This is the conclusion of an Eight part series. Start with Part One and work your way up to here.
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The first week of January, my parents finally thought to ask me if I actually wanted to go back to Western. I finally built up the courage to tell them, no, I did not. That I was burnt out on school and needed to take some time off.
This, of course, meant that I was throwing my life away. That I was selfish for letting my grandmother already pay for a semester of school, and for not telling them sooner, because they'd been preparing the basement for me to move into second semester (1. I never asked to move into the basement. 2. She was planning on selling the house anyway, and the basement was moldy, rotting, and full of old stuff). Henceforth, I had doomed myself to an eternity as a Walmart greeter or burger flipper. Obviously.
My father was, of course, gracious enough to offer to allow me to continue to live under his roof, provided I lived by his rules - meaning essentially I went from home to work and back, I didn't stay out late, I didn't spend all my time with Bear, and I kept my room spotless (privacy was a non-issue, since I didn't have a door anyway). Otherwise, I was expected to find other accommodations.
That night, I officially moved in with Bear.
It was an incredibly freeing experience. Never again did I have to worry about coming home late to a three-hour lecture about how I was breaking Jesus's heart by my sinful and disrespectful behavior. Never again would my father berate me for dropping my clothes where I undressed, instead of folding them neatly and putting them away. I no longer had to hide in the corner to change clothes, for fear someone might burst through the non-existent door. I was free of the constant judgement, the seemingly-inescapable fear that I would never be good enough, the shame of my failure, and the disappointment of my life choices.
Now, I ran my own home. I paid my own bills. I went to work, and came home to my husband-to-be. I made my own dinner in my own kitchen (I was very excited about that one. I love to cook), and I washed my own dishes after (to be honest, my husband would probably tell you he washed most of the dishes, but I'm making a point here).
Six months away from the day I was expected to be a fully-functional adult, I was finally free to learn how to be one.
And you know, despite the incessant promises of purity culture that moving in with my fiance before marriage would be the end of our relationship, it only made us stronger. Every day, waking up next to him, I fell more and more in love. Sure, our habits got on one another's nerves, but we had the pleasure of dealing with that outside of the overwhelming pressure of a new marriage, where every little fight is a sign that your marriage is already failing. Rather than hiding our feelings to preserve our blissful marriage, we found ourselves talking about issues before they became marriage-threatening meltdowns.
We also got the pleasure of falling in love with some of those habits. I love the way he snores steadily in his sleep (no, honestly, I do). I love that he tells me he loves me by doing the dishes and taking out the trash. I love the way he never refills the water pitcher or the salt shaker. I love the way he makes funny faces at me when he's bored. I love the way he obsessively checks that the door is locked when we leave the house. I love falling asleep nestled into his side, and I love waking up to his smile and his snuggles in the morning.
When we finally did make our vows, nothing changed at home, because we'd already been settled for months, even calling each other husband and wife in front of friends. Our scandalous cohabitation didn't make our wedding any less beautiful, our vows any less meaningful, or our honeymoon any less wonderful (wink, wink). As of the day this post is published, we have been married three blissful months. I know that isn't much, comparatively, and I don't profess to be any expert on marriage, but it's a start.
For part of our ceremony, we put together a fight box. We built the box together, pounding nails into boards, sitting cross-legged on the cold tile of our kitchen floor. We stained it and sealed it and lined it with moss. During the ceremony we put in a bottle of our favorite wine and two letters, one from each of us, reminding each other why we fell in love. They are to be opened the first time we have a huge, marriage-threatening fight, to remind us what we're fighting for. We're hoping we never have to use it.
They say every girl wants to grow up and marry a man just like her daddy, and for young me, that was as true as anyone. And while I do see some similarities between my husband and my father - in personality, in politics, even in appearance - I also see a lot of differences. My dad wasn't all bad. I know that what he did, he did out of love. But I also know there is a better way. And I know that my husband has found it.
Where my father pushed me, my husband encourages me. Where my father lectured me, my husband gently reminds me. Where my father saw me as something to be protected at all costs, my husband understands that even though I can take care of myself, sometimes I still need saving. Where my father wanted to keep me from making bad decisions, my husband is there to remind me that it's okay to make mistakes - as long as we learn from them.
Where my father was there to help me grow, my husband is there to help me through the hard part - being a grown-up.
When I was a kid, I loved Peter Pan. I never wanted to grow up. I only wanted to have adventures. I still do. I was convinced, to the very core of my being, that I would become a Lost Girl some day. That wish came true, if not in the way I intended. I was lost there, for a while. I didn't know what to do or who to turn to. I tried turning to my parents, but found myself weak. I tried turning to my teachers, but found myself wanting. I tried turning to George, but found myself wavering. I tried turning to my mother's Jesus, but found myself unworthy.
But it's the strangest thing, being a lost girl. Because all lost boys and girls, really, are found. Peter finds them. He picks them up, takes them away, and teaches them to fly. So, wouldn't you know, when I didn't know where to turn, when I finally turned away from all the shame and the fears and the never-good-enough, I didn't find myself wandering. I merely found... myself. Buried under all the baggage of twenty-odd years, there I was, squirming and unabashed and pure, ready to start this new thing called life.
I was a lost girl: found. And I soared.
