This is Part Seven. You should probably start with Part One.
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In the fall of 2014, I left yet again for college, this time to attend Western Illinois University. I wasn't happy about having to leave Bear behind, but I was given an offer I couldn't refuse - my grandmother offered to pay all tuition that wasn't covered by financial aid. This was a way for me to get out of my parents' house with minimal strain. My only alternatives were to refuse the offer, and then spend six months still stuck in my parents' home, being reminded every day how stupid I was to turn it down, or to try again to move in with Bear - an attempt that would almost certainly be thwarted yet again by my father's blackmailing skills.
Once again, I joined the marching band, figuring this would be the best way to make friends. I had no idea how different this band would be from the one I was a part of at Olivet. While my former bandmates were thicker than thieves, a close-knit and well-integrated group of over 200 people, Western's band, although much smaller, was heavily cliqued and many of the established friendships were not looking for new members. Add this to the fact that I was a solid 4 years older than the freshmen who were my social equals, and you're left with very few options. I did make a few good friends, two of the more open minded girls in my section, with whom I roomed on a field trip early in the semester.
Even in my department of study, I had some difficulty making friends. I was studying theatre this time around, having forgone music thanks to my parents' obsessive influence. While theatre people are a far more accepting group than musicians, there remains a certain amount of heirarchy, and once again, established friendships made it difficult to create lasting connections with anyone. I was well behind the students who were my age, and my position as newbie meant I wasn't cast in any productions. The closest I got to anyone was the stage managers I hung out with during my time as a sound designer and board operator for the fall productions. Even that was a lonely position, one during which I read seven different books while pressing sound cue buttons during the collective two weeks of tech I covered for two different shows.
Even in my dorm hall, I was often alone. I had no roommate, although I did have a suite-mate. We didn't get along very well, however, and rarely spoke except to remind the other to change the toilet paper or buy more hand soap for the shared bathroom in our two-room suite. My RA was sweet, but a little bit too friendly.
Again, I was isolated. I became deeply depressed, my only solace in nightly conversations with Bear. I missed him terribly, and often fell asleep talking to him, the phone pressed to one ear, my pillow to the other. I began to lose my motivation even to get up and go to class in the morning. If there hadn't been a mini-cafeteria in my building, I probably wouldn't have eaten most days.
By homecoming, I had dropped out of band, and was hardly speaking to anyone, my only real human interaction in classes. Even in my theatre work, I was mostly alone, ending up stuck in the booth reading Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Events" for the thousandth time between doorbell noises and curtain cues.
Whereas Olivet was an aggressively friendly environment, I found Western to be quite the opposite. Very quickly, I succumbed to deep anxiety, frequently falling asleep watching "Winnie the Pooh" with the lights on, or with the phone pressed to my ear, because there was no other way I could get to sleep. I longed for nothing more than to be home, not with my family, but with Bear. We found that we needed each other. Where George and I had been comfortable with a long-distance relationship, Bear and I couldn't stand to be apart. Although we did spend the occasional weekend together - him visiting my dorm, me sneaking home to his apartment for a weekend - it was never enough.
In mid-November, during a weekend home, Bear received a very small package in the mail. We both knew what it was, of course. It was no surprise that he'd been planning to propose. With the ring now in-hand, he couldn't wait to show it to me. I, however, didn't want to spoil the surprise. After a few hours of inner debate, he decided, finally, to propose to me that day. While snuggling in his apartment, he asked if I really needed a big, fancy proposal, and I replied that of course I didn't, so long as it came from him. He pulled out the ring and explained that he had carefully chosen it to symbolize the strength of our love. That he'd struggled to come up with a creative way to propose to me, but couldn't come up with anything that could do it justice. That he'd thought long and hard about marriage, because he only wanted to do it once, and he was prepared for me to say no, if I wanted to.
The ring was stunning. There was no stone, only a sterling silver heart, etched to resemble oak. I responded with an emphatic yes. He cried. I cried. We celebrated by going to the movies. I still have the ticket stub in my ring box.
Later that night, we made the announcement to my parents and sisters. My sisters were ecstatic. My parents were... supportive, at best.
I returned to Western two days later to finish the semester. Over Thanksgiving, we made the announcement to the rest of my extended family, before finally releasing the news publicly via Facebook. At last, four weeks later, I returned home for Christmas break.
