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Life as a Divorced Mormon Woman (Part 17 of the HaM Love Story)

Homey and Me

Homey and Me

This is part seventeen of the Homey and Me Love Story. It is when I was living life as a divorced mom – a while before I met Homey, but an important part of the story, nonetheless.

i
A few weeks after my initial separation, a friend from my church invited me to go to McDonald’s with her and her children–the kids would all play in the Playland together while we talked. It sounded like a nice idea. She stopped by and picked me up, and we went to Mickey-D’s together.

For the most part it was a nice outing. She asked me how things were going. She asked me what I planned to do both in my immediate and long-term future. I was open with details. I told her that I had started divorce proceedings and that the timeline would be several months before we were divorced. I also explained how I was looking for jobs and once I had a job, I’d save some money until I could afford to move out of my mom’s house and find a place.
“So, you think that you’ll stay around here? In Pennsylvania?”
“Yeah. I really can’t imagine going anywhere else.”
“True. That will probably make it hard to date LDS people later on, though.”
“I know. I’ve thought of that. Sometimes I think that maybe I’ll move to Utah, but I don’t know anyone there. It’s hard for me to guess what I’ll do. I guess we’ll see what happens.”
“When can you start dating again?”
“Well, my divorce won’t be final until the end of summer, or so. Which is good-I honestly can’t imagine it right now.”
“That’s true…you know, my husband often goes to the singles ward with his calling*, most of the people in the singles ward are pretty young, though.”
“How young?”
“Like in their twenties.”
“Oh…well, I’m only 26,” I replied.
“Yeah, but…they don’t have children. Most of them haven’t been married before.”
“I figured that. I’ve thought about it, though. I don’t really mind dating anyone at all–even if they haven’t been married before.”
“I’m sure that you don’t mind, but do you really think that a young man who hasn’t been married before will really want to date a woman who has been married and has had children?”

Obviously I had thought of this before. I even told the Bishop that I felt like “tainted meat.” But I had been assured that everything was fine. I knew that I needed to trust in the Lord. I wasn’t tainted meat, I was a daughter of God. My past didn’t matter–the only thing that mattered was who I am. It took me a while to really believe this, then there at McDonald’s it all came crashing back down.

I knew that she didn’t mean to hurt me, so I just listened to her without saying a word. (If I had, I would have started crying)…She gave me “ideas” like moving to Utah where there were more divorced members of the church, talking to the Bishop who probably knew of a few other divorced members, or waiting out my life as a single woman. None of her suggestions involved getting to know some of the young Mormon men – who lived near me but had never before been married- and went to the singles ward.

When I got home, I called Spunky, and saying, “I’m tainted meat!” part jokingly, but mostly serious. (Heck, I was crying).

Life as a divorced, Mormon woman was going to be tricky.

ii
One evening, at a ward party, when I was still pretty recently separated, Brother Stone asked me, “Where’s Rusty?”
“He’s not here.”
I knew that many people still didn’t really know that we were getting divorced. There were some people who had caught on, but it’s not like the Bishop was going to go up to the pulpit and announce, “Catania and Rusty have gotten a divorce, people…”

I’m not idiotic enough to think that people are going around and talking about me in their spare time. But I also didn’t want people to feel like they had to dance around this issue or feel uncomfortable around me based on some rumor that they may have heard. So, I decided early on to take a painfully blunt approach.

When Brother Stone asked where Rusty was, his wife shot him a look.
He looked back at her with complete confusion. I knew that he was honestly wondering where Rusty was–that he had no idea why Rusty wouldn’t be at the ward party with his family.
“Rusty’s in Utah.”
“Oh…on business?”
“No. He lives there now.”
“Are you guys moving back?”
“Nope. We’re getting a divorce.”
He looked shocked. I didn’t want him to sit there and suffer, so I continued, “Not to sound rude or anything, but I found out that Rusty was living a very interesting life, so I asked for a divorce. When I asked for a divorce, he moved back to Utah.”
Brother Stone still looked pretty uncomfortable, like he was sorry for bringing it up.
“Hey. Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know, and I’m not sad. I’m gonna be fine!” We exchanged more pleasantries, and I could tell that both Brother and Sister Stone got it, they didn’t need to feel uncomfortable. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, and neither should they.

iii
While I was single, I was serving as the Primary Chorister*. For the most part, I loved that calling. The kids are cute. You get to stand around, act silly, and sing. However, it wasn’t always easy to do while I was going through such an emotional time.

One Sunday, I had to begin teaching the children Families Can be Together Forever. As I sang the song, I caught a glimpse of my own two daughters and thought about how my marriage, our family, was – in a way – ending. It was impossible for me to teach without crying. Thankfully, the kids were already somewhat familiar with the song. They couldn’t hear my voice cracking as I sang.

iv
My social life with church friends also changed. I was working full-time, so I didn’t go to quilting club. I didn’t have time to read for leisure anymore, so I stopped going to book group. I was already away from my kids 40+ hours a week, so I stopped going to “Ladies Night Out.”

We didn’t have dinners with families anymore, and my kids didn’t go on as many play-dates. It wasn’t because people were being judgmental. It’s because life had changed. Sometimes that was hard. But I want to write about this because if you are a single woman, especially a single mom in the Mormon church, I want you to know that it is okay. It gets better. People know you and people care about you. Some people might insensitive things, but it isn’t on purpose. People become uncomfortable when someone gets divorced because it wakes them up to how vulnerable their own marriages are. Now, I know that some people truly are jerks, but for the most part…they’re not.

v
I was assigned a new Home Teacher. His wife would come with him. We talked about running, and the Tour de France. They listened and laughed when I told them about crazy guys that I dated. They always said hi to me in the halls at church. They even had me over to dinner.

I knew that they were my friends.

vi
As time went on, many of the people in my ward started feeling more comfortable with the fact that I was single and that I was okay. More than once, I had a conversation that went like this:
“So…how are things going? Are you dating?”
“ehhh…it’s kind of hard to date here if you want to date Mormons.”
“I bet!”
“But it’s okay.”
“You know…I have a brother. He lives in California, but he is single, and he is so cool. I wish you could meet him. I’m going to have him come out here and visit. If he does, would you mind if I set you up?”
“No problem,” I’d say (with a laugh). “Let me know when he’s in town.” For the most part, these didn’t pan out. But it was nice to know that people cared about me and liked me enough to want me to date their brothers and friends. It is a little cheesy, I know. And sometimes I had to fight the temptation not to get annoyed. I learned to see these offers as compliments.

vii
One day at church, the primary pianist and I were chatting.
“You’re really looking good, Catania.”
“Thanks.”
“No…seriously…Have you lost weight?”
“Yeah…actually…about 200 lbs.”
“What? No. You–you weren’t that big before?”
I started to laugh, “Well, about 180 of that was my ex.”
We laughed together and she gave me a “You go, girl.”

ix
Another week, at church:
“Catania! I saw you the other day–running. I honked, but you probably didn’t realize it was me.”
“Where was it?”
“Over on Glenside.”
“Yeah…I think I remember. You drive a red van, right?”
“Yeah…Glenside is quite a hill. Did you run the whole thing?”
“I did.”
“Awesome!” Meg, the woman talking to me, exclaimed. I genuinely accepted her excitement because I knew that she was a runner. She continued, “You’re a pretty serious runner, huh?”
“I don’t know. I just like running. It really helps beat stress.”
“That’s true. But I’ve got to say, I saw you running a few months ago, too. And it was only 25 degrees. Only serious runners go when it’s 25 degrees.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling.
“Have you run any races lately?”
“I’ve run a 10K.”
“You should run a marathon.”
“I don’t know about that…” I said, with trepidation.
“Oh…you can do it. You already run outside when it’s cold. And you can run up the hill on Glenside. That hill is no joke.”
“I know, but a marathon is so…far.”
“What is your longest run that you’ve run so far.”
“Ten miles, actually. I ran ten miles last weekend…it was amazing!”
“Ten miles! Then a marathon will be no problem for you. Just a little more training. You should do it!”

x
Another week at church:
“Cute skirt, Sister Ryan.”
“Thanks!”
“You always have the cutest clothes! I want to go shopping with you!”
“Thank you so much, Martha!”
(It was a young woman who said this…any woman—any Mom— feels cool when a cute teenager compliments you.)

xi
And another week at church, I was leaving the building with my kids to go home. Sister Kunz was also walking out. I have to admit, I’ve always looked up to Sister Kunz. She is faithful, smart, and talented. We made small talk as we left. I told her how much I enjoyed teaching her son Matt in primary. He was a cute kid.
“Thanks,” she replied. Then she asked, “So…how are things going?”
I knew that she was referring to my life as a single mom, the divorce, etc. “Actually, they are going really well.”
“You know—I can tell.”
I smiled as she continued. “I mean, you look great–obviously. Whatever you’re doing is working.”
“I have lost some weight… I started running!”
“No. It’s not just that. You look really happy. You look lighter-like you aren’t weighed down anymore, but are free.”
“It’s true. That is how I feel. Even though a divorce is a sad thing, living a lie is even worse. Even though I’m alone, I’m so much happier now.“
“That’s amazing…You’re a strong woman,” she said, with a tear in her eye.
I had one in my eye, too.

***
Even though things were kind of uncomfortable at first, over time people in my ward got used to my being single. Nothing was ever “the same”, but that was okay. My life wasn’t the same. Everyone accepted me as I was, and I felt grateful that there were so many people who cared about me and were cheering me on.

The Singles Ward

Okay, I have to be honest, I never actually became a part of the singles ward. Since I had two children, I always stayed with my home ward. But, when I was finally officially single, I started going to singles functions. My first singles activity was institute.*

Sister Schmidt, the institute teacher, was going out of town. She called me and asked if I’d substitute. I said yes…so my first singles activity wasn’t just going to institute, but it was teaching an institute class. It was kind of interesting.

I can’t really remember what I taught about, but I remember that the lesson went well. The students seemed receptive. And I remember telling myself not to check out the dudes while I had to teach the class…Just teach the lesson…afterwards you can flirt.

I noticed a few guys. One was a smart-allecky kind of guy–funny, but not my type. One guy looked like he was 18, a baby. One guy kept falling asleep during my lesson! One guy was super nice and had contributed a lot to class. He had a really preppy look: naturally blonde hair with blue eyes. He wore a golf shirt, tucked in, and Sperry top-siders. He had contributed a lot to the class, and had an infectious smile. His name was Dan. Then there was this dude who was in an orange and white striped golf shirt–with the collar popped. He didn’t seem anything like the other dudes. He almost seemed European. His eyes were icy-blue a -la Daniel Craig. He didn’t say much during class (and by much I mean anything), but he seemed to listen intently.

Of course, I noticed these dudes while I was teaching class, so I didn’t really get to talk to or interact with anyone until after the class.

When class was over, everyone scattered. I gathered up my papers, and Dan came up to me, asked me a few questions, and told me that I had taught a really great lesson–that he had felt the Spirit very strongly. His compliment was genuine, and I smiled and talked to him for a while. Maybe I could have a crush on him? :)

Everyone else started to migrate out to the gym. A bunch of the guys were playing basketball. Other guys (and girls) were hanging out on the stage, talking. Dan introduced me to the group. He had to get somewhere, so he left, and I stayed and stood around–listening to all of these people talk about whatever was going on. There were a few people in this group that hadn’t been in the institute class. One was this guy, that was almost cute. I could tell he was staring at me. Finally, he asked, “You don’t look young. You look like your in your twenties.”
“Yeah…” he cut me off.
“Let me guess. You’re twenty-fi…six.”
“Actually, yes.” I said. (Just so you know…most of the girls in this singles ward were really young. Most of them were nannies from Utah. So…I kind of stood out.)
“Well…you’re pretty. So what’s the deal? Why are you twenty-six and single? What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked, incredulous.
“You have to admit…most Mormon girls that are thin and good-looking don’t make it to the age of 26 without getting married.” I was simultaneously humiliated for myself, the girls who were around us, and him.
“Well…I’m divorced.” I said
“Figures…why? What happened?” I couldn’t believe it. I still didn’t know his name! He hadn’t asked for mine. I was getting so annoyed! Did he really want to know my situation? Did he really care? I figured that the least I could do was make him feel uncomfortable for asking me.
“Well…let’s see. I guess the reason why it didn’t work out is because even though we got married in the temple, even though he was a return missionary and we always held a temple recommend, he decided he was a sex addict and then cheated on me with several women.”
He stood there without saying anything. I guess he wasn’t expecting real baggage.
“So, after seven years of lies, and finding out about the truth, I got divorced. The way I see it is that there wasn’t anything wrong with me. There was something wrong with my ex, and I didn’t have to deal with it anymore…That’s why I’m here now–26, cute, and unmarried. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yeah…”he said sheepishly. “I guess that’s a worthwhile reason.”
I wasn’t sure about this whole “singles” thing.

