Looking Back
written by: Dianne Moritz
It’s October 1968. I fly to San Francisco for the weekend to rendezvous with my college boyfriend before he ships out to Vietnam.
We do the tourist bit: Highway 1, Carmel, Big Sur, and Monterey, where there’s a street named Cannery Row like in Steinbeck’s books. We’re nervous, wary, but the heat’s still there. We pull off the highway, hop out to survey the lovely views, and enjoy a deep, calming embrace. I am grateful to be with him in this breathtaking place, yet terribly worried for what the future holds.
Later that night, we head back to the city. We stroll down Broadway. He wants to visit some topless bars. We peruse several joints, choose one, but the bouncer refuses to let me in.
“I’ll be your girlie show,” I say.
So we drive north on Van Ness Avenue, buy some cheap Gallo wine, and rent a room in a sleazy hotel near the Doggie Diner. We both drink too much. Sex is fast, rough, and soon he’s slurring his words: jungles, swamps, mud, gooks, bullets, body bags.
“Hush, now, I say,” wrapping myself in his trained killer arms.
Yet, I am confused and full of rage. We were to marry after graduation. Now he’s joined the Marines and is off to a foreign country from which he may never return.
Sunday, at the airport, our goodbyes are cool. He turns away, leaving me again…. fading into the crowd like military issue camouflage.
After several months, I write “Dear John” letters I wish I’d never sent.
Relationships with men were always difficult for me. I craved commitment, but when I met guys willing to love me, I put them in the friends category. I was attracted to bad boys, those who were elusive, inspired me even more.
The thought of getting married scared me. I couldn’t comprehend the idea of living with one man for the rest of my life. The idea of a wedding, wearing an oversized white dress, walking down the aisle, and vowing to love someone forever left me cold, although I liked being a bridesmaid and celebrating my friends’ weddings.
In my late twenties, I began suffering acute panic attacks. Suddenly, and for no reason, I would feel dizzy and disoriented. Then my palms would perspire excessively. When symptoms escalated, I thought I was going crazy. I told no one.
After many attacks, I knew I needed professional help.
I made an appointment with a psychiatrist. After a couple of years of weekly therapy sessions, my doctor attributed my panic to stuffed feelings, fear of commitment stemming from my father’s abandonment when I was a two-year-old toddler.
According to my mother’s repeated accounts, my father, De Voe Harriott, was set to graduate from the University of Minnesota in the late forties, which meant we would no longer qualify for married student housing. He put his wife and two babies on a train bound for Des Moines, Iowa. We were to stay with my gramma while he went apartment hunting. We never saw him again.
My therapist reported that, for a two-year-old who has bonded with her father, losing him forever is one of life’s most traumatic events. Over many years, my lack of trust has been transferred to all men.
Unfortunately, the panic attacks increased. So, in addition to weekly sessions, I took a leave of absence from my teaching job in Los Angeles to attend an eight-week course with TERRAP, a group specializing in dealing with various anxiety issues. There, I met other women suffering anxiety to varying degrees. The course taught their developed techniques for dealing with panic: deep breathing, relaxation tapes, how to express feelings, plus other coping skills, which helped a great deal. Yet, my anxiety persisted, and I worried about returning to work. Finally, a psychiatrist prescribed anti-anxiety medications, which aided my recovery. In fact, I often say the meds saved me. I haven’t had panic attacks in years now.
Throughout my life, I continued to attract and be enticed by Mr. Wrongs: men who drank too much, men who used recreational drugs, misogynists, controllers, cheaters, verbal abusers, and other undesirables. I’ve had four serious relationships over the years, but, in the end, left all of them.
As I approached my fortieth birthday, I obsessed about being alone for the rest of my life.
On a trip to Los Angeles in the mid-eighties, I met Robin. He was attractive, smart, fun, and wrote poetry. He’d published a few poems in his college journal. I was impressed and smitten.
When I returned home to Southampton, NY, after being with him every day for two weeks, we had long, intimate conversations on the telephone for the next few months. He sent me roses and poems. My infatuation blossomed.
In November, Robin flew to Southampton to spend a few weeks. The day he scribbled, “Will you marry me?” in wet sand on the beach, I impulsively answered, “Yes.”
We were wed at the home of a local judge, attended by my half-brother and sister, followed by a lavish dinner at a posh restaurant with lots of champagne. The night was magical.
I quickly learned that being attracted to someone and marriage are two very different scenarios. It turned out that Robin was a secret alcoholic. The day after the ceremony, he told me he had a record of five DUIs! Nevertheless, we returned to LA and lived together in his tiny studio apartment three blocks from the Pacific Ocean in Venice, CA.
Robin controlled the finances. He didn’t like spending money. He had limited pleasure and sexual needs. One sizzling summer day, I had to beg him to take me to the movies so we could enjoy the comfort of an air-conditioned space!
One night, we visited his married best friend. Robin got plastered. When I insisted on driving us home, he became infuriated. Thankfully, his pal intervened, and Robin handed over the car keys.
After eleven months of more shenanigans, I couldn’t take it anymore. I left. I flew home to New York. The divorce was finalized three years later. I never married again.
Whether due to early trauma or dysfunctional family dynamics, I am unable to have a constant, committed relationship with any man. Sometimes I feel that I missed out, but over the years I’ve come to prefer living alone.
I no longer need a man to feel valued and complete.
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