At the time, I had no intention of returning to Western. I hated it, and much preferred to stay close to home - and bear. I had no idea how to tell my parents, who were pressuring me to finish my degree before getting married.
I remember one night - a rare occasion of me sleeping at home that break - my father came into my room and began listing every possible problem with Bear he could think of, citing that "he and my mother were concerned about my judgement." Most of the problems he listed were actually things I loved about him.
He complained that Bear lets me drive when we go to Chicago because he doesn't like driving in the city, saying, "I would never let my wife drive in the city" (he frequently does, in fact).
I love driving in the city. I'm very comfortable navigating Chicago's one-way streets, and would much rather be in the driver's seat than stuck in the passenger's watching Bear have a breakdown.
He complained that Bear was unemployed at the time, due to a rather dramatic falling-out with McDonald's.
I knew he was much, much happier not working at McDonald's. I would rather he be unemployed and happy, than employed somewhere from which he literally came home suicidal. I have a great job as a news anchor for a local radio station, and am comfortable supporting us both between employers until he finds a job he truly loves.
He complained that Bear didn't share "our faith."
I liked the change of pace. For what should, by now, be obvious reasons.
No matter what I had to say, however, my father would hear none of it, having already deemed him unworthy in his mind. Luckily for us, I no longer cared what my father had to say. It had become clear to me that what he wanted for me was to become a submissive housewife to a strong, successful, devout Christian man, who would unwaveringly support me, spiritually and financially, all my days. It didn't matter that this was not what I wanted for myself. This is what he believed God wanted for me, and therefore, my opinions mattered naught.
I was not prepared to me the modest, quiet Christian woman I saw in my mother. I didn't want to be servant to a man my entire life. I wanted a man who was my equal. A man who saw me as his wife and partner, not his property. I wanted to be unafraid to bare my shoulders and have male friends - something in which my parents expected me to follow their example instead. I wanted to be a mother, yes, but also to work outside the home. I wanted permission to be a strong and independent woman - because permission was something I thought I needed.
I decided it was time to change that.
[Continued in Part Eight.]
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In the fall of 2014, I left yet again for college, this time to attend Western Illinois University. I wasn't happy about having to leave Bear behind, but I was given an offer I couldn't refuse - my grandmother offered to pay all tuition that wasn't covered by financial aid. This was a way for me to get out of my parents' house with minimal strain. My only alternatives were to refuse the offer, and then spend six months still stuck in my parents' home, being reminded every day how stupid I was to turn it down, or to try again to move in with Bear - an attempt that would almost certainly be thwarted yet again by my father's blackmailing skills.
Once again, I joined the marching band, figuring this would be the best way to make friends. I had no idea how different this band would be from the one I was a part of at Olivet. While my former bandmates were thicker than thieves, a close-knit and well-integrated group of over 200 people, Western's band, although much smaller, was heavily cliqued and many of the established friendships were not looking for new members. Add this to the fact that I was a solid 4 years older than the freshmen who were my social equals, and you're left with very few options. I did make a few good friends, two of the more open minded girls in my section, with whom I roomed on a field trip early in the semester.
Even in my department of study, I had some difficulty making friends. I was studying theatre this time around, having forgone music thanks to my parents' obsessive influence. While theatre people are a far more accepting group than musicians, there remains a certain amount of heirarchy, and once again, established friendships made it difficult to create lasting connections with anyone. I was well behind the students who were my age, and my position as newbie meant I wasn't cast in any productions. The closest I got to anyone was the stage managers I hung out with during my time as a sound designer and board operator for the fall productions. Even that was a lonely position, one during which I read seven different books while pressing sound cue buttons during the collective two weeks of tech I covered for two different shows.
Even in my dorm hall, I was often alone. I had no roommate, although I did have a suite-mate. We didn't get along very well, however, and rarely spoke except to remind the other to change the toilet paper or buy more hand soap for the shared bathroom in our two-room suite. My RA was sweet, but a little bit too friendly.
Again, I was isolated. I became deeply depressed, my only solace in nightly conversations with Bear. I missed him terribly, and often fell asleep talking to him, the phone pressed to one ear, my pillow to the other. I began to lose my motivation even to get up and go to class in the morning. If there hadn't been a mini-cafeteria in my building, I probably wouldn't have eaten most days.