It was getting late, and I had two children at home, so I excused myself.
As I left, I saw the Euro-looking dude in the hall–getting a drink of water.
“Hey, good lesson.” He said. He had an accent. I was right about the Euro-look.
“Thanks,” I said.
He wasn’t in his orange and white shirt anymore, but had changed, and he was about to walk into the gym. Before he did, I said, “Wait…weren’t you wearing something else?”
“Yeah. I changed…I’m going to play some basketball.”
He was wearing a tee-shirt that said Toulouse, France. Even though his accent didn’t sound French, I couldn’t place where he was from.
I pointed at his shirt, “Are you French?”
“French?” He looked at his shirt, “No…this is where I served my mission.”
“Oh,” I said. “I bet that was a beautiful mission…So, I know that you’re not French, but I can also tell that you’re not American.”
“I’m not.” he said.
“Well, where are you from?” I asked, with a smile.
“Germany.” he answered.
“Awesome. Well, I hope you’re having a good time here. What’s your name?”
“Markus,” he replied. “You?”
“I’m Catania…nice to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, too.”

Markus went into the gym, and I went to the parking lot and drove home. I had survived my first night at a “Singles” event.

*****
*In the Mormon church, we call our local congregation a “ward.” Sometimes, if there are enough people, the A ward will be created specifically for Single Adults. Additionally, all of the priests and other ecclesiastical leaders in the Mormon church are lay-people. We have no paid clergy. So many people are called to serve either in their own ward or they may help with other assignments as needed.

*In the Mormon church, we have an organization for the children ages 3-12 called Primary. On Sundays, after we meet for our services, the primary children go to a Sunday School class where they sing songs and learn about the gospel. I was called and chose to accept the calling to volunteer my time to be the chorister for this group. It was a lot of fun.

*Institute is short for Institute of Religion. These are religion courses for adults (usually college aged). These classes are not a part of regular Sunday worship. In Pennsylvania, they usually were held on a week night.

3 Comments
by chococatania on April 11, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Divorce, Family, HaM Love Story, Marriage, Motherhood, Single Motherhood
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Posted by chococatania on April 11, 2013

http://thatgoodpart.wordpress.com/2013/04/11/life-as-a-divorced-mormon-woman-part-17-of-the-ham-love-story/

Six Month Wait (Part 16 of the HaM Love Story)

Homey and Me

Homey and Me

This is part fourteen of the Homey and Me Love Story. It is when my marriage to Rusty had just ended – a few years before I met Homey, but an important part of the story, nonetheless.
***
Divorce is death. It is death of a marriage, family, and even identity. In some ways, Rusty died. In some ways, I died. I had, after all, taken on his last name at marriage. My identity, as wife, as mother to his children, as his companion and friend died. Although none of us had physically passed, I was mourning a death-the kind of death that exists only in our minds and hearts. I was experiencing the death of an idea and my way of life.

I found out about Rusty’s infidelity in February 2005. In August 2005, my divorce was finalized. Those six months were vital to my healing and ability to move on in life. Here are a few significant parts.

One – Diving into the Wreck

I wrote a little bit about this before. Nearly every day, I would take some time to read through my past journals and make sense of my marriage. For me, the difficulty was knowing that everything was a lie. One day, when I was still talking to Rusty, he said something about “picking up the pieces.”

“You want me to pick up the pieces?” I asked him, laughing cruelly.
“Well, yeah. We can’t just walk away from this. We can pick up the pieces. We can make it better.”
“You know. That’s a nice idea. Someone drops a vase–they pick up the pieces, inspect them, and glue them back together. But it’s a difficult process.”
“I know it’s hard, but we can do it together.”
“That’s the thing though, Rusty. I want to pick up the pieces, but every time I bend over, to pick up a piece of this smashed, shattered, decimated vase–the vase that YOU smashed, shattered and decimated–I find that I can’t even pick anything up. Our entire marriage was a lie. The vase was a hologram. I have nothing to pick up. I’m bending over grasping at an illusion when I just need to walk away from it all.”
“What do you mean? It wasn’t a lie. What about our good memories?”
“What good memories?”
“Like going to Bear Lake with the Cutler’s?”
“Going to Bear Lake!? A good memory?! Ha! That’s a good memory I had with them, but not with you. We went to Bear Lake, our little family, camping in a tent. Like we were a family that cared about one another. Like I mattered to you. What a stupid joke. It isn’t a good memory. It is an embarrassment! It’s a lie that you had to tell me so you could keep on screwing girls at home. It’s a lie that I unwittingly told the Cutlers, myself, and my children…Good memory?!…HA!…Great memory.” I said, caustically.
Silence.
“What about when Tiger was born?”
“Yeah… What about when Tiger was born? And then less than two weeks later, you went out with Jezebel to a concert that I pleaded with you not to go to. You walked away from your wife, your infant daughter to some crap concert so you could go “get some” with another woman. Yeah…that’s a great memory…don’t you get it? There are no good memories. Everything. Every. Single. Thing. is a lie.”

Even though Rusty was out of the picture, I knew that I did have this shattered vase at my feet, and I knew that I needed to sort through the pieces and look to see if there was anything real left. One evening Panda came to me as I sat at the table, trying to eat. She simply walked up to me, looked at me with her giant blue eyes and gave me a hug good night. As I grasped her tiny body in my arms, I realized, there are at least two real tokens of the past seven years of my life: Tiger and Panda. I was so grateful for them. As much as I felt alone, as I wanted to feel alone, I knew that I had them. As much as I wanted to pretend that the seven years had not existed, I knew that I needed to face the truth for them (and for myself).

So, I chose to dive into the wreck–rather than live in denial. I chose to start the healing process. I knew that by “diving into the wreck”, I was able to start healing because I could pinpoint the real problems that I was facing. I could know what to pray for. All of this helped me to see more clearly so I could move forward.

Two – The Bonfire of Hatred

Sounds pretty extreme. And maybe it was, but I had a bonfire of hatred.

While I was diving into the wreck, there were times when I was consumed with hatred. I hated Rusty. I hated myself. I hated life. I hated that I had lived in Utah. I hated his family. I hated that I had wasted so much time on him. I hated my memories. I hated pretty much everything.

Thankfully, Heavenly Father has blessed me to be a pretty positive person. I also know that hatred really gets you nowhere. I knew that these emotions needed to be relegated. I knew that if left unchecked, the anger and hatred would destroy me. Now, this doesn’t mean that I ignored them because having anger and hatred is a real part of the grieving process. Pretending that you’re not angry is denial. It will get you no closer to healing. You have to address anger without actually giving in to it.

Pretty tricky.

At first, I dealt with my anger by writing in a journal dedicated to Rusty (a collection of hate-letters, essentially).

When I was in a particularly angry mood, I’d listen to the song “Sleep to Dream” by Fiona Apple on repeat. I’d sing/scream along. It felt kinda good.

All along, however, I knew that if I let the anger fester, I’d turn into a bitter person. Although anger is a phase of grieving, it is just that: a phase. I had to make sure I reigned it in.

So…I thought of a plan: In May, Tiger and Panda were going to Utah to visit Rusty. Since they were only 2 and 3 years old, I’d have to fly out there with them. Spunky was going to be going out to Utah at the same time. We’d go together, have fun and hang out. During our trip to Utah, we’d drive down to Moab, where I would have a bonfire of hatred. This would be the capstone of my exercise to “dive into the wreck.” I would be done with it all.

The idea made me giddy. More than a month before packing, I got out a suitcase, and started filling it with stuff. Letters, lingerie, and then, I got the best idea of all: my wedding dress.
“Catania, you can’t burn your wedding dress.” My mom chided.
“Why not?”
“You’ll regret it.”
“No way.”
“You could sell it.”
“Sell it?! I’d never sell this to anyone who is getting married. It would jinx them. … Are you kidding me mom? This thing needs to BURRRRNNNNNN!” I laughed at the thought of it.
“Well, if you don’t sell it, then you could use the material for something else.”
“You’re right mom. I am going to use this luscious material. I’m going to use it for heat. It will warm my cold heart!” I was having fun egging her on, but I was also very serious.
“Catania…this bonfire of hatred idea is silly.”
“No mom. It’s perfect. Don’t you see? My marriage is dead, and now it will finally be put to rest. This is it’s burial. I’m taking my wedding dress and all of this other stuff, and I’m going to burn it in the Utah desert, where it’s smoke will rise into the Utah sky, and it will all be done.” My mom shook her head as she left her room. I happily smashed my wedding dress into the suitcase!

*
Freckles, Spunky, one of Spunky’s friends, and I made our way down to Moab. I had my suitcase full of as many physical evidences of my marriage that I could find. Though we would be staying at a hotel, we found a campsite to build a fire.

We roasted marshmallows, talked, laughed, and cried.

Then it began. I started with the lingerie. Burn. Burn. Burn.

Then, I found letters. Letters I wrote to Rusty. Letters (often of apology) he wrote to me. Sometimes I’d read them aloud before dropping them into the fire. LIES! Burn.

I found the journal that I had kept while “diving into the wreck” — full of letters to Rusty. Letters on why I hated him. Letters explaining the dreams I’d had where I was trying to cause him physical harm. Letters on how horrible of a human being he is. Letters, letters, letters. I tossed the crappy, cheap Barnes and Noble Journal into the fire. BURN!

Then came the big moment.

This really happened, y'all.

This really happened, y’all.

A piece of advice: Never wear a wedding dress in a fire.

A piece of advice: Never wear a wedding dress in a fire.


It went up so fast! The heat was so hot. And, just like my marriage, suddenly it was over. There was nothing left other than a smoldering pile of ashes.

The evening was cathartic. It wasn’t necessarily easy. It was a moment of truth. Yet, I felt powerful. I wasn’t just letting something happen to me. I had let so many things happen to me during my marriage. I was done. I could start my own fire. I could be a strong woman. I was powerful.

Becoming a Runner

Throughout my life, I have prided myself on my feelings about running, “I’ll only run if I’m chasing a ball or being chased by someone.” What was the point? Running…it made me feel like a hamster on a wheel.

On the last evening before Rusty went back to Utah, I was driving home from his hotel. I was still in the midst of confusion and deep sadness. I listened to the music in my car too loudly because I couldn’t hear anymore. I kept the windows open in my van while driving home that chilly February night because I couldn’t feel anything anymore.

As I recklessly rounded a corner, I thought to myself, “Slow down, Catania, or you’ll wind up smashed into a tree or worse.”
I then, countered (to myself, yes), “Really? Worse? Going headfirst into a tree would be better than this.”
Immediately, I thought to myself, “Uh-oh…this isn’t good.” So I said a prayer in my heart. As I said the prayer, I felt a distinct impression. Go for a run. I knew that it meant to go for a run the next morning. I needed to do something with all of this nervous energy I had. I needed to do something that would physically lift my spirits.

So. That next morning, I went for a run. I hadn’t run any more than a few yards in years. I was overweight. I was weak with hunger (the stress had killed my appetite). Yet I ran. I ran one mile. Then two. I ran a third mile. Then a fourth. The fourth mile finished at the bottom of a massive hill. If you are from Southeastern PA, then you know what I’m talking about. I had one more mile until I would be home. And about 9/10s of this mile would be up hill.

I kind of felt dead, but I knew I needed to run this last mile. I needed to run up the hill.
I ran another 1/4 mile. Another 1/2 mile. About 2/3 of the way through this last mile, the hill became especially steep. I wanted to stop and lie down. And I thought to myself, “Just make it up this last hill. You can do it. Just keep running, no matter how slowly you go.” So I did. I ran five miles that day.

After I finished my run, I felt high. I was buzzing with happiness. I just ran up that hill! I just ran five miles! Amidst this time of confusion I realized: I was powerful.

I took a shower and realized the run was bigger than just that little run. I knew that metaphorically I was in a particularly difficult patch. I knew I was running up a big hill. But I felt comforted. The Spirit–the same One that prompted me to run in the first place–whispered to my soul: You can make it up this hill. It will be hard. But when you do, the view will be great. You will be happy. You are powerful.

Later that day, I actually ate. The need to eat from running was overpowering my lack of appetite caused by stress. And that night, I slept well.

After about a week (I was soooooo sore…remember–I was overweight, out of shape, and hungry!), I was finally ready to run again. That is when I became a runner. I started running six days a week.

Running cleared my brain, slimmed my bootie, and helped me overcome depression. Running saved me. God knew it would. I’m so glad that He inspired me to do so. I never would have come up with the idea on my own.

Getting a Job

The day I found out about Rusty and his affairs, I went straight to the bank, opened my own bank account, and withdrew all of our money–depositing it into my own account. We had a grand total of $121.00. I knew I’d need every single cent.

Fortunately, I was living with my mom already, so I had a place to stay, food, etc. But I didn’t want to mooch off of her forever. I knew I needed a plan.

The timing of my separation was perfect: February. I filed taxes, and had them directly deposited into my new bank account. Between being poor, having two children, and earned income credit, I would get a few grand for a tax return. That would help me get on my feet.

In the meantime, I began job hunting. It was a little scary–it had been five years since graduating college, and I’d never had a professional job. I was searching high and low, and then a friend told me that she worked at a temp agency, and suggested I fill out a profile. I decided to go ahead do it.

