!)
This book broke my heart, because I know these women. I've heard their stories through my own family, through families of my friends. And through myself.
Being able to see a version of yourself, long down the road, turning out how you could have turned out, can really break your heart. In two ways.
If it's a version of yourself that you WANTED to be, it can seem impossible to get there.
If it's a version of yourself that you USED to be, it reminds you how close you came.
Like being in an accident, seeing your life flash before your eyes. It changes you.
Thank God it changed me. Thank God that I held my horses, changed my tune, and put in the work to get to know myself.
I am a little wary of wanting to read another book next weekend, but I know that not all stories are the same. I know that some of them have happy endings.
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