Saying Goodbye to Happily Ever After

Saying Goodbye to Happily Ever After

When I was a little girl I watched fairytales with wide-eyed expectation, as each damsel would find herself in distress. No matter the evil she faced, a hero always came to her rescue. 

The draw of fairytales was knowing there would be a happy ending. The bleak circumstances, were never too concerning, as happy endings were guaranteed. Each young girl would go from rags to riches, from an abused step-child to a princess, or love’s first kiss would bring her to life, and begin her happily ever after.

For a girl like me, it didn’t matter that the stories were make-believe.  It gave me somewhere to place my dreams.  Growing up in poverty, rife with physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, and neglect. Life was, at its best, about survival. I just needed to survive until my hero could save me.

My earliest memories were of dramatic, filled with anger, violence, and trauma.  The only time that there was anything that resembled peace, was when my dad wasn’t home, or when he hadn’t yet had his first drink, for the day.  

Memories of my dad are predominantly traumatic and dark. Without realizing it, I looked for the smallest reasons to have hope. To most, those things would seem inconsequential, not even worth a mention.  The few good memories of my dad, were prior to age six.  

I remember lying on the living room floor, in front of an old, metal,  box fan.  It was hot and humid, and being right in front of the fan was the only way to cool off at home.  My dad lay next to me, and had me talk into into the whirring blades of the fan. I remember giggling at the sound of my voice, with each word bubbling as though I was speaking underwater.  

For my 5th birthday, some children from the neighborhood, came over for birthday cake.  We didn’t have any games, or decorations to speak of, but my dad improvised and threw a handful of change into the grass.  The game was to see who found the most money; the prize was the money.

I remember my dad, calling me his “littlest angel”.  For me, it was the tiniest token of love. It made me feel special, if just for a moment. 

Living with so much sadness, fear and terror, I used those few positive moments to establish my fairytale.  I believed that fairytales could happen. Somehow, I believed that those hints of goodness, were a foretelling of my rescue.  If I were good important enough, in some way, my daddy would come as if he were a knight in shining armor, riding in on his trusty steed, to save me.  

Outwardly, I lived like I didn’t need anyone. I was determined not to let just anyone get too close to me. Inwardly, I felt anything but tough; I needed someone. My desire to be rescued, was my private fantasy.

During my teen years, my mom had a live in boyfriend.  He was kind, and not abusive. That would’ve been enough, but he also treated me like I was special.  He joked with me, hugged me, bought me little things, and genuinely seemed to like me.  Unbeknownst to him, he became a sort of surrogate for my dad, who just couldn’t seem to find his way to me. This lovely man was, for a time, was my hero.

As quickly as my surrogate father came into the picture, he disappeared.  As far I knew, he actually disappeared.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was without a father, again.  It made me question what was real. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t worth staying. 

So, I continued as I always had.  I pretended that nothing in life phased me.  I had to, for fear of anyone seeing through the facade that I presented. I was convinced that if people knew who “I really was”, they’d see that I was unlovable. 

I looked for acceptance, approval, and even unconditional love from every male in my life. If I believed enough, if I loved them enough, they would eventually see that I was lovable.

It’s not that I had a conscious plan to make people love me. Always analyzing what I perceived as my lacking value, I would reason with myself, make mental notes about my few good characteristics, in effort to believe that I could be good enough. I never really believed it. 

My first boyfriend was charming. We were young, and too serious, too fast.  At some point he decided that he should tell me that my thighs were too big. That criticism, added to trauma of sexual abuse, set the course for an eating disorder. 

My second boyfriend was controlling, and abusive. When I tried standing up for myself, it only brought physic abuse.  I was horrified at what was happening, but my feelings of worthlessness made it hard to break up with him. 

Two years later, working in a local chain department store, I met an older guy.  He was far different than the person I was dating at the time.  He was working, going to college, and talked about being a Christian. After being friends for a short time, he found me sobbing about how my boyfriend was treating me.  

He wanted to defend me. He told me that he would confront my boyfriend, and make him stop. He said I shouldn’t be treated in such a way, and I believed him. Or, at least I believed that he believed that.  I told him that I would break up with him, myself. The fact that he  found me valuable enough to defend, gave me the courage to walk away. 

He went from being my protector, to being my boyfriend.  He had qualities that were experientially unfamiliar.  He was kind, protective, intelligent, believed in God, wanted to be a good person. I was sure that this guy had to be my hero.  

I hadn’t totally given up on my dad, I still wanted to be worthy of his love. Over time, I had distanced myself from the inevitable pain of seeing him. His lack of action felt like rejection. It never mattered how old I was, I always went to see my dad with the emotions of a wide-eyed child, full of hope and promise, awaiting the fairytale ending.  Sadly, each visit would end the same way, in disappointment and feelings of worthlessness. He would be on good behavior for a short time, but it never took long for him to need a shot. Within mere seconds of downing that shot, he would begin a verbal rant, which inevitably became physical.  Once alcohol was onboard, anything, everything, and nothing would set him off. My fairytale idealizations weren’t gone, there were just stuffed way deep down inside, to be consciously denied. 

Besides, I had my hero. I looked at him like he could do no wrong.  He wasn’t into drinking or getting high. He wasn’t physically abusive. He had morals and character.  He knew what was right and wrong, good and bad.  He believed in families staying together, doing things together, not embarrassing each other.  He believed in education. Thinking like that was foreign to me. I had seen it at great distance, read about it, but I had never experienced that in a relationship. I set out to prove to him that I was, or could be, all he things that he valued.    

The next year was rocky at times, but also full of young passion.  I ended up pregnant. We got married. We both believed it was the right thing to do. We established a stable conservative home, and eventually had a second child.  We gave our kids the kind of life we both wish we had. 

While we agreed on much, it became clear that I did not meet his expectations. I was from the wrong neighborhood, too “heavy”, and not a good enough housekeeper. Once again, I wasn’t “good enough”.  The difference, this time, was that he actually said so. After years of trying, I emotionally checked out of our marriage.  I stopped trying.

When I stopped seeking his idolizing him and his approval, he wanted a divorce. I didn’t want a divorce, I just wanted to be good enough. It was too late. After 18 1/2 years of being separated, we divorced. For the next 12 years, I stayed single, not dating at all. I I felt strong—independent. I even thought, “I kind of like me”.

That wasn’t the end of my idealistic thinking. As quickly as each fantasy seemed to materialize, they also came to a screeching halt. The issues that brought me to “needing” a prince to save me, had not been dealt with.

Time and time again, self pity and disillusionment would eventually set in. After time, and with great difficulty, I am reminded of what happened in one of the darkest times in my life. 

I heard a voice say, “You are not living the present, and you cannot reach for the future, as long as you hold onto your past”. 

The voice I heard was not mine, but it was a clear as if it were audible. I knew it was God. My own internal voice had lead me astray. I knew what I heard was true. 

The revelation continued, “I had a white-knuckle grip on the past and the need to be rescued.  My pain was real, and it was justified. But, I would have to relinquish my right to being a victim, or I would never fully be able to live in the present, or reach toward the future.” 

The truth is, we don’t live in a a magical world with fairies, fairy godmothers, or where the ideal is realized, thus bringing happily ever after. Waiting for a fairytale ending— for someone to write my story, left me powerless. Living in the present allows me to write my own story. I can have realistic expectations as to how I want, and need, to be loved.  I can strive to be the best version of my self, continuing to love, the way I want to be loved. I can be content ever after. My hope for the future is in my faith, in God.

Goodbye Happily Ever After!