Through the temp agency, I landed a week-long gig at an environmental-regulation type office (where they studied ground water and other things for the government). It was boring. I copied papers and put them in three-ring-binders. But I was fast, and they liked me. They offered me a part-time job, but I held off because I knew I needed something full-time–with benefits.

Next, I worked for a month at a Pharmaceutical company. That gig worked out so well, I was rehired by them in another department. And after a few months, I was hired on full time by the actual company, rather than working as a temp.

With a new job, and money in the bank, I was able to buy a car and a cell phone. I started putting money away for my own place. I was getting back on my own two feet (with the strength and capability to care for my children, too).

It sounds funny, but having a job helped me to heal and move forward in life as much as any other blessing I had received. I knew that my job was a tender act of mercy from God to me. I had a job that was interesting, it paid well, and I made friends there. I had great benefits and was able to support my family. I wasn’t getting much (if any) support from Rusty, so I needed to have a job that could support my family. And I was blessed enough to find that job. Yet the job wasn’t so consuming that I had nothing left for my children. Things were still hard, but I could see that the Lord blessed me by strengthening me and enabling me to carry my load.

A Crush

About two weeks before my divorce was final, a new guy started working at my office. I should be honest. He was a new kid. I’m sure he was like 19. Whatever. Don’t judge.

I didn’t really notice him at first. To be honest, I hadn’t noticed men at all yet. While I had a crush on Snoopy–that was different, it was some kind of hope–some kind of extension of childhood that actually helped me for a while. But it subsided after time.

*
I had noticed men, sure, but I wasn’t really finding anyone attractive. I’d have long conversations with my friend, Spunky.

“There is a new guy that I’m interested in, Catania.”
“Really? What’s he like?”
“Well, he’s tall. He’s got dark hair. Dark eyes.”
“But what’s he like?”

*

When Spunky and I were in Utah, we hung out with a few guy friends that we knew in High school. They asked what we liked in men. I told them,
“Funny. Honest.”
They asked, “No. Not like that. What do you like in a man, physically.”
Spunky began answering, basically describing Ben Affleck or Antonio Banderas without saying as much. They noticed that I was silent.
“What about you, Catania? What do you find attractive in a man?”
“I already told you.”
“All you said was personality stuff.”
“Well, that’s what makes a man attractive.”
“Seriously, Catania. There has to be something you find physically attractive about a man.”
“Of course there is, but eye color and height…those are all relative. There are so many attractive men. There are so many hideous men. There are men who seem attractive at first, but then they open their mouths and either they’re idiots or morons.” The dudes started laughing.
“No…I know what you mean.” One guy chimed in.
“I like a nice smile. I like nice eyes. But a guy can have nice blue eyes, green eyes, or brown eyes. And his smile can be big and nice, small and nice, and even have a few crooked teeth and be nice. And it doesn’t matter to me if he’s 5’4″ or 6’4″ I’m short!…But if he tells a funny joke, suddenly his eyes and smile–everything– are even more brilliant.”
“Okay.” They accepted my answer, genuinely.
“Oh. And they have to have good taste in music.”
“Definitely.”
“I mean, what good is a “hot dude” if his music taste sucks, he’s a moron, and completely unfunny?”
We were all in agreement. For good measure, I said, “Of course, if a guy’s rich, then none of that crap matters.” (joking. kind of.)

*
Back to the guy at my office. I first talked to him casually in my little break room. I was cutting up my strawberries and eating them (along with Kalamata Olives) for a snack. Kalamata olives always seemed to get a comment from people: they either love them or hate them. He said, “mmm. Olives.”
well..it was more like , “oh-liives.” (or however you would write out olives with a French accent.

Suddenly, I became more aware of the situation.

I said a quiet thanks (or something), and he left. As he walked past, my nose made the second amazing observation. I didn’t know what cologne he wore, but I was instantly obsessed with it. I wanted to trail behind him, lapping up that scent, hoping for him to say more of anything in his foreign accent.

I didn’t know what he looked like. I didn’t know his name. I just knew he sounded nice and smelled great.

*
I started seeing this mystery dude more often. He worked down the hall from me. I found out he was an intern from France. I’d make small talk with him when I saw him in the halls.

*
One morning, it was my lucky day. I hadn’t yet eaten breakfast, and I ran over to the cafeteria for a yogurt. I went outside to quickly eat it (I had a bad track record with eating food at my desk). It was a nice morning, for August, so I went outside to eat. To my delight, the young Frenchie was sitting out there, eating, too.

I got up some courage and said, “Can I sit here?”
“Euh…sure!”
We talked about something that was completely unimportant, and I’m not sure if I made any kind of coherent sense because I was intoxicated by his cologne.
At the end of the conversation, I asked, “I know that this is probably going to sound strange, but you smell amazing. What are you wearing?”
He blushed and replied, “Acqua di Gio.”

That night, on my way home, I stopped at the mall and went to the cologne counter, where I sprayed a sample of Acqua di Gio on a paper, and brought it home so I could stay high on this scent through the evening. Yum. Yum. Yum. (I know I’m idiotic, but hey…I was just out of a really bad seven-ish year marriage…so don’t judge me.!) ;)

This guy, let’s call him Francois, became a crush. I wasn’t technically divorced, so I knew that nothing would come of it, and I was fairly sure that I was at least eight years older than him. But he was funny and a little bit of a tease. I played along and teased him back.

He would look directly into my eyes when I talked, making me feel like I was the only woman who had ever existed.

He asked me when I’d come to France.

He remarked about the color and clarity of my eyes, saying,
“You were wearing glasses yesterday, but not today.”
“Yeah, I got new contacts.”
“So, those are green contacts?”
“No. They’re clear contacts, corrective – so I can see.”
“So those are your eyes?…Green?”
“Yes.”
“Wow…They are so…beautiful.”
And I know, as I write this, that it sounds like such a cheesy pick-up line. Maybe it was. But it didn’t feel cheesy or pick-up-y at the moment. It felt honest. Francois was classicly French, I suppose. He was so confident. He stood there, with an air of superiority, but never looked down on me, personally. He stood up tall, and looked down his large, European, and extremely appealing nose. But he didn’t stand straight, like a German. He was the perfect paradox. Both unassuming and proud. He wore untucked polo shirts with khaki pants and white pumas. His shirt was unbuttoned, showing the slight hint of his collar-bone and chest. His hair was perfectly messy. He asked me questions about the U.S. that sounded like backhanded compliments, and I found myself convincing him that I was more cultured. It was his honesty, His simultaneous posture and slouch, his untucked shirt and perfect scent, his smile, his designer glasses and un-plucked eyebrows that made me realize I wanted to pick up, move to Europe, and find a man that was completely different.

“Catania…I love your name. Are you Italian?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been to Catania?”
“No…but one day I’d like to go, and when I do, I’m going to buy a shirt that says, Catania.” He laughed, slyly. PERFECT!
“You should go. We go there every August. In fact, my family is there right now, and I will be meeting them in Catania next week.”
(Inwardly: what?!?!?! You’ll be goneeeeee!!!!! WAAAAAAA!)
“I would love to. One day.”
“Yes, you should. Do you speak Italian?”
“No. I speak Spanish, English–obviously–and I’m learning French.”
“I want to learn to speak Italian next. It is so beautiful. So passionate.” He looked down his nose at me, peering into my eyes, straight through to my soul, and explained, “It’s like a dance.”

How could someone describing a language make me melt?

I called Spunky and said, “I’m in CRUSH!“

Francois went home. The crush ended. I had an Acqua di Gio sample and a new requirement:If I ever get married, that man will wear Acqua.

***
At the end of August, three days before September started, I was officially divorced. I was free. It was over. Something else was beginning.

I was alone. But I knew that I was powerful in my own life. And I was happy.

8 Comments
by chococatania on March 21, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Divorce, Family, HaM Love Story, Marriage, Motherhood, Single Motherhood
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Posted by chococatania on March 21, 2013

http://thatgoodpart.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/six-month-wait-part-16-of-the-ham-love-story/

A Plan to Dive into the Wreck (Part 15 of the HaM Love Story)

Homey and Me

Homey and Me

This is part fifteen of the Homey and Me Love Story. It is when my marriage to Rusty had just ended – a few years before I met Homey, but an important part of the story, nonetheless.

***
It was a Sunday, after church, that I told Rusty I was going to file for a divorce. When he heard the news, he called His parents, and made arrangements to fly back to Utah. Everything was coming to an end. Although I was heartbroken, I was feeling hopeful. I knew that divorce was the right thing for me and for my family. I knew everything I needed to know about Rusty and his affairs. I had spiritual confirmation of my decision. I don’t want to say that I was over it, but I was happy about moving forward with my life.

Throughout this time, I was talking to friends incessantly, including Snoopy. My heart simultaneously leapt and broke every time I heard his voice. He was both comforting and unsettling. We would have conversations where he would make me laugh (he had always been one of the funniest people I had ever known. A little bit about Snoop: he was kind of quiet. He was one of those guys who would sit off to the side of a room, and just kind of chill. Then, when he said something, it was always the best, most hilarious thing anyone said. I loved that he didn’t talk too much. I loved that when he did it was important. There was so much that I liked about him.) All of those feelings were resurfacing, and I was getting confused.

One day, I was talking to Snoopy, and I told him that Rusty was gone and I’d be asking for a divorce. I can’t really remember how it came up, but I told Snoop that I was really happy about it. He seemed a little surprised.
“You have to realize, Snoop, that I’ve been in a bad marriage for a long time.”
“I know, but it seems so soon to be happy about it.”
“That’s what I’m saying, though. I’ve been lonely for years. All along, I couldn’t make sense of how I felt. When I found out the truth, it was hard–really hard–but it was also…liberating.”
He seemed a little surprised.
Then, he started asking me questions.
“If it is so easy for you to get over Rusty, then why did you marry him in the first place?”
“What do you mean?” I knew what he meant, but I really didn’t want to have this kind of conversation with Snoop.
“Why did you marry him? If he was a lying jerk, why would you marry him?”
“Well, I didn’t know he was a lying jerk then.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, what was it about him then that made you marry him?”
“I thought he was attractive,” I said this hoping that I’d be able to think of a way to change the subject.
“What do you find attractive?”
“Well. I don’t know.” In a way this was true, but in another way not as true. At that point in my life, I didn’t know what I found attractive anymore.
“Sure you do. What do you find attractive?”
“Well, when I got married it was a little different than how I feel now. Things are different now.”
“What was it when you got married?”
“Okay. When I first met Rusty, I thought he was cute.”
“What made him cute?”
“He was tall. He had brown hair and brown eyes. He had a nice smile.”
“Is that it? Tall, brown hair, brown eyes?”
“And nice smile,” I said, teasingly…hoping to change the mood of this conversation.
“I’m tall with brown hair and brown eyes.”
“Yes you are. And you have a nice smile.”
“Okay. Then what was it about Rusty?” Have I mentioned that I hated this conversation. Couldn’t we just pretend that Rusty never existed. That seven years passed because of some mystery and I somehow had these two kids, too?

Even though I hated the conversation, I finally just tried to be as open as possible. I supposed Snoop deserved answers. “I fell in love with Rusty because of his vitality for life. He was charming. He was always in the middle of it all. It was intoxicating at the time.”
“Charming, huh. That’s what girls always say. What is so great about being charming?” Snoop didn’t let me answer. “I guess I need to be more charming. Then I’ll get all the women.”
“No, Snoop. That’s not what I’m saying. Rusty’s charm is what made me like him at first. But it also is his greatest downfall. It is why he cheated so much. It is what made him such a great liar. Don’t you see, I was an idiot. Being charming means nothing. Rusty’s charm didn’t do much for our marriage. Because I have kids I hate saying this, but sometimes I feel like marrying Rusty was the biggest mistake of my life. But what can I do about it now? Nothing. It happened. And now I’m getting divorced. I can only be grateful that the Lord blessed me to get out of it now, and that I still have my entire life ahead of me.” Snoop, though still agitated, genuinely listened.
“I guess,” he finally replied.
“Look, Snoop. When I think of you, I’m honestly in shock. I don’t know how you made it through BYU without getting married. You’re attractive. You’re hilarious. You’re smart…I mean…did you get your money back when you graduated without finding a wife to marry?” (I was still attempting to add some humor to all of this).
“But…I’m not charming.”

I can’t really remember the rest of the phone conversation, and perhaps this is more than one conversation I’m remembering getting lumped together, but I do remember getting off the phone, and once again regretting that I had ever met or married Rusty. I especially remember regretting hurting Snoop. I wished that he would be able to forgive me. But there were too many offenses. There was the boy I talked to at the blues festival. There was the time I took Rico Suave to the prom. And, above all, there was Rusty. Despite the pain I must have caused to Snoop, he would still call and check on me. He would still tell awesome jokes and have me laughing in the worst time of my life. He was still my friend.

***

One night, I was lying on my bedroom floor, listening to John Mayer (huge mistake for a girl who has recently been through a rocky relationship), and daydreaming about Snoop. I had a clairvoyant moment, and had to laugh. I was sixteen all over again! On the floor. Doodling. Writing in my journal. And crushing on Snoop! Admittedly, this time around it was much worse…and it was funny knowing that my kids were in the room next to me, rather than my brothers.

