Six years ago, I was prepping to get married. I was running around, handling last minute errands, coordinating with family, managing the personalities of my soon to be in-laws and trying to justify the lack of joy by blaming busyness.
On the morning of my wedding, I got up early, alone, and went to get my hair and make up done, where I was met by my mother in law who sat in an adjacent chair speaking to women in the salon, in her typical scrubs and a shower cap. She didn’t speak to me for hours nor get any services done, but I could overhear her tell the other women that although the bride might not be late, she would be. It didn’t matter what she said because all I could remember is what she whispered in my ear at the rehearsal the night before, “I’m scared for you.”
After several hours of her idly sitting at the salon, I asked her to leave. I did not care if she was late, but her presence only took away from what was supposed to be enjoyable. With a pretty face and lovely curls, I jumped into my car and drove to the church. I got pulled over as I sped down 295 to DC and told the police officer, “I’m sorry, I’m getting married today.” He wished me well wishes and sent me on my way.
I got to the church and was met by mother, sister, and godmother who helped me into my dress and assured me that I was beautiful. I had bought my dress online for 60 dollars and hadn’t even tried it on. I felt an acceptable level of lovely in it. I would have preferred my breasts to be better represented, but I kept telling myself, those things are not important. I tried to explain that to my husband who spent nearly $400 on his outfit and shoes, but again, I kept the focus on the union.
My sister informed me that indeed my soon to be sister in law did in fact wear white, even though my father in law assured me he would handle it, but apparently this Florida girl did not have any other summer dresses than the white one she chose to wore that day. I shrugged it off even though many of my Brooklyn home girls let me know they could handle it if that’s what I wanted. I told them it was fine, I had no bridesmaids and she would be sitting along with the other guests. Lo and behold, she managed to create a reason so she could walk down the aisle during the processional.
Like icky cobwebs, I pushed it aside and kept moving forward. I walked up the steps from the basement that my husband and I spent many counseling sessions arguing and walked through the door he slammed just a few weeks before when the Pastor advised us that maybe we should wait. I just kept pushing through.
All in all, it was a lovely ceremony and a sweet luncheon that me and a coworker made on a small budget and a challenging list of demands by my husband. Before the reception was over, my mother in law, my sister in law and my stepson left the festivities to pick up George’s baby mama and to go off on vacation to Fort Lauderdale. I would have been more offended had I wanted them to stay, but instead, I was grateful that their feigned happiness was exiting the premises.
My new husband and I drove away toward our honeymoon and a few hours after we arrived at the hotel, he fell asleep, claiming food poisoning. I sat on my phone and called my sister and cried to her and shared that I think I had made a mistake.
Here I am, six years later, after years that included verbal abuse, physical abuse, a miscarriage, a custody battle, an eviction, countless bouts of unemployment, anger, hurt, sadness, isolation, depression, trauma, I do not look at tomorrow with regret nor with longing to celebrate a seventh year, but I reflect on how I can be fairer to my heart and to my desires. I know that I need to stop at the red flags and not push on the gas. I know that when people are mean to you and show you little respect it is a reflection of their character and titles and roles do not change that. I do not know if I will be a Mrs. again, but on the eve of my anniversary, I thank God and I thank my husband for lessons, for my children, and ultimately for doing the best he could.
nancycruzmorning 