By homecoming, I had dropped out of band, and was hardly speaking to anyone, my only real human interaction in classes. Even in my theatre work, I was mostly alone, ending up stuck in the booth reading Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Events" for the thousandth time between doorbell noises and curtain cues.
Whereas Olivet was an aggressively friendly environment, I found Western to be quite the opposite. Very quickly, I succumbed to deep anxiety, frequently falling asleep watching "Winnie the Pooh" with the lights on, or with the phone pressed to my ear, because there was no other way I could get to sleep. I longed for nothing more than to be home, not with my family, but with Bear. We found that we needed each other. Where George and I had been comfortable with a long-distance relationship, Bear and I couldn't stand to be apart. Although we did spend the occasional weekend together - him visiting my dorm, me sneaking home to his apartment for a weekend - it was never enough.
In mid-November, during a weekend home, Bear received a very small package in the mail. We both knew what it was, of course. It was no surprise that he'd been planning to propose. With the ring now in-hand, he couldn't wait to show it to me. I, however, didn't want to spoil the surprise. After a few hours of inner debate, he decided, finally, to propose to me that day. While snuggling in his apartment, he asked if I really needed a big, fancy proposal, and I replied that of course I didn't, so long as it came from him. He pulled out the ring and explained that he had carefully chosen it to symbolize the strength of our love. That he'd struggled to come up with a creative way to propose to me, but couldn't come up with anything that could do it justice. That he'd thought long and hard about marriage, because he only wanted to do it once, and he was prepared for me to say no, if I wanted to.
The ring was stunning. There was no stone, only a sterling silver heart, etched to resemble oak. I responded with an emphatic yes. He cried. I cried. We celebrated by going to the movies. I still have the ticket stub in my ring box.
Later that night, we made the announcement to my parents and sisters. My sisters were ecstatic. My parents were... supportive, at best.
I returned to Western two days later to finish the semester. Over Thanksgiving, we made the announcement to the rest of my extended family, before finally releasing the news publicly via Facebook. At last, four weeks later, I returned home for Christmas break.
At the time, I had no intention of returning to Western. I hated it, and much preferred to stay close to home - and bear. I had no idea how to tell my parents, who were pressuring me to finish my degree before getting married.
I remember one night - a rare occasion of me sleeping at home that break - my father came into my room and began listing every possible problem with Bear he could think of, citing that "he and my mother were concerned about my judgement." Most of the problems he listed were actually things I loved about him.
He complained that Bear lets me drive when we go to Chicago because he doesn't like driving in the city, saying, "I would never let my wife drive in the city" (he frequently does, in fact).
I love driving in the city. I'm very comfortable navigating Chicago's one-way streets, and would much rather be in the driver's seat than stuck in the passenger's watching Bear have a breakdown.
He complained that Bear was unemployed at the time, due to a rather dramatic falling-out with McDonald's.
I knew he was much, much happier not working at McDonald's. I would rather he be unemployed and happy, than employed somewhere from which he literally came home suicidal. I have a great job as a news anchor for a local radio station, and am comfortable supporting us both between employers until he finds a job he truly loves.
He complained that Bear didn't share "our faith."
I liked the change of pace. For what should, by now, be obvious reasons.
No matter what I had to say, however, my father would hear none of it, having already deemed him unworthy in his mind. Luckily for us, I no longer cared what my father had to say. It had become clear to me that what he wanted for me was to become a submissive housewife to a strong, successful, devout Christian man, who would unwaveringly support me, spiritually and financially, all my days. It didn't matter that this was not what I wanted for myself. This is what he believed God wanted for me, and therefore, my opinions mattered naught.
I was not prepared to me the modest, quiet Christian woman I saw in my mother. I didn't want to be servant to a man my entire life. I wanted a man who was my equal. A man who saw me as his wife and partner, not his property. I wanted to be unafraid to bare my shoulders and have male friends - something in which my parents expected me to follow their example instead. I wanted to be a mother, yes, but also to work outside the home. I wanted permission to be a strong and independent woman - because permission was something I thought I needed.
I decided it was time to change that.
[Continued in Part Eight.]
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