But this moment made me begin to realize that I should probably stop talking to Snoop. I wrote him an incredibly long email, in which I told him how things happened that made me want to marry Rusty (including how things didn’t work out with him, so it made me open to the idea of dating Rusty very seriously). I was as honest as possible. I apologized for hurting him. And I told him that I had to stop talking to him, so I would appreciate it if he didn’t call me anymore.

Obviously, I wanted to talk to him every minute of every day. Snoop helped me to ignore what was going on in my real life. But, I knew that this was not the healthy way to get over my divorce. I had to attend to my own mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual health for my own sake, the sake of my kids, and the sake of any other person involved (including Snoop). So…I stopped talking to him.

I hated not talking to Snoop. Prior to my insistence that we stop talking, we did not talk every day. Not even close. Maybe once a week or so. But I loved those conversations. We’d talk for hours, and I cherished every second. I tried to remember each word he spoke. I laughed. I ignored everyone else on earth. Then, after every conversation, I’d call Spunky, or Freckles, or Blythe, (or all three) and recount everything we said, with sighs, giggles, oohhs, and ahhs. Not talking to Snoop, in a way, meant not having hope. But, the Spirit* prompted assured me that not talking to Snoop was the best thing to do.

***
The night before I went to see the lawyer to file for a divorce, I read a poem by Adrienne Rich:
Diving into the Wreck
First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

I was reassured by my choice to stop talking to Snoop. I knew that I needed to dive into the wreck of my marriage, and that I needed to do it alone. Even though doing it alone was so hard, I thought of a plan to help me. I was going to “dive into the wreck,” but first I needed supplies. Instead of flippers and an oxygen mask, I needed three empty journals, the old journals I kept throughout my marriage to Rusty, and time. The next morning, I got up and found the box that my journals were in. I brought them to my room. I then bundled up in a coat, and made my way to the appointment at my Lawyer’s office.

My lawyer and I discussed the divorce, which was easy since Rusty and I didn’t have any shared debts or assets. I paid the lawyer $800. (I would pay him the balance when the divorce went through in 3-6 months.) I left the lawyer’s office and headed to Barnes and Noble where I procured the rest of my supplies for my voyage into “the wreck.” I bought three journals:

Journal One

My first journal was a sleek, classic Moleskine. It would be a place that I recorded my daily thoughts. I was keeping my normal journal on my computer, but I wanted to have a small journal I could take with me everywhere. Often, I had horrible thoughts, horrible memories. Sometimes, I would write them down. Sometimes, I would write something else down to get my mind off of the memory. Either way, I knew I needed something a little bit more portable than a computer. I also knew that if I was going to dive into the wreck, then I may stir up even worse feelings–likely to come at any time. I wanted to be prepared with a method to both address and dismiss these feelings. A Moleskine would do the trick.

Journal Two

My second journal was the cheapest, crappiest, ugliest journal I could find. Unfortunately, Barnes and Noble doesn’t have many ugly, crappy, cheap journals. I found a black journal with gilded edges for $4.99. It would do. This journal would be dedicated to Rusty. While I was “diving into the wreck”, I knew I’d feel angry. I knew that I would want to yell at Rusty. I would have these dreams at night–where I was doing things to Rusty–screaming at him, hurting him. One time, I had a dream that I was beating him with a lawnmower. I would lift the lawnmower above my head, and heave it, smashing him again and again. He always just stood there without saying a word, unscathed.

This journal would help me to satisfy that angry itch in the most positive way possible. I knew that I didn’t want to actually hurt him–and not because I’m a good or noble person–only because I fear God more than anything else, and I knew that if I was to expect any kind of healing from God, then I’d need to learn to forgive Rusty. So, I resigned myself to imaginary violence by buying myself a journal where I could channel my angry thoughts then leave them.

Journal Three

My third journal was beautiful. It was red leather, with a pretty heart imprinted on the leather. It was simple and classic. This journal was dedicated to Snoopy.

I knew that diving into the wreck would be hard, and that I would crave support. Of course I had the support of my friends, and I wanted their love, but especially wanted support from a man. I had been betrayed and humiliated by a man. I wanted there to be a man who would hold my hand, support me, say nice things to me. In many ways, I wanted a man to save me.

Though I was a damsel (or dame, I guess) in distress, I knew that I would have to save myself if I wanted to really be healed.

So, I bought this beautiful journal, and whenever I felt like talking to Snoop, I’d write him letters. Long letters. I’d write about observations, funny things, sad things, happy things. And so, I began an imaginary relationship with a real person through this journal.

Diving into the Wreck

Now that I was fully prepared. I “dove into the wreck.” Every day, I spent about half an hour, reading through my old journals, “to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail.” I needed to search to find “the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth.” In other words, I needed to see the damage of my marriage and life, find the treasures, the wreck of my marriage (and not just the story of the wreck). I needed to know the truth and not the myth of what I believed my marriage to be.

This poem taught me that I needed to look at the wreck of my marriage from the most objective point I could muster.

I gave myself a time limit each day (30 min-1 hour) and an overall limit A month and a half.

So…I began to analyze my wreck, I tried learn from it, and I promised that I would leave it forever.

***

*The Spirit you will notice that I often say this. Obviously, I’m a spiritual person. In the Mormon faith, we covenant with God. When we are baptized, we promise to remember God, and Keep His commandments. He promises to bless us with the gift of the Holy Ghost, who will be a constant companion, comforter, and guide to us if we are living worthily. Throughout my life, and especially at this time, I leaned heavily on the Spirit to help me know what I should do.

Click here for part 16.

4 Comments
by chococatania on March 14, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Divorce, Family, HaM Love Story, Marriage, Single Motherhood
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Posted by chococatania on March 14, 2013

http://thatgoodpart.wordpress.com/2013/03/14/a-plan-to-dive-into-the-wreck-part-15-of-the-ham-love-story/

Two Weeks and a Major Decision (Part 14 of the Ham Love Story)

Homey and Me

Homey and Me

This is part fourteen of the Homey and Me Love Story. It is when my marriage to Rusty was ending – long before I met Homey, but an important part of the story, nonetheless.

***
Saturday morning, 9AM finally came. It was my mom’s 10th year anniversary. My marriage was ending. I got myself ready and then went to the church. The day was cold and grey, reflecting how I felt. I was full of nervous energy, on the verge of vomiting.

When I got to the church, I saw my Bishop*. My sweet, tender Bishop. Through the service of this Bishop, I knew that not only did Heavenly Father love me, but He ached for me – and that He had been aching for me for longer than I even realized.
“Hi Bishop.”
“…Catania.” He replied, his face full of anguish for me. As I think of my Bishop at the time, the following scripture comes into mind:

“Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in, even until death, that ye may be redeemed of God, and be numbered with those of the first resurrection, that ye may have eternal life–” – Mosiah 18:9

This Bishop fulfilled these roles. He mourned with me, comforted me, and both his service and words testified of God.

It’s funny. The Bishop had just gotten a job in Washington, D.C and was considering moving down there, but had been prompted to stay in PA until the end of the school year. I honestly feel like he was saved for me. I don’t believe in any coincidences.

Anyway…I met with the Bishop, and then Rusty arrived. Visually, we were stark opposites. Although I know I didn’t look my best, I was showered and dressed in Sunday Clothes. I had (minimal) make-up on (make-up is no good when you’re busy crying your eyes out…although a little doesn’t hurt–it makes the crying even more dramatic! ;) Rusty arrived in the same clothes he had on the night before, crumpled and wrinkled. He wore a hat, and his hair was dirty and greasy. I doubt he had brushed his teeth. There was a sense of desperation about him – not of pain, but of being discovered.

My Bishop had me stay in another room while he met with Rusty. I read scriptures and conference talks*. When the Bishop was done speaking with Rusty, he came and spoke to me, individually. He also gave me a priesthood blessing*. Finally, we met all together.

I don’t remember much of what was said that meeting, but I remember the feeling of disgust that consumed me while sharing a room with Rusty. I looked at him, embarrassed that I shared his name and that I had shared so much with him. He was like a disgusting scab that I wanted to shed myself of.

I think that what made him seem so disgusting isn’t because he was physically gross -he didn’t look that much different than he did the day we were married. The disgust I felt for him came from the knowledge of who he actually was. I saw his hands – the hands that I had loved so much – aware that only a day before those hands were treasures to me. Now, those once revered hands repulsed me. He was repulsive because of his lie.

Up to this point, Rusty had only admitted to having an affair with one woman, though I knew that there were more. While he met with the Bishop individually, he admitted to two more. Yet, I somehow knew there were more women. While I was with Rusty and the Bishop, we went through a line of questioning. The Bishop asked if there was anyone in PA that he had been with. The strangest thing happened. Rusty squirmed like a roach on his back. He couldn’t lie, yet he couldn’t tell the truth, either. He just squirmed–truly uncomfortable.
The Bishop didn’t back down.
“Is there anyone here?”
[Squirming]
“Rusty, is there anyone here?”
[Nearly inaudible] “Yes.”
“What happened?”
[Squirming]
“What happened?”
[Squirming]
“Rusty. What happened.”
[Even more squirming with a reluctant answer]“We had sex.”
Those words rang out like a shot. Immediately, I stood up and went out the door, clutching my stomach. I ran to the water fountain. I was sure I’d vomit.

The Bishop (not Rusty) raced after me and began to apologize profusely.
“I’m so, so sorry, Catania. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Don’t apologize, Bishop.”
“No, really, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you through that.”
“No. Don’t apologize. I needed to see that; God knew that I needed to see that.“
The Bishop put his arm on my shoulder, physically comforting me, and we finished our meeting.

***
Before I go on, I have to say that I still believe that I needed to see Rusty in that situation – nearly forced to tell the truth. While there wasn’t a gun to his head, the tone in the room as the Bishop asked him those questions was absolutely serious. Gravely serious. I know that in that specific moment, God wouldn’t let Rusty lie, and I needed to see it. I needed to see how physically difficult it was for him to tell the truth. I needed to know who Rusty actually was. Though I was emotional and having a difficult time processing all of what was happening, I needed to have these moments of pure clarity–no matter how hard they were to take.

***
After I arrived home from the Bishop’s meeting, I checked my email and found a note from Snoopy. It was friendly, full of generalities. He asked me how things were going. I decided to tell Snoop that there was a possibility that I’d be getting divorced. I didn’t give him any specifics, but told him that everything I thought about my marriage had been a lie, and I was trying to figure out the course of action to take.

Almost immediately, Snoop responded.

He began the email by recounting the time we first spoke on the phone: “I remember you told me about this dream where you were riding on a skateboard, and rainbows were following you. Do you still have dreams like that?”

I crumbled.

“…and while were on old subjects, I remember being really hurt when you asked Rico Suave to the prom instead of me.”

That stupid prom! It was the worst mistake of my life!

Snoop reminded me of the healing power of the Atonement–that even though life is unfair, we can be healed. He let me know that he’d be praying for me. And he reminded me that I had a friend in him.

I was so sad, so confused, so frustrated.

***
A few parts of the next two weeks.

-
My mom told me that I should never talk to Rusty again. I told her that I wasn’t sure what I’d do. I told her that I needed to think about it. I wanted to make this decision with my eyes wide open. She got frustrated with me–my ups and downs, my indecision, and finally said to me, “You’re mad because I was right about him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I knew all along he was cheating.”
“Well, you never told me that.”
“I did, Catania, but you didn’t want to listen, and now you’re mad at me because I was right.”
Her assessment couldn’t have been more inaccurate. I felt even more alone.

-
Almost every day, I’d go to the hotel, asking Rusty question after question after question. He never squirmed again. He just recounted experience after experience with complete nonchalance–matter-of-factly. Like a sociopath.

-
Right away, I went to the bank, opened a new account (in my name only) and then withdrew the money from my joint account, depositing it into my own. I knew that if I chose to get divorced, I’d need money to support the kids.

-
I found some of the letters Rusty had written to me over the years. I wrote, “Lies, lies, lies.” On each of them. I found his journal (he’d write in it every so often when we, as a family, wrote in our journals). There were entries about family and kids. I crossed each entry out, writing, “Lies, lies, lies.” I brought them all with me to the hotel, and gave them to Rusty.

-
Every evening, the Bishop would call me, checking in. He had urged me to make my decisions carefully.
“You have been married in the temple*, Catania. The decision you make isn’t one to be made lightly. Either way – if you stay with Rusty or if you leave him – the decision will impact the eternities. Make this decision carefully. If you rush into any decision, I’m afraid you’ll close off an opportunity.”
The was wise advice from my Bishop, but it was also hard. I wanted for someone just to tell me what to do. Thankfully, I followed His advice, and have been very greatly blessed.

-
When the count of Rusty’s “women” neared a dozen, I told him I didn’t want to know anything more. I realized not only was this destroying my spirit, but I was in physical danger. I asked my mom and Gigi to take me to the county clinic where I could get tested for an STD.
When I walked into the office, I was utterly humiliated. I didn’t belong here! I wanted to say it to every person in the office, “I don’t belong here!!!”
The receptionist handed me a stack of papers–medical releases and questionnaires. One of them had the question: How can you practice safe sex in the future?
It was my golden opportunity. I answered, Don’t have sex with lying, cheating husband.
My mom said, “Catania…don’t write that!”
Gigi, who had accompanied me to the clinic countered, “Why not?…It’s the truth.”

