April 2001
Pastor Ricketts was whooping and hollering away from the pulpit, body in full motion and hands gesticulating like he was wont to do when he got to the meaty part of the sermon. For all that I can’t remember the subject of the sermon, I surely do remember God’s message to me. “You’re fornicating.
Stop it. Now!”
I looked around me to see if anyone else was hearing voices. Nope. Their eyes were focused on the pastor in rapt attention. Ohhh boy.
As the week went by, I tried to shrug it off, but it seemed as though every sermon for the next three weeks was directed at me! Forget about stomping on my foot, the pastor was stepping on my whole leg! He preached about the body being a temple, he preached about fornication, he cited examples of officers laying up in bed the night before and coming to church the next morning, carrying on business as usual. I actually did look around the sanctuary during that sermon, wondering who he was talking about, because I just knew he wasn't talking to
me... cause I never, ever had intercourse on Saturday nights.
After another three weeks of this, I couldn't take it anymore. I spoke to my fianc? about the cessation of intercourse until our wedding in six months. You know that went over as well as Bush's election in New York and Pennsylvania, right? I mean how do you convince someone, when you're reluctant yourself, that something you've both been doing for twelve years needs to be stopped... for six months?
Anyway, I gave it a shot. It entailed weeks of discussion back and forth. Finally, although he couldn't resist the urge to warn me that I was putting a strain on him and on our relationship, he agreed to give it a shot. Strain? Heck,
we'd weathered so much in twelve years I was confident that, though those six months would be a mild to moderate annoyance, we'd be alright. I had faith enough for both of us. After all, we were doing the right thing.
Week one was a gosh-durned struggle, but with reassuring phone calls three to four times a day, we were alright. In week two, the coaxing and questioning reasserted its head. Oh don't play; you know what I'm talking about. "So, does abstinence mean that we can't take care of each other...in other ways...you know?" For once in my life, I said no and meant it. Why? Because, although I daily endured physical symptoms of frustration, something strange was happening to me mentally, emotionally and spiritually.
I began seeing my fianc?, myself, and our relationship with more clarity than I had in years--or perhaps more than I ever had, period. I realized that he manipulated my emotions to avoid discussions, to provoke guilt, to win arguments etc., and I had been unaware of it. Well, not unaware--I just thought he didn't realize that he was doing it. But with my newfound clarity, I realized that it was a deliberate act.
I also began to realize that I, in part, had helped to create my monster. I had begun to treat him as God, and he had taken to the roll better than any Academy Award winner ever could. So now I was taking away his God-like authority without warning, and he didn't know how to react to my new purpose or my burgeoning
self-confidence.
At that point, abstaining no longer became a reluctant obedience, but a necessity. I wanted to discover what else I'd been blinded to... unfortunately, I found out: High on the hog and confident that Dom's discontent was just a drop in the bucket, I never really noticed when Dom stopped asking. Maybe I just thought that he was dealing as well as I was. Then, with my newfound clarity, I began to notice that Dom was doing things that would deliberately anger me so that arguments would begin and he could exit the scene.
I realized that things were escalating to a breaking point. Determined to hold things together, I sucked up the strife and continued to be the peacemaker that
I had always been. Only three more months, I told myself. But then Dom upped his game of "anger the fianc?e" with really blatant, in your face, you-better pop-your neck-and-roll-your-eyes-at-me-or-you're-not-a-strong-black-woman antics.
I finally gave in and told Dom that I wanted to speak with him. I gave him the "it's not working out speech" and returned the quite ugly engagement ring. We both wept beautiful tears, hugged each other, and said the placating words that people usually say in such times: "I love you, but I guess, sometimes, love is just not enough." (What the heck is that crap, anyway?)
As I watched Dom drive away, I felt two parts relief
and one part disappointment. I knew that Dom had deliberately angered me so that I would be the one to end the relationship instead of him. I couldn't help seeing that as a weak and less-than-manly thing to do. I also figured that twelve years together deserved more consideration than that.
I went into the house and quietly told my mother and daughter that the relationship had ended. They rallied around me, and being the strong black woman that I am, I pooh-poohed their pitying looks and comforting hugs, went into my bastion of solitude (the bathroom), turned on the water, and cried like a baby.
Dom called the next day to check on me... and the day after, and every day after that. I began
to unravel a bit, and started avoiding his calls. When he finally got through to me, he said there was something he needed to tell me face-to face. He was going to be a father. He'd been cheating on me.
Once inside, I listened for the car engine signaling his departure. Only then did I allow the anger I felt full reign. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Two weeks later, via my mother, I learned that Dom was getting married to the mother of his child. Wedding plans were already in progress.
There were not enough tears that could be shed to assuage the pain I felt as the news pierced my soul like an arrow, and embedded itself in what was left of my self-worth. It burrowed in
deep, and it seemed to confirm the message life had been conveying: “You are unlovable.”
***
To Be Continued...
