I Never Promised You A Rose Garden

Now, if only I could stop being angry with my mother.

Misty sat back in her chair, arms stretched over her head, and looked out of the window. The sun, just barely above the horizon, slipped soft gilt through the silvered mist thrown up by the waves shimmering towards the sandy beach. It didn’t make her feel any better. Her editor required more words. Placing her fingers on the keyboard, she closed her eyes, trying to read the inside of her brain. Blank. Why were her thoughts never helpful when she needed them? She’d had plenty to say last night to Chris, and he hadn’t liked any of it.

She glanced at the bright white page, small black cursor blinking patiently. Pressing the heel of her hand against her eyelids, she massaged her forehead. Think! How could she possibly come up with something she could sell as “Brilliant! The world needs more!” This sophomore effort was like squeezing blood from a turnip. More words, she thought. More word vomit. Just start writing. She closed her eyes and typed.

More word vomit, I guess. I am trying to get it all out of my head. I spill it too much to the children. I don’t want Noelle to hate me. She is only 3 and already I know she will need therapy. I am a terrible mother. And also, I want to get my mother out of my head. I want money. I want to be a Writer. Better than Hemmingway. I really am angry that I never went to Alaska for that biology job after college. How can one write without experiences? Maybe my therapist is right – that I would have been passed around by all the dirty sailors, who sold me into sexual slavery. Maybe this path is the better one. I hate it.

Opening her eyes, she frowned at the words. Could this be Pulitzer material? Could she sell it as “Deeply personal; this sophomore effort is the next best thing!” Maybe, if she could stop feeling her mother glaring at her. Misty looked in the mirror above the desk. Her dark brown eyes stared steadily back. I’m not ugly, she thought, cocking her head. She fingered her red hair, finding comfort in the tight curls. I don’t know why mom hates this so much, she thought. What else can I do when my husband is a narcissist? Grimacing, she backed away from that thought, and typed on the keyboard.

I wish I had more to write about. I wish I had eaten breakfast. I wish I had my magnesium. Maybe I should turn my music up louder. I wish there was a school to put the kids in. Noelle is too young for first grade but Olana wishes she wasn’t missing out. She hates that she is missing school. Maybe it is different for girls? Maybe the boys care too, but not enough to complain?

“Not a summer read, this latest from Misty Jones (not her real name) shares fragments from the life of a dissatisfied wife and mother, struggling with mental health. It is intense in places, light and playful in others. Truly a book that reflects the conflicts with which we all contend.” Funny how she could see the reviews – the good ones at least – but couldn’t see the book that was being reviewed. She wished the words could flow, like they did in her first novel, the one that brought her to the attention of the world and secured her a place on the New York Times bestseller list for 15 weeks straight. How had she gotten so lucky?

I wish I wish I wish

I hate being

The cursor blinked. She wanted to scream. It really wasn’t fair, being so good and so bad at the same time. Taking the pink ear buds from the charger, she turned on her favorite playlist and typed.

Stevie Ray Vaughn is actually kinda fire. I wonder what else kind of music he (she?) plays? I am so thankful for my friend Gabriella. She is an angel. She called me a Tank. She said I am highly effective in the spiritual battle against evil – that I can do a lot of damage – but that I am also highly visible, and that I am not (currently) protected by my husband, the one who is supposed to protect me. I like that. I think it makes sense.

Trash. This was honestly all trash. Nobody cared about her life. Nobody cared about her at all, actually. She had thought marriage would be a place where she was loved unconditionally. She knew people had problems in marriage. She knew there would be differences. She was prepared for arguments. But she had seen so many of her family work through those differences, and she assumed any man who wanted to marry her would also be willing to work through things. She hadn’t reckoned on being locked in a situation where she was blamed for everything that had ever gone wrong. She hadn’t suspected that she’d be a slave to someone else’s whims. Why couldn’t she just leave?

Olana is depressed all the time. Noelle is angry. Why do these children have the ability to feel so deeply the undercurrents that buffet them?

I find it hard to pray.