When it was my turn to be tested, a nurse went through the questionnaire with me. When she got to this question, and she let out a howl, “Oooooh! Girl!” and laughed.
“It’s the only way I can think to be safer.”
Though she was jovial for a second, she became serious. “What you’re doing is brave. It’s the right thing to do. I hope that you’re okay.”
Her words of support brought tears to my eyes. “Me, too.” I said.

-
One day, when I went to the hotel, I brought my scrapbook(s) with me. I had several. I had spent hundreds of dollars and even more hours creating those scrapbooks. In an act of rage, I told Rusty it was all a lie. Then I proceeded to rip every single page into shreds. (It was pretty dramatic and quite cathartic!)

***
There were many things that happened during those two weeks that influenced my decision, but two things, in particular sealed the deal.

One

I received Snoop’s email (the one that made me cry) in the afternoon. Later on that evening, I went to Rusty’s hotel to talk things through. My mind was swirling.
“Rusty. What is it? Why do you love me? Why do we stay together?”
“You know I love you, Catania.”
“No. I don’t know that. In fact, it seems like you hate me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Rusty. What is it? What do we have? Why would we fight for this marriage?”
Rusty thought a minute…finally, he answered. “We both really like hockey.”
My eyes widened.
“Hockey?”
“Yeah. We both like hockey.”
I laughed out loud. “Hockey season’s cancelled, buddy.”

I didn’t tell Rusty this, but as he said those words, Snoop’s email flashed through my mind. I began to cry as I realized that the man I was married to couldn’t come up with anything to fight for, anything to love, anything about me or our marriage. Yet, the man to whom I didn’t speak for 7 years could still remember my essence.

Rusty and me: We didn’t have anything. It was a sham. A lie. Less than nothing.

Two

The day before I made my final decision to get divorced, I was at church. Life was a roller-coaster that week. Up and down and up and down. One minute I thought I would try to work things out with Rusty–for the kid’s sake–for our marriage’s sake. The next minute I thought it was impossible. I didn’t know what to do.

As I was leaning more and more toward divorce, Rusty was trying to fight it. He promised to get professional help. He promised to stop. He promised that he loved me. But I still wasn’t sure. I prayed that I would have guidance on this decision.

One day, at church, I was walking in the hall. Rusty passed me, and I looked at him, saying hi. When I did, he didn’t return my salutation. He didn’t smile. Instead, he just looked through me. I felt like a high school girl who has a crush on a popular guy. He doesn’t even know I exist, I thought. At first, I was (mentally) making excuses for him. But then I realized, If there is anyone here he should recognize, then it should be me! Every emotion, every thought, every prayer, every blessing culminated in that single moment when Rusty looked through me.

I made the decision to file for divorce.

***

*The Bishop is a priest or leader of a local congregation. In the Mormon church, we have a lay leadership, so Bishops and others serve without pay. They have families, jobs, lives, on top of being the leader of congregations that usually number between 200-300 people.

*Conference Talks – Twice a year, the leadership of the Mormon church speaks to the general population in a meeting called General Conference. These talks are then printed and distributed in an LDS magazine – The Ensign.

*Priesthood Blessing – a special blessing given by a Priesthood holder. In this kind of blessing, the man acts as a sort of mouthpiece, expressing a blessing from the Lord. These blessings are given by request, and can be a source of increased strength, clarity, help from the Lord. They are often given during times of illness or great distress. Priesthood blessings are very sacred. Having been a recipient of many Priesthood Blessings, I can bear witness that these blessings are truly from God, and that He has endowed us with His power.

*Temple Marriage – some people in the Mormon church choose to be married in the temple. These marriages are considered eternal. In fact, the verbage for such an ordinance is for time and all eternity rather than ’til death do you part.

**
Click here for part 15

6 Comments
by chococatania on March 6, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Divorce, Family, HaM Love Story, Marriage
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Posted by chococatania on March 6, 2013

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2/11/05 (Part 13 of the HaM Love Story)

This is part thirteen of the Homey and Me Love Story. It is when my marriage to Rusty was ending – long before I met Homey, but an important part of the story, nonetheless.

***
It was February 11, around noon, when I sat down at the computer, mechanically, trying to hack my way into Rusty’s email. I wasn’t sure why I was doing it. I prayed to make sure that it wasn’t a mistake for me to get in his email without his consent. I knew that it could be a major betrayal of trust, but the Spirit reminded me, He is not to be trusted, and you know this. So…I found myself at the computer, trying a few passwords.

None of them were working.

I noticed the prompt forget your password? Even though I hadn’t forgotten it, I knew it was my best chance of figuring out how to get into the account. I was asked a security question: What is your favorite sports team? I knew Rusty well enough to attempt to answer this question. I also knew that Rusty loved sports. There were so many options. I tried them. Jazz, Utah Jazz, The Utah Jazz, St. Louis Cardinals, Cardinals, The Cardinals, Saint Louis Cardinals, Chicago Bears, The Bears, The Chicago Bears, The Eagles, and on, and on, and on. I wasn’t coming up with anything. After a few minutes of unsuccessfully guessing, Panda came into the room begging for lunch. I decided to give up the email quest. I figured, It isn’t meant to be. I was both disappointed and relieved. However, as I left, I didn’t turn off the computer. I figured I’d do that after feeding the kids.

After making sandwiches, eating, and cleaning up, I felt myself drawn, again, to the office room where the computer sat. I knew it was on and waiting for me. I told myself I’d just go up, turn it off, and then pray again for comfort and strength. I knew that everything would be okay.

When I went up to the computer, it was as if I was on “auto-pilot.” I sat down at the computer and just started typing: F-l-y-e-r-s. And BAM! Just like that – I was in.

I was so relieved to find the email inbox empty – except for a note from an guy in Utah – that Rusty had a landscaping business with. Yet, my “auto-pilot” was still on, and instead of logging off of the computer, I was checking the sent mail.

Then my heart began to sink. There were dozens. No hundreds of emails from Rusty to other women. I only saw subject lines…but they were bad enough. I clicked on one that said Thinking of You.

And I read that filthy, vile email.

The email was a note reminiscing on a time when he had been back to Utah, for His grandfather’s funeral, and he had met with a woman at a hotel. They had various sexual exploits. I was disgusted. I knew it was true. It was all over. I read the email once, then I called my dear friend, Blythe, and read her every word of the ex-ex-ex rated email. I think she choked. Then I said to her, I have to let you go.

I called Rusty. He was working with my step-dad. Again, I asked him, “What’s going on with you and Jezebel?”
“Nothing, Catania. I promise.”
“No, really. What’s going on with you and Jezebel?”
“Catania, is this because of the p*rnography you found the other day?”
“Rusty. I know. I have read your emails. I know that you cheated on me with Jezebel.”
Barely audible, Rusty stated, “It’s true.”

I hung up the phone and felt like I would vomit. Instead, I just collapsed. As I fell down to the ground, I kind of…cackled/choked. It wasn’t just a cry. It was despair. Even though my life had been hanging heavy for weeks, it finally took that last crash. I was finally beginning to jolt into awareness.

I remember that moment – lying on the ground, truly pounding it with my fists like a two year old having a tantrum. It was also nearly an out-of-body experience. Another part of me seemed to hover above myself – very aware of how crazy this was. Catania, you are crying, I thought to myself.

My mom came upstairs, and I don’t remember what I told her, but she now knew. I was still feeling like two people. Catania 1 was lying on the ground, crying in the ugliest way. Catania 2 was hovering above, shocked and embarrassed for Catania 1 – telling her hey, you’re crying! This is weird! This is exactly how it would happen in a movie! You’re acting like a two-year old! Catania 1 kept crying on the floor, shaking, holding back vomit while Catania 2 hovered and thought, this seems a little over-the-top…faker and then replayed the fall that Catania 1 had done upon reading the email over and over and over again.

I looked up at my mom and saw Tiger and Panda standing beneath her, anxious.
“Why are you crying, Mama?” Tiger asked, worried.
“It’s okay, let’s go and watch a movie, okay?” I knew that I wasn’t convincing, but I also knew that she would happily watch a movie.
My mom took the girls downstairs and started a video.

Instead of going downstairs, I called my Bishop on his cell phone.
“Bishop?”
“Hello? Yes?”
“Hi. This is Catania from your ward.”
“Yes.”
“Um. I’m calling because I know that you have an appointment to meet with my husband tomorrow, but I’m beginning to think that you’ll have to meet with me, too.”
“Okay…”
“I just found out that Rusty has been having an affair.”
I heard him pause and take a gulp.
“Look. I’m at a conference for work right now, but I’ll call you back. I’ll pray for you. And you pray, too.” He then paused and said, “Catania, pray — Right now you are in your own personal gethsemane.”
I nodded my head, unable to say anything because of the sobs and tears steraming down my face.
“k.” I finally muttered.
I hung up the phone, and collapsed again – this time on the bed – internalizing what the Bishop had said. I knew it was true. I was going to experience my own kind of “gethsemane” – I knew that I was about to live through more pain than I ever thought possible.

***
I sat on the bed, crying for a while, but a nervous energy began to consume me. I called Blythe, I called Freckles, I called Spunky. I called Red. I called the Princess Club. I called friends from Utah. I called friends in PA. I wrote an email to Jezebel and read through all of Rusty’s emails. I wrote emails to a few other women that I suspected Rusty had slept with.

Rusty came home, and we went upstairs to talk things through. I called his parents, his siblings, and his best friend. No matter how hard I tried to embarrass him, he didn’t flinch. Repeating the story – even in the most shocking way to other people – didn’t make me feel Rusty and worse or me any better. I was still sobbing. And Rusty stared at me as if he was wondering when this episode would end.

I asked Rusty all of the evidentiary questions…who(too many to tell, really), what (sex, in any and every way you can think), where (in my home, in Moab, in cars, in their homes, in tents, and…well you get the idea), why (he didn’t know…maybe he had a tough time acclimating to married life), when (september 1998, two months after we were married, after work, that day in the canyon, at the depeche mode concert, while I was at Young Women’s, while he was studying, when he went to the “library”, etc), and how (easy- he lied to me, to himself, and to everyone again, again, and again.)

After a few hours of questioning, we came downstairs. I was disgusted. Some of my mom’s friends (Vito and Gigi) were at my house. They were apprised of the situation. Vito acted like a father to me. He said that he wanted to break Rusty’s neck. (Which made me smile). When my mom said that Rusty was not welcome in our house, Vito offered to take care of him. Vito took Rusty to a parking lot behind McDonald’s and kicked him out of his car. When Rusty asked Vito where he was going to sleep, Vito replied, “That’s not my concern.” Rusty, still confused at this sudden turn of events protested, “But I can’t just sleep in this parking lot.”
Vito responded, “Listen, buddy. You’ll be better off in this parking lot than anywhere near me.”

For the rest of the evening, I cried, cried, and cried some more. My friends cried with me. They were appalled and sick for me. I felt the strength of so many people who cared.

Before I tried to sleep, I had the thought to email a few old friends. I emailed my dear friend Garet and told him what was going on. I felt like I needed to talk to people who knew me. I also emailed Snoopy. I didn’t tell him what had happened right away. Instead, I just told him that I had run into his parents a few weeks before (I had – at a church function). They told me that he was at Law School. I asked him how life was, and I told him I was back in PA. I wished him the best. In doing so, I wished that I’d hear back from him, without knowing what he’d say or what I’d say – if I’d tell him about me and Rusty. Writing my friends kept me busy for a little while. Then it was back to the reality of the moment.

Throughout the night, I sat on the guest bed, expecting a phone call from Rusty. I expected a phone call of sorrow and remorse. I wanted a phone call where he told me that he loved me, why he loved me, and that I was beautiful. I wanted him to tell me that this wasn’t true – it was a mistake. Even though so many people rallied around me; even though I felt the love, strength, and support of my ecclesiastical leaders; even though I knew that God was aware of me and had me cradled in His hands, I just wanted to curl up and cry in the arms of my husband.

Instead of a phone call from Rusty, I got a phone call from Red who listened as I gave her every painful detail. Whiles speaking to Red, I came to understand exactly the Spirit was trying to teach me about Galatians 5:1 (at that time). I needed to stand fast in the Liberty wherewith Christ had made me free. As long as I was yoked to Rusty, through marriage, I would be yoked to the mire of his sins. I wasn’t completely ready to call it quits on my marriage, but I had a strong feeling that I needed to use all of the energy I had left to get as far away from it as I possibly could. I was getting the idea that if I didn’t, I’d find myself stuck in the mud, miserable, forever.

After my conversation with Red, I stopped calling friends (it was the middle of the night!). Catania 2, my rational side, hovered above me and watched as Catania 1 took off her wedding ring, took some Ibuprofen, wrote in her journal, and cried some more. Morning could not come soon enough.