[Afterword]
--------------------
The first week of January, my parents finally thought to ask me if I actually wanted to go back to Western. I finally built up the courage to tell them, no, I did not. That I was burnt out on school and needed to take some time off.
This, of course, meant that I was throwing my life away. That I was selfish for letting my grandmother already pay for a semester of school, and for not telling them sooner, because they'd been preparing the basement for me to move into second semester (1. I never asked to move into the basement. 2. She was planning on selling the house anyway, and the basement was moldy, rotting, and full of old stuff). Henceforth, I had doomed myself to an eternity as a Walmart greeter or burger flipper. Obviously.
My father was, of course, gracious enough to offer to allow me to continue to live under his roof, provided I lived by his rules - meaning essentially I went from home to work and back, I didn't stay out late, I didn't spend all my time with Bear, and I kept my room spotless (privacy was a non-issue, since I didn't have a door anyway). Otherwise, I was expected to find other accommodations.
That night, I officially moved in with Bear.
It was an incredibly freeing experience. Never again did I have to worry about coming home late to a three-hour lecture about how I was breaking Jesus's heart by my sinful and disrespectful behavior. Never again would my father berate me for dropping my clothes where I undressed, instead of folding them neatly and putting them away. I no longer had to hide in the corner to change clothes, for fear someone might burst through the non-existent door. I was free of the constant judgement, the seemingly-inescapable fear that I would never be good enough, the shame of my failure, and the disappointment of my life choices.
Now, I ran my own home. I paid my own bills. I went to work, and came home to my husband-to-be. I made my own dinner in my own kitchen (I was very excited about that one. I love to cook), and I washed my own dishes after (to be honest, my husband would probably tell you he washed most of the dishes, but I'm making a point here).
Six months away from the day I was expected to be a fully-functional adult, I was finally free to learn how to be one.
And you know, despite the incessant promises of purity culture that moving in with my fiance before marriage would be the end of our relationship, it only made us stronger. Every day, waking up next to him, I fell more and more in love. Sure, our habits got on one another's nerves, but we had the pleasure of dealing with that outside of the overwhelming pressure of a new marriage, where every little fight is a sign that your marriage is already failing. Rather than hiding our feelings to preserve our blissful marriage, we found ourselves talking about issues before they became marriage-threatening meltdowns.
We also got the pleasure of falling in love with some of those habits. I love the way he snores steadily in his sleep (no, honestly, I do). I love that he tells me he loves me by doing the dishes and taking out the trash. I love the way he never refills the water pitcher or the salt shaker. I love the way he makes funny faces at me when he's bored. I love the way he obsessively checks that the door is locked when we leave the house. I love falling asleep nestled into his side, and I love waking up to his smile and his snuggles in the morning.
When we finally did make our vows, nothing changed at home, because we'd already been settled for months, even calling each other husband and wife in front of friends. Our scandalous cohabitation didn't make our wedding any less beautiful, our vows any less meaningful, or our honeymoon any less wonderful (wink, wink). As of the day this post is published, we have been married three blissful months. I know that isn't much, comparatively, and I don't profess to be any expert on marriage, but it's a start.
For part of our ceremony, we put together a fight box. We built the box together, pounding nails into boards, sitting cross-legged on the cold tile of our kitchen floor. We stained it and sealed it and lined it with moss. During the ceremony we put in a bottle of our favorite wine and two letters, one from each of us, reminding each other why we fell in love. They are to be opened the first time we have a huge, marriage-threatening fight, to remind us what we're fighting for. We're hoping we never have to use it.
They say every girl wants to grow up and marry a man just like her daddy, and for young me, that was as true as anyone. And while I do see some similarities between my husband and my father - in personality, in politics, even in appearance - I also see a lot of differences. My dad wasn't all bad. I know that what he did, he did out of love. But I also know there is a better way. And I know that my husband has found it.
Where my father pushed me, my husband encourages me. Where my father lectured me, my husband gently reminds me. Where my father saw me as something to be protected at all costs, my husband understands that even though I can take care of myself, sometimes I still need saving. Where my father wanted to keep me from making bad decisions, my husband is there to remind me that it's okay to make mistakes - as long as we learn from them.
Where my father was there to help me grow, my husband is there to help me through the hard part - being a grown-up.
When I was a kid, I loved Peter Pan. I never wanted to grow up. I only wanted to have adventures. I still do. I was convinced, to the very core of my being, that I would become a Lost Girl some day. That wish came true, if not in the way I intended. I was lost there, for a while. I didn't know what to do or who to turn to. I tried turning to my parents, but found myself weak. I tried turning to my teachers, but found myself wanting. I tried turning to George, but found myself wavering. I tried turning to my mother's Jesus, but found myself unworthy.
But it's the strangest thing, being a lost girl. Because all lost boys and girls, really, are found. Peter finds them. He picks them up, takes them away, and teaches them to fly. So, wouldn't you know, when I didn't know where to turn, when I finally turned away from all the shame and the fears and the never-good-enough, I didn't find myself wandering. I merely found... myself. Buried under all the baggage of twenty-odd years, there I was, squirming and unabashed and pure, ready to start this new thing called life.
I was a lost girl: found. And I soared.
[Afterword]
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