She hadn’t fallen asleep until 2AM, after a long “discussion” with Chris. He never called them arguments. He only felt loved once she started crying. Otherwise he called her cold, and said she couldn’t feel empathy. Everything was always her fault. She accepted the blame mostly because she wanted to go to sleep. She was so tired. “A tour de force, this novel is a triumph of the spirit. The MC (main character, Misty added, I must think of a name for her) manages to rise above the entanglements in which she is mired, achieving victory… overcoming… It is a sensation… The delight I felt when reading the final coup de maître…” Misty laughed out loud.

Chris wants drums. I want 13 years of my life back. I want to make different choices. I want a husband who didn’t spend 13 years blaming me for all his pain. I want to be pretty like my sister. I want years of being loved and admired. I want to have the time that girls have when they are dewy fresh. I want men giving me gifts and me being thoughtful and thankful. And pretty – like Colette and Afiki and Heidi - who all get gifts from men who are GLAD to give them things, because they are so lucky to be around them. Pretty women.

Ugh. Maybe this was a mistake. She should never have agreed to a second novel. This wasn’t going to be good, and her editor was going to come after her with a carving knife. Well, maybe not a knife. Misty snorted and turned again to look outside. The sun was higher now. Hazy clouds had started to burn off. She removed the headphones. She wanted to hear the waves.

I do love that poem. I identify with that poem. Pretty Women wonder where my beauty lies.

Lies.

My mother promised me a rose garden. She implied I would be blessed.

Her fingers curled on the keyboard, sliding away from the bitterness of thought. Being good was a farce. She wanted to save her children from that farce. She spent too much time depressed. Wanting to die. Not today. Maybe tomorrow she’d walk into the ocean, pretending to be a mermaid. Maybe she’d wait until the children were grown. Grown enough to survive having lived with their father, who was embarrassed to be seen with them. Grown enough to leave. Then… then…

I want to visit Norway. I want to see the pyramids. I want to drive a safari. I want the years back that I believed that good Christians didn’t suffer. I want a do-over. I am so afraid people will hate me. I am never good enough.

Maybe a little too personal. She was tired of processing. Who was going to read this? Maybe her editor could fix it up. She had to finish as much as she could. She couldn’t steal time forever. Taking this time off from her life was all a mistake. She pushed back the chair. She needed water.

This was all a mistake. I wish I had never been born. Who would choose this? The only man who ever truly loved me is dead.

The words kept coming. Looking over her shoulder at the laptop screen, she wondered why her brain chose now to keep typing. She lifted the carafe of lukewarm water. All the ice had melted. She smelled the crushed mint leaves and lime slices. She smiled. Poured a glass and sipped.

My mother’s love hurt me. My husband’s love hurt me. My friends hurt me. I don’t trust women, but I love Olana and Noelle like water. It flows easy. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. My daughters will suddenly discover how I hurt them and will have to stay away. It’s inevitable. I am hurt, preemptively. And preemptively, I want to die.

Mothers and daughters never got along. That was her experience. She had so many examples, in spite of the love. Or maybe because of the love? She couldn’t tell. She knew her mother loved her. Glancing in the mirror again, she touched her red hair. Ok, she assumed her mother loved her. But she knew how immeasurably she loved her daughters, and she also assumed that one day they would see her mistakes and blame her for those deep scars that originate with profound love from broken people. Preemptively, she was sorry. Yet, she knew it was inevitable, just like she knew her father’s lingering death from cancer was inevitable. The only one who had ever loved her. (Well, was that true? Wasn’t it? Misty shook her head.)

I don’t know why everything has to be so complicated. I tried so hard. I tried to be good and do good. I thought I would be the one to help others. And all I got was a resentful husband and troubled children. If I had money, would I run away? Would I go live like a monk on a mountain in Tibet? Would I travel and just send postcards? Would I even bother? Would I be lonely? Would I wish I had made different choices?

Her fingers flew over the keys. Ideas flowed, as foamy as the waves outside her window. She didn’t need the Stevie Ray Vaughn playlist now. (“Intense and personal, this novel is a tour de force! I couldn’t put it down!”)

Disappointment and depression are real. I want my life back. I want to be 19 again, making choices. I would run away so fast. I would run away from everybody. The only thing that brings me genuine joy is my children. And that is troubling. I can’t rely on them for happiness. I have to find my own. I don’t know how, now. But I will.