***
Click here for part 14.

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by chococatania on February 26, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Divorce, Family, HaM Love Story, Marriage, Single Motherhood
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Posted by chococatania on February 26, 2013

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The Longest Week (Part 12 of the HaM Love Story)

This is part twelve of the Homey and Me Love Story. It is when marriage to Rusty was ending – long before I met Homey, but an important part of the story, nonetheless.

Rusty and I drove with our two little girls – Tiger (3) and Panda (not quite two) – to Pennyslvania after living in Utah for over 6 years together. We were starting a new phase of our lives, which was exciting to me. I had felt “stalled out” for so long. I figured this change would help me, Rusty, our children, and our marriage. It seemed to be so good.

In October, we moved into my mom’s house while Rusty started a new job and got ready for school. We would stay there a few months until we found a suitable apartment.

Things went well. Rusty worked. I was able to spend time with my mom and my younger brother. So much change had happened in my life to notice much of anything in regards to my marital relationship. By the New Year, though, things were really settling down. We were still at my mom’s house while Rusty started school. He was working then traveling about 45 minutes to go to his classes, so the days were long. Even though I was sidetracked by hanging out with my brother, I was itching to move on, get an apartment, and be our own family again. I was also itching for more attention from Rusty. I figured that because we removed ourselves from the stress of Utah, things would be better. But the habits of our relationship remained the same, and we didn’t communicate or interact with each other much.

Our relationship was a concern to me (as it had been in Utah), so I found an online course – to help strengthen our marriage. I emailed the course to Rusty (it was to be done by both of the members of the couple), and he agreed to do it. As I studied this course, I thought more of Rusty, and what worked for him, and even though I felt uncomfortable, I began to try to be his dream woman. I ached for any kind of attention or approval – no matter the cost to my own integrity.

*
Just when I thought we were turning a corner in our relationship something horrible happened.

Tuesday Morning

I had been up early, subbing for a *seminary class. After class, I went to check my email and noticed an address in the url address line – it had a pornographic title.

Because of the way this website came up, I knew that it had been specifically visited in the past. I knew that it wasn’t any kind of accident. I looked at the website for a second. It was horrible.

I decided then to go through the history, where I found dozens of pornographic sites. Each worse than the one before. The blank stares of women exposing their most private, beautiful selves disgusted me. They were no more than objects. Things. And I thought of the men, the man, that would look at this. Did he not know that this was a woman? A daughter? A person who felt, laughed, loved? Did he not know that she was more than two legs and breasts? Did he not know that he was more than some sexual being, capable of more than simply fulfilling this rudimentary desire?

As I went through the websites, I knew that it was Rusty who had been looking at them. As each image hit my brain, I froze, and realized that this wasn’t the first time he had looked at something like this. I looked at each woman – feeling uglier, fatter, and increasingly worthless. Even though I couldn’t put my finger on it, I was beginning to understand our relationship.

I didn’t tell anyone about the p*rnography right away. Instead, I sent an email to Rusty. I told him we’d need to talk. I told him I found the pictures, and that they were repulsive.

He came home that evening, contrite. Like a dog with its tails between his legs. And I wanted to believe it.

Wednesday

Although I wasn’t feeling that much better about our new problem, I was willing to work through it. This problem afflicts so many. I covenanted to help my husband through it, too.

Thursday

I struggled still. Seminary was awful, I’m sure. I got home and read scriptures, looking for solace and strength. I knew that I could and did forgive my husband. I knew the power of the atonement could help us overcome this problem in our marriage. Yet, I could not be comforted. I didn’t understand why.

I talked to my husband about it.

He told me about his favorite *conference talk (that he had read earlier in the day)- Peace of Conscience and Peace of Mind, Richard G. Scott. Rusty had never before initiated a spiritual conversation with me, so I stood staring as he spoke to me. I could tell he was trying to manipulate me. I wanted to rip the Ensign Magazine out of his hands. This had been my favorite talk. I knew that he didn’t mean what he said, but that he was trying to say what I wanted to hear. I also realized that all along everything he had said to me was a variation on this exact circumstance – he spoke what I wanted to hear. I pretended to listen to and accept what he was saying.

*
I went to a meeting at the church. The entire activity was focused on unity and gospel teaching in the home. I had a heavy horrible feeling. It wasn’t anger. It was a stupor of thought, I suppose. It was discouraging, despondent, and completely desperate.

*
After my meeting, I came home, still upset. He didn’t sense it, but I finally told him how horrible I was feeling. He then acted like he understood and told me that things were about to get tougher before they got better.
“You know, I was talking to a friend at school today.”
“Yeah?” I responded.
“Yeah. He just went through a divorce. He told me how many people end up getting divorced in this program.”
“Really…Why?”
“Well, just because it is so time consuming. I will have a lot of projects and work to do, and will have to spend a lot of time at school.”
“Okay.” I was unsure as to why he was warning me about this now.
“Yeah. But I really think that we will be able to make it. You just need to know how time consuming it is. I will have a lot of group projects and things that I can’t do at home.”
This warning that Rusty gave me had a different effect on me that I think he attended. I felt warned, but not that class would be difficult. I felt like what he was saying was strange. Like he was trying to groom me for something bigger. Or like he was trying to reel me back into some kind of trap. In any case, I didn’t like what he said – not because of the subject matter, but because I didn’t trust his purpose or his timing.

Thursday Over-night

I had three dreams. In each of these dreams Rusty was having sex with another woman. I knew each woman by name – they were acquaintances in real life. When I woke up, I asked Rusty a question,
“I feel like there is something you’re keeping from me, Rusty.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I just feel like there is something really wrong with us, with our marriage, and that if you don’t tell me, and I find out, then there will be no hope whatsoever.”
“Catania…I’m sure you’re still stressed about Tuesday. Don’t worry. I’ll be seeing the bishop tomorrow.”
Rusty moved to hug me, and I let him, but I didn’t reciprocate. I don’t think that he noticed. He seemed relatively aloof to all of my thoughts and feelings – only aware enough to do and say things that he hoped would keep me playing his game.

Friday Morning

It was because of the dreams. It was because of the Spirit. It was a combination of things that caused me to wake up on Friday morning feeling worse than I had all week.

I didn’t do much as far as seminary went. I showed up, distraught, and thankful that our class was combined with another – eating breakfast and watching a movie. The other teacher attempted small talk with me, but I didn’t know what to say. I was completely distracted. I didn’t know why I was feeling so bad still.

After seminary, I went out with my mom to a craft store that was closing. The deals were amazing. My mom and I had been looking forward to going to this sale. But I walked along, oblivious. Outwardly, it may have seemed that I was moping. Inwardly, I couldn’t think or even move. I was upset and distracted. I wanted the feeling I had to disappear, but I didn’t even know what the Spirit was trying to communicate let alone how to cheer up.

I went home, and did what I always did when overwhelmed: I prayed and studied my scriptures. The prayer I uttered was pained and disjointed. I opened my scriptures to Galatians 5:1,

“Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.” – Galatians 5:1

And I wondered what sin I needed to give up in order to stand free in Christ’s liberty.

I couldn’t think of what I needed to do. I wondered if I need to more purely forgive of Rusty. I wondered if there was just “more” I should have done. I didn’t expect the prompting that I would receive. Check Rusty’s email.
–What? Why?
Still the feeling remained. Check Rusty’s email.
–I shouldn’t snoop around in his private life. It shows that I don’t trust him.
You don’t and shouldn’t trust him. Check Rusty’s email.
–Is this really the right thing to do?
Check Rusty’s email.
–Okay. I will try, but I don’t even know his email address or password…
Just Check Rusty’s email.
–I will check Rusty’s email. It feels so strange to do, but if it is the right thing, then I’ll be able to remember the account and figure out the restaurant. If not, then I won’t be able to read his email, then I’ll talk about it with him tonight.

Resolved to check Rusty’s email, I closed up my scriptures, went to the computer, and turned it on.

***
*Seminary – a religious scripture-study class for high school students. In PA, it took place before school.

*General Conference – A meeting twice a year where the membership of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints hears talks and counsel from the prophet and 12 apostles, and other leaders of our church.

***
Click here for part 13.

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by chococatania on February 19, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Family, HaM Love Story, Marriage
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Posted by chococatania on February 19, 2013

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Six Years in One Post (Part 11 of the HaM Love Story)

If you know anything about me, you already know that the marriage with Rusty won’t work out. I hate thinking about this time in my life. In some ways, I’d be more comfortable leaving it out of the Homey and Me love story. And since this is the Homey and Me love story, and not the Rusty and Me Divorce Story, I’ll spare you most of the heart-wrenching details. However, a few things need to be shared. They will make the Homey and Me story that much better.

Year One

I went to school. Rusty worked and did whatever else he did during the day. On Valentine’s day, I was upset because we went out with his parents!

Year Two

I went to school and finished. Rusty worked and did whatever else he did during the day. We moved out of our basement apartment, and I had friends from my lacrosse team at my apartment complex. (Princess Club!!!) I was sidetracked from Rusty’s absence by the delight of always being with my friends.

Year Three

I had a baby and stayed home with her. For the first time, I realized how much Rusty was gone. I realized how little we knew of each other. It bothered me. This year was filled with more emotional highs and lows than even our first year of marriage.

*

A month before the baby was born, Rusty decided to take a trip to Moab that I begged him not to do. I didn’t want to be left alone while he was four hours away. Actually, I wanted for both of us to go somewhere, but he insisted that we couldn’t afford it. He agreed not to go. Until he left, and called me on his way down. Again, it was my friends from the Princess Club and my other friend, Red, that saved me. I would watch movies, laugh, and talk about the gospel with the girls from the Princess Club. Red and I would snowboard nearly twice a week. It was nice to feel loved.

*

A week after the baby was born, Rusty mentioned that he wanted to go to a Depeche Mode concert.
“What? You? Depeche Mode?”
“Some people from work are going?”
“Who?”
“You know. Some guys.”
“I didn’t know you liked Depeche Mode.”
“They’re okay.”
“I don’t know how comfortable I feel about you being gone yet. We have this new baby. I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s not like it is your favorite band. You don’t even have a single Depeche Mode album. I should be going to that…not you.”
“Yeah…I know…but it will be fun.”
“I don’t think it is a good idea. I really need you here.”
“I’ll stay home.”
“Thanks, Rusty.” I was proud of his decision.
The next day, around four-thirty, I got a call from Rusty. He was running late at work, and wouldn’t be coming home at all because he was on his way to the Depeche Mode Concert.

Between rejection and Post-Partum Depression, I cried a lot that night. Finally, I was talked into the idea of going out to a diner and staying there nearly all night – so I wouldn’t be home when Rusty got home.

I was distracted by stacks of French Toast and a waitress with a wandering glass eye.

When I got home, Rusty was penitent, crying. He wrote me a letter describing how overwhelmed he felt as a new father. I took his apology seriously and was happy that we were finally on the same page.

*

One afternoon, a few weeks before the olympics, when our baby was about nine months old, I got a phone call from the Sheriff’s office. She informed me that my car was parked illegally at a rest stop in the Weber Canyon.
“That’s not possible,” I responded. “I’m at home, and my husband has the car. He’s at work.”
I looked at the time. It was about an hour and a half after his shift should have ended. Often, things ran late at work, so I figured that was what had happened.
“Is your car a white toyota tercel with license plate number 1234567?”
“Yes. How did you know?” (Duh! The car was there…but it wasn’t sinking in.)
“It is parked here at the rest stop in Weber Canyon.”
“But that’s not possible. I’m at home, and my husband is at work, with the car.” I paused. Realizing that she wasn’t lying or pranking me, but that the car was not at work. “You know, let me call my husband’s work, and see what is going on.”
“Okay ma’am. Call me back afterward.”

I called his work.

“Hi. May I please speak with Rusty?”
“Rusty? Sorry. He left a while ago. Before three.”
“Okay.”

I called Rusty’s cell phone. No answer. I called it again, again, and again. No answer. Rusty?! Where are you?! Why do we have cell phones when you never answer it? You need to answer it now! I need you! No answer.

I called all of Rusty’s family. Nothing.

The Sheriff’s office called me back. “Ma’am, have you heard anything?”
“No. The hospital he works at said that he left at 2:30 ish. I can’t get a hold of his cell. His family, no one knows…I don’t know.” She could hear my tone rising.
“Ma’am, I’m sure that everything will be alright. The sheriff is at the rest stop, looking around. I’m sure that there’s nothing to worry about.”
Her comfort had the opposite effect. Instantly, I remembered the story about a person being murdered at that very rest stop.
“You said your husband has a cell phone,” The secretary at the sheriff’s office broke my desperate train of thought.
“Yes.”
“Can you try calling it again.”
“Yes.”
“Use your cell. I’ll stay on the line with you.”
“Okay.” I called.
She answered, “Yes, the sheriff sees the cell phone ringing in the car. It looks like he didn’t take the cell with him.”
What was happening.

More calls were made. I was starting to feel sick to my stomach. Parents and siblings were starting to say prayers and come up with action plans. The secretary kept trying to ask me questions on where my husband could be? (he should be at work…or home); did he have a reason to go up the canyon? (No, he doesn’t have anything to do in the canyon. That’s fifteen miles away.); No. No. No. No. No.

