Not Exactly A Dream Day

24/06/24

Sometimes, when doing all this self-help therapy stuff, it’s really, really hard not to fall into appalling, abusive, self-talk.

I mean, nigh on impossible.

After failing to find untarnished memories for a mental health, self-help exercise, I’ve found my thoughts repeatedly going back to my wedding day with EH.

How dreadful it is that this major life event didn’t provide me with any of those amazing memories I was trying to find.

I married EH before he found sobriety. I’d started to see there was a potential problem, but hadn’t yet realised he was an alcoholic. All I knew was that after four pints he turned into a dick.

His family were all extremely heavy drinkers, and he was staying with them the night before the wedding, so I asked him to please, please, not drink the night before so he wouldn’t be hungover. He promised he wouldn’t.

He kept that promise. He did not drink the night before our wedding.

He drank the morning of the wedding instead.

When I arrived at the registry office he was avoiding eye contact, and I could tell immediately that he was near his four pint tipping point. I didn’t make a big fuss, something along the lines of a quiet, slightly disappointed, “Aww, hun…“.

He protested that everyone else had wanted to go for a pre-wedding, celebration drink and he couldn’t say no and spoil their fun.

Although a little bit hurt, I accepted this reasoning and we continued to the ceremony.

Afterwards, we were having a reception at his parents’ house.

We arrived together, and that was the last time he was at my side for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

He sat with his brothers and friends and got totally wasted, while I got increasingly distressed but endeavoured to hide it from the guests.

When it was time to leave for our wedding night hotel, he had to be prised away from his drinking buddies.

When we got to the hotel (a stunning, boutique place that mother had paid for as part of our wedding gift), he flopped on the bed, watched me open a few cards, then said “D’you mind if we don’t have sex tonight?“, before rolling over, still dressed, and falling asleep.

As I tried to get to sleep, I comforted myself with the thought that probably, statistically, not having sex on your wedding night was to be expected.

It wasn’t very comforting.

The following morning we also didn’t have sex.

He jumped in the shower within minutes of waking, dressing quickly and urging me to hurry so we could go and get breakfast.

He then rushed through breakfast, and before I knew it, I was back in our room, with him telling me to get packed so we could leave.

It was only when we got in the taxi and he gave his parents’ address, that it started to dawn on me what was going on.

And then he said it aloud and I felt crushed to be right.

He wanted to get to his parents’ house to claim some of the leftover booze, before his family shared it out amongst themselves.

So it was that the morning after getting married to him, I was sitting alone in our home, while he was out negotiating ‘dibs’ on alcohol.

I cried as I packed my wedding dress away.

I realised, amongst other things, that throughout the whole wedding day, he’d never once told me I looked beautiful.

What groom neglects to tell his bride she’s beautiful?

Mine, obviously.

I felt this deep down dread that I’d made a huge and terrible mistake. I then spent the next twenty years trying to convince myself of the opposite, against all evidence.

I try to remember that I was doing the best I could at the time, with the tools and inner resources available to me then, and under pressure from outside influences to which I was susceptible.

It’s hard though, to see the things I’m seeing now, and not rail at my own stupidity.

So, to help with that, here’s my reminder and prompt for when I’m struggling:

Would you talk to the Grandbeanies the way you’re talking to yourself? Would you talk to anyone else that way?

There are enough people in this world willing to put you down; don’t do it to yourself.

Keep the faith woman. One step at a time, we’ll get there.

On a side note: those rings that I wasn’t sure what to do with? They were dropped into the recycling bin, along with some cups and cutlery.

I realised I didn’t need any kind of ‘ridding ceremony’; that made too much of a big deal out of something which is becoming more insignificant daily.

The only particularly remarkable parts to the ‘event’ were:

• The suddenness, rapidity and certainty of the decision.
• The sense of lightness that resulted from taking action.
• The wry amusement I felt when I remembered the purchase of the engagement ring: on the day we were due to collect the resized chosen one, something I thought would be super romantic, he announced he had no money as he’d pissed his wages up the wall. So I paid for my own engagement ring. Trust me, wry amusement is a great leap forward compared to the feelings previously evoked by that event.

I hope that some poor bugger, sifting through recycling to make a living, spots one, or both of those rings, and makes a couple of quid out of them. It would be nice if they represented happiness to someone.

JP