Then, she was distracted.
“Hold on a minute, ma’am. I’m getting something from the officer.”
“Okay.”
“Well, it looks like everything is okay. It looks like your husband is okay. They found him.”
“Where is he?”
“A woman just dropped him off.”
“What?”
“A woman just dropped him off to his car.”
Nothing computed.
“Okay. Thanks.”

A few minutes later, my cell phone rang.
“Catania?”
“Rusty?”
“What’s going on? Why is the sheriff here? Why did you call the police?”
“What do you mean? Where are you? Why are you in the canyon? Who are you with?”
“I was just going out to buy you a Valentine’s present. Then I got a call from Jezebel. She was worried about something that happened at work so we talked about it. But why did you call the police? Why didn’t you just call me?”
“I did call you. You didn’t answer the phone.”
“I accidentally left it in my car. But you didn’t need to worry.”
“I didn’t call the police. They called me. They called me over an hour ago, telling me to move my car or it would be towed. And I thought you were at work. Why are you in the canyon with Jezebel?”
Still. Nothing computed.

About half an hour later, Rusty came home. Trying to console me. I was too naive to feel cuckolded. His parents called. I tried to let everyone down gently, yet honestly. “Rusty was just out with a woman from his work. It looks like it was a misunderstanding.” Maybe they knew better. Probably.

But, somehow Rusty worked his magic. He made up. He cried. He apologized. We went to the temple the next day. He did everything he could to comfort me. And for the most part, it worked.

Year Four

We moved. Rusty thought that maybe he’d start going to school full-time. He was working full-time, too. I saw him for roughly fifteen minutes a day. I was lonely, but used to it. When he was around, he’d be both charming and negligent. Both faithful and apathetic. For the most part – not any different than day one of our marriage.

We had another child. She was a miracle, in my mind. Rusty and I were rarely intimate. After several weeks/months, I would get to a point of desperation, and then wonder I thought men were nuts for physical touch (and more than that, but this is a family blog). He was working full time and going to school full time. He assured me that it was the stress. I believed it. We never had been very intimate. Nothing was different. I figured that maybe I was getting bored. I also knew that I was getting less appealing. I was big, fat, and pregnant. Who would like that?

There were days, and weeks, and months, that passed without a single glance from Rusty. Let alone touch. During one particularly lonely spell, I cried myself to sleep one night. The next, I couldn’t deal with it. (I’m Italian, after all…no bottling up things for me!) I pled with him – why don’t we kiss? why don’t you want to be with me? I thought guys couldn’t go this long? Why do I have to beg for intimacy from you? He told me that if I took better care of myself then maybe he’d be interested. Inwardly, I argued, “I’m eight months pregnant! You did this to me!” Outwardly, I laid on the bed, wishing I could cry louder, make a scene, or throw a vase.

Instead, I fell asleep, and I dreamed that I was at a formal dance (and not pregnant!). Rusty was there, but he wasn’t paying much attention to me. I was standing around, sad and bored, when I noticed Snoopy. I ran up to him, happy.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to the party.” he answered.
“Would you like to dance?”
“Snoopy. I’m married. I can’t.”
“I’ll ask Rusty.” And he did. Rusty looked at him and at me.
“Whatever. I don’t care. No problem, dude.” Rusty couldn’t be bothered with what he was doing.
Snoopy then took my hand, and kissed it.
Then I woke up. Elated, shocked, guilty, then, looking at Rusty, dismayed. I hated that I had woken from the dream. And I hated that the most loved I had ever felt during my marriage was when I dreamed of another man.

I wrote about the dream in my journal- both treasuring and despising it. Rusty never knew about it. I don’t think that he would have cared, either. Rusty was simply too busy or stressed.

Year Five

More of the same. Rusty? Who was he? But I was happier. I had friends. The Princess Club and played lacrosse, watched movies, and laughed. Red and I scrapbooked and snowboarded. I had also made a new friend, Blythe, who had two sons the ages of my two daughters. We walked and talked every morning. We took our kids to the library, made crafts, and had pizza parties…so…Rusty? Rusty who?

Year Six

A threshold: I finally hit it. Nothing made sense to me. Rusty was in the Elder’s Quorum Presidency, and we went to the temple every week. We prayed together. I made sure our family read scriptures. We were doing all of the things that should make us feel more secure, but none of it seemed to work.

Years earlier, this insecurity would have translated to a night of crying, pleading, and yelling at Rusty. Now, I just didn’t care.

Rusty went away for a long weekend with a friend. He didn’t call when he arrived into San Francisco. He didn’t call for four days. He didn’t call to tell me his plane landed okay. He didn’t call me to say goodnight. He didn’t call me to see how the kids were. I could have tracked him down, but I figured that the news hadn’t reported a plane crash, so he wasn’t dead. And I didn’t care either way. I had just started a new project – Illustrating Lehi’s Dream. I had started reading a new book – Angle of Repose (Wallace Stegner). I had my kids, my friends, and I had my hilarious brothers to talk to. Why did I need Rusty?

Ultimately, this line of thinking had me alarmed. I wrote in my journal and came to the conclusion that if we didn’t fix whatever seemed to be broken, then we might not make it. Prophetically, I wrote, If our marriage continues like this, we’ll be divorced soon. I don’t think we’d make it even another year.

When Rusty got back from San Francisco, I told him, matter-of-factly, about my worries. I reported to him out of a sense of duty – not rage. There’s a difference, you know. I told Rusty that really I didn’t care that he didn’t call me, that I didn’t care about my marriage to him, and that I didn’t really think I even cared about him. I felt like I didn’t even know him. I told him that I wanted to be mad at him, but didn’t have the energy or desire to. My indifference was alarming.

“I suppose we ought to talk to a marriage counselor.” I suggested. He promised me that things would change.

And they did. We didn’t see a marriage counselor, but about three and a half weeks after this discussion, we suddenly picked up our family, and moved 2,000 miles to Pennsylvania – off to start a new life where Rusty would go to school at Temple University, and we’d finally be progressing toward a future.

The change was my last hope.

***
Click here for part 12.

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by chococatania on February 14, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by chococatania on February 14, 2013

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Married Life – (Part 10 of the HaM love Story)

This is part ten of the Homey and Me Love Story. It is when I was going to college and was married to Rusty – long before I met Homey, but an important part of the story, nonetheless.

Rusty and I were married. I was now going by a new name, living in a new state, with a new person. I had a new family, and new expectations. It was overwhelming.

The first few months were fun. It was summer. We went to Pennsylvania – where I had a reception with my friends and family. Then we went to the shore, Philadelphia, and other favorite east-coast places. I loved being able to share this with Rusty.

After visiting PA, we went back to Utah, and started our new life together in a small basement apartment in Ogden.

I wasn’t a great housewife. I had a lot to learn.

All day long, I’d read. Rusty worked from 7am to 3pm. At 2PM, I’d go to work. Then I’d come home around eight, we’d eat dinner, and Rusty would watch TV while I read some more. On weekends, we’d clean together, while I sang, “I hate cleaning, I hate cleaning, I hate cleaning, I hate cleaning…” (to the same tune as the Meow Mix song…Meow meow meow meow…You know). I sang so loudly that our upstairs neighbors could hear me. They casually mentioned the song one day. I didn’t care, and stood by my declaration: I hate cleaning.

Summer turned to autumn, and I began school again. Rusty chose to put school off for a semester or two. I was determined to finish college as soon as possible, so I didn’t want to procrastinate it a single day. Plus, I had gotten a job with an airline company – that had an office on campus. In order to be qualified to work there, though, I had to be a full-time student. I felt this job was an answer to my prayers: a benefit of this job was free airfare. I’d be able to go to PA and Boston and see my family. So, I stayed in school and worked.

After beginning my second year of school, I fell in love wit it. I wasn’t living in the dorms, so I no longer had the pressure to be social twenty-four hours a day. Because I was married, I didn’t feel like I needed to go to parties or do the things that single people normally do. Instead of worrying about social activities, I poured myself into school. Between work and school, I spent most of my time on campus.

Another factor that contributed to falling in love with school was that I felt surrounded by like-minded people. I had trouble getting used to the Utah culture. I didn’t hate it at first, I just wasn’t used to it. Some people had a hard time accepting that I wasn’t absolutely in love with the place. As fall approached, I felt an especially strong yearning to be back in Pennsylvania. I missed the trees. Fall was so incredible in the east. I remember a conversation with my mother-in-law.

“So. How is it going?”
“Fine.”
“How is your family doing back east?”
“They are doing well. My brothers and sisters are back in school.”
“How do you think that you are beginning to feel about Utah?”
“I like it so far. I’m still getting used to everything.”
“Do you miss Pennsylvania?”
“Yes. Very much. I really miss it this time of year – the trees are changing colors right about now, and it is always so amazing. I have never lived in the desert before. I just miss some of the things back home.”
“Well, you know, you could go to the mountains. We have a beautiful fall here, too. As good as Pennsylvania, I’m sure.”

I hated conversations like that! I felt like I was tricked. I would get frustrated, wondering why I would be asked questions if I was then going to be told I was wrong. I was especially upset because often, the people who were telling me that Utah was better than PA were people who had never been out of the state. I tried explaining:

“You’re right. The mountains are beautiful, but they aren’t the same.”
“Well, they both have trees changing color. It is really dramatic.”
Then I replied, “You know how you laugh when people from the east talk about the ‘mountains’ in reference to the Appalachian mountains – and you think those aren’t mountains…if they think that’s a mountain, they should see the mountains in Utah…”
“Yeah. Those aren’t mountains.”
“Well, that’s kind of how I feel about the trees. When I say I miss Pennsylvania, I’m not saying that I miss the mountains. I love the mountains, and they’re here. I miss the trees. I miss going into Philly. I miss eating a good slice of pizza, -”
She cut me off, “Ligori’s has good pizza-”
I cut her back off, “Ligori’s does not have good pizza.” I continued, “When you ask me if I miss Pennsylvania, and I say, yes, that’s what I mean. And Utah doesn’t compare. I’m sure that if I ever move away from Utah, I’ll miss it, too, and it won’t compare to where I live next either. That’s just how it is. I have nothing against Utah. I’m not expecting it to be another place. But that doesn’t stop me from missing my home.”
“Well, you did choose to move here.”

AHHH! Of course I did! I couldn’t explain myself, and I didn’t know why I should even try. Yet, I was never capable of making the agreeable-small talk that seemed to dominate the lives of the family I had married into. In fact, the more I was required to engage in it, the more I seemed to detest it. Many of the people who were now my closest circle of friends and family were people that I could not seem to relate to in any way. They didn’t understand why I went to college. They didn’t seem to understand why I liked reading so much. They didn’t understand why I was interested in living in a basement apartment while I went to school rather than “move up” in life into a house, give up school, and get a job. I couldn’t get used to these expectations that were as foreign to me as the landscape. Worst of all, not even Rusty seemed to be able to understand. I felt so isolated.

But I did have a haven, a sanctuary: school.

By now, I was beginning to seriously consider majoring in English. I took a few classes that were required for most of the upper-divisional courses. One class, in particular, made an impact on me: College Writing. My professor was amazing. He was intense and smart. I looked up to him so much that I became embarrassed. But still, the class was a saving grace for me. I felt like I found my passion.

***
Not only was the new Utah-culture shock difficult, but almost instantly, Rusty and I seemed to be growing apart. He worked all day while I was at school. Then I worked after my classes – in the afternoons until evening. We’d finally see each other around 6P or 8PM – depending on the night. It was difficult, but whose marriage, when you are 19 and in school still, isn’t? We had responsibilities now. We couldn’t just hang out all night in the dorms, watching movies and falling asleep next to one another. We needed to pay the bills. I found it amazing how unromantic married life could be.

Yet, we found snatches of time – to wrestle, have fun, and play. While this was good, I found that as school progressed, we had a hard time relating. At the end of a long day, I would talk to him about a book I was reading, and he would gently nod off to sleep as I’d conjecture about a theme or character. I would get frustrated, but would just put my nose back in my book to help ignore my feeling of being ignored. After only six months of marriage, I missed Rusty. I felt so distant. I have to admit that part of it was me. I didn’t talk to him much about classes while we were dating. I was changing. But I was concerned that because I was changing, we were changing that we were growing apart. We’d talk about this, and come to the conclusion that in the future, when we were out of school and more settled, things would get better. We just had to work hard through this time in our marriage.

I have never been afraid of working hard. So I did.

That semester, I did well in school. All A’s. Dean’s list. My College writing professor had written “Brilliant” on a paper I wrote. My Critical Approaches to literature Professor asked me why I hadn’t yet declared English as a major. Even when I was feeling insecure in my marriage and in Utah life, I felt overwhelmingly satisfied with my life at school.

***
In addition to school, I took a heavy load of institute* classes. Never less than four classes a semester. I found learning to be an addiction. It seemed like I couldn’t read enough, study enough, learn enough. I wanted to soak it all in. I was high on education, and dreamed about being involved in academia forever.

This rush I got from school would, for the most part, make up for the distance I felt from Rusty. In some ways it was alarming. In other ways, I figured that it was just something that happens to any newly-married couple. Rusty didn’t seem alarmed. He felt comfortable and happy. Rusty’s general feeling of comfort in our marriage eased my fears. And for the most part, I could ignore my doubts.

However, one day, I had an especially hard time, not thinking about everything in my life, marriage, and the dissatisfaction that was seeming to crop up. I went to the mailbox that day, just like any other day, and I found a letter addressed to me. I was excited to see the envelope. Elated.

Elder __________
Spylaw Road
Edinburgh Scotland.

It was a letter from Snoopy. He had promised me (and I had promised him) that we’d write while on his mission. I read that letter. Over and over again. He loved his mission. He loved the people. I loved reading his note. But my elation turned into the most stinging guilt I’ve ever felt. He asked me questions about my life and wanted to know how school was going. I knew, too, that if I’d answer him, he’d listen to me. I didn’t write Snoopy back. I couldn’t. I knew he’d write me back. And most of me wanted that – an exchange between two people who care for each other. But, I was married, and I couldn’t stand the thought of having another letter from him. Or another one after that. I was frustrated yet determined to keep my relationship with Rusty intact. Instead of writing back Snoopy, I’d work harder to open a better dialogue between me and Rusty. I wanted us to share more, be more intimate, I wanted our relationship to mean more. I couldn’t write Snoopy back. If I got another letter from him, I didn’t know if I’d be able to stay loyal to Rusty – at least not emotionally.

I tucked the letter into a box in my closet, and tried to forget about it.

***

*Institute is a religious learning center for Mormon Students. It is usually a series of classes that are taught either in church buildings or institute buildings (which look like small campuses). You can take any series of classes -on the Old Testament, New Testament, Book of Mormon, teachings of the prophets. It is primarily designed to help a young adult couple their secular learning with spiritual learning.

***
Click here for part 11.

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by chococatania on February 11, 2013  •  Permalink
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Goin’ to the Temple and Gonna Get Married (Part 9 of the HaM Love Story)

This is part nine of the Homey and Me Love Story. It is when I was going to college (and met and married Rusty) long before I met Homey, but an important part of the story, nonetheless.

It was June. Rusty and I were at the Ogden temple. We would be getting married the next day.

I have to admit, I was nervous. I think that everyone is nervous the day before their marriage. I mean – marriage! What a commitment! But I was feeling especially overwhelmed.

I went to the Ogden temple to receive my own endowment* – which is a very sacred series of covenants that I made with God. These covenants are required before having a temple marriage (which I would be doing the next day). The entire experience at the temple had been an overwhelming rush of Spirituality and enlightenment. The temple covenants really takes a lifetime to understand. So, I went to the temple the day before my marriage, and had this huge day of instruction and promise making. It would have been nerve racking any time – without the knowledge that the very next day I’d be getting married.

After going to the temple, I went to work. About twenty minutes into my shift, I ran to the bathroom and vomited. It was purely nerves. I went home, and started to make last minute preparations for the big day ahead. Throughout the evening I was talking a lot. I was excited, happy, nervous, and scared. My mom and grandma were with me, and they patiently helped me to feel more secure. My grandma also made this elixir of baking soda, water, and ginger ale, and who knows what. It was disgusting, but magically settled my stomach. As bed-time approached, I went into my room and tried to sleep.

Sleeping was impossible for two main reasons.

One: My grandma snores really loudly and she was sleeping in my room, too. As soon as I would start to fall asleep, I’d hear a noise that made me positive an 18-wheeler was about to run me over, only to wake up and see my grandma twitching and snorting…deep in sleep.

Two: I was busy pondering the eternities. Have you ever really thought about the eternities? As in – what happens after we live? The night before my wedding seemed like a logical night to ponder everything that I’m too idiotic to pretend to comprehend.

As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I was raised to believe in life after death. I knew the plan of salvation. I had been taught about our lives before earth and after earth. And it was all running through my head, hurting my mind grapes. All of this was in connection to my wedding – my temple wedding.

One thing that is unique about a Mormon Temple wedding is the wording of the actual marriage. Instead of a priest pronouncing us husband and wife: “’til death do you part”, the priest who marries us in the temple says, “for time and all eternity.” This is truly an eternal marriage. What is sealed on earth is sealed in Heaven…forever.

I was up all night, intermittently thinking I was going to die by some rogue trucker, then pondering the eternal nature of my own life and that on the next day, I would united with Rusty for that measly eternity of mine. Was I ready for it? Would we really be able to make it? Who am I? Why am I here? AHHHHH! A giant truck is about to run me over!!!

(I didn’t get much sleep that night).

***

Somehow, the forty-five minutes of “rest” I managed to get energized me. I woke up the next morning and began getting ready for the big day ahead. My mom did my hair. My grandma helped me get into the contraption we call a wedding dress. And we all hurried down to Bountiful to get me married.

I chose to get married in the Bountiful temple because everyone gets married at the Salt Lake temple. (However, I admit I wasn’t fully committed to being an original – as I didn’t choose to get married in the Ogden temple!) We had an early appointment – which would allow for plenty of time for pictures and brunch afterward then going back up to Ogden for the reception.

The temple ceremony was beautiful. I felt happy. I felt totally assured that even though my decision would impact my eternal life – it would impact my children, their children, and their children, I didn’t need to be nervous. I knew that Heavenly Father was smiling on my decision and though I never had the feeling that married life would be easy, I would take satisfaction in it. I knew that it was the right thing for me to do, and, even more importantly, it was the right time for me to do it. Most importantly, I felt that I was doing the right thing at the right time with the right person. This knowledge has brought me peace for many years.

Rusty and I covenanted with God and each other. We were married. I wasn’t nervous anymore.

Well…maybe I had residual nerves. After our wedding, we ate at a nice restaurant in Salt Lake, but I was still a little too hyped to eat. It was kind of a bummer because I was beginning to feel nauseated. Plus, I really wanted to have a piece of the famous Lion House Cheesecake. (Or was it rolls?…maybe the food wasn’t as famous as I thought.)

As the day progressed, my nerves subsided, and we had a fun, happy day. It was a highlight of my life…perhaps even the highlight of our entire marriage.

* Learn a little more about temples here and here.

***
Click here for part 10.

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by chococatania on January 30, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by chococatania on January 30, 2013

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Skiing, Steak, and a Ring (Part 8 of HaM Story)

This is part eight of the Homey and Me Love Story. It is when I was a going to college (and met and married Rusty) long before I met Homey, but an important part of the story, nonetheless.

In a matter of months, things between Rusty and I had escalated quickly..faster than I could have ever imagined.

I remember one evening, in particular. Rusty and I were hanging out at his house. I had finished up my homework, we ate dinner, and were watching “That 70′s Show.” We were sitting in an annoyingly disgusting pretzel-like fashion – typical of young, Mormon, seriously dating couples. Rusty was holding my hand, and at some point, he kissed it. He kissed my ring finger, to be exact. Right where a wedding ring belonged. Needless to say, he was thinking about marriage. And soon, I was, too.

Not long after that we actually started talking about it.

But we weren’t engaged just yet.

One day, Rusty made a date for me to go skiing with him. I had never been. We spent all day in the snow. It was a lot of fun. It was March – spring skiing – which is the best because the sun was shining, it wasn’t bitterly cold, yet the snow was powdery and soft.

I had no idea what I was doing, but Rusty was patient as I snow-plowed down the bunny hills.

On the chair lift, we had a little conversation:
“Wow. This is so much fun!”
“Yeah. This is a beautiful day. I have a feeling you’ll remember it forever.”
That statement made me perk up – the way that a dog does when you open his dog treats. I imagine that I was sitting on the chair lift just like a hungry mutt – with my head cocked to the side, and eyes wide.
Rusty didn’t explain. I don’t think that he even noticed my pause. But his last statement kept running through my mind.

We had a fun day, and I returned back to the dorms, sunburned and sweaty. Something must have been different because when I walked into my room, my roommate asked, “sooooooooo……..?”
I then asked, “So….what?”
“Let me see your hand.”
“He didn’t propose.”
“Dang it! I thought it would be today.”
“I know. But guess what, while we were on the chairlift, he said something that really made me think that he might do it later.”
I told her about our conversation. I also told her that we were still going to go out. Rusty planned on taking me to a nice restaurant to finish off “the perfect day.”

By the time I got out of the shower, all of my roommates and friends were going crazy. They helped me carefully dress and prepare for what we were sure would be the night Rusty proposed.

***

Later on in the night, we went out to a nice restaurant. Then, we drove around. Rusty was nervous. He finally stopped, and popped the question. He kissed me a lot. I said yes. We both cried.

I was engaged.

I was nineteen years old, engaged, and I wasn’t scared.

As we drove home, I looked at my ring, and chuckled to myself. I admitted to him that I had a feeling he would propose.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“Well…because of what you said on the lift.”
“What do you mean? What did I say on the lift?”
“Well, how you said that I’d never forget today.”
“Yeah. Because you skied for the first time. I still remember the time I first went skiing.”
I started to laugh. “Well, I figured that you’d be proposing today.”
“Wow. I had no idea I was going to propose. It wasn’t until I left to pick you up that I thought it would be a good idea. In fact, I left, went back home to get the ring, then came back here to get you. I’m glad I did it!”
“Me, too!” I said.
“Would you have been upset if I hadn’t?” Rusty asked.
“No. But I’m pretty sure that my roommates would have.”
“They know, too?” He asked.
“Well, I was so excited about the ski trip and what you said on the lift that we talked about it all afternoon while i was getting ready to go out tonight.” I explained.
“Women.” Rusty said, laughing.

***
I had never imagined that I would be married while so young. First of all, I had always imagined myself serving a mission for my church. Back then (1998), women had to be at least 21 to serve a mission. I figured I’d go to college, get my Bachelor’s degree, then serve a mission. Meeting Rusty, and actually wanting to marry him came as a huge surprise to me.

But, I found myself, with a ring on my finger and a date set.

As happy as I was, I began to feel jitters. Marriage – isn’t just some little thing you decide to do one day.

There was the mission thing, I would think about that – and my ideas for my future. But when I prayed about it, I felt secure. I could also serve a mission a little later in life – with my husband. There was no need to worry about serving a mission while I was young.

I also began to feel perplexed. So…to explain…when I was fourteen years old, I received a Patriarchal Blessing. This is a very special blessing that you can receive any time in your life. Often, people who grow up in the LDS church choose to receive their patriarchal blessing while they are in their teenage years or even early twenties. A patriarchal blessing comes from the Lord, and it may contain information about your life. In my case, my patriarchal blessing mentioned marriage. It said, “You will be able to see through to the day when you will find a young man who is worthy, willing, and able to take you to the house of the Lord there to be married for time and for all eternity.” I have to admit, I was stumped by the phrase “you will be able to see through to the day…” Getting married before I was twenty hardly seemed like seeing through to the day. Yet, when I prayed about marrying Rusty, I felt good about it. I felt like it was something I should do. I felt like it was the next step I should take in my life, and that both he and I would grow from it.

While Rusty and I were good at expressing ourselves physically, sometimes we didn’t have the best verbal communication. Well, I was fine verbally (obviously…anyone who knows me knows that I have no problem with verbal communication). But Rusty wasn’t much of a talker or thinker. Sometimes, I had a problem with this. Sometimes, I thought I wanted to spend more time talking with him…thinking…philosophizing. This has always been a hobby of mine, and I had experienced many conversations- with both men and women alike – about thoughts. I love exchanging ideas. For the most part, Rusty and I didn’t exchange ideas. He listened to me pontificate without much input or opinion.

This was a problem for me. But I remember praying about it, and having the distinct thought that we didn’t have to be exactly the same. I felt that I would be able to teach Rusty and that in my relationship with Rusty, I would also learn many things. We didn’t have to be able to “philosophize”. I was comforted, and I continued on with the relationship.

Throughout this time of dating – as the wedding date approached – I was filled with the usual excitement and anticipation. I was picking out dresses, flowers, invitations. We found a place to live, and registered for gifts. Yet, I tried to be open eyed about the whole process. I didn’t want to walk into marriage like an idiot. My parents have been divorced. I know that marriage isn’t easy. And every time I came up with a concern, it would be met with reassurance and comfort from the Lord.

Ultimately, I kept going back to the thought of how happy I felt around Rusty. He was always smiling. We had so much fun. He could find a friend anywhere. I once told him, “You are just like Ferris Bueller.” I loved being around him. While I’ve never been shy, I’ve also never sought to be the center of attention. Rusty was always the center of attention anywhere he went. His personality was simultaneously brilliant and magnetizing. I felt like being with him – being his fiancee – left me dripping with that same brilliance. I liked being with him. I felt proud to be his girl.

***
Click here for part 9.

1 Comment
by chococatania on January 22, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Family, HaM Love Story, Marriage
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Posted by chococatania on January 22, 2013

http://thatgoodpart.wordpress.com/2013/01/22/skiing-steak-and-a-ring-part-8-of-ham-story/

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