I’m very facially expressive, but I did my best to keep it in check as my classmates took turns reciting monologues from Shakespeare’s plays.  I did not cringe at the half of them who barely got by, pronouncing most words correctly, shouting as if volume were the only aspect of performance they could grasp.  I didn't weep for joy when I saw that my particular friends were also the only competent actors.  

I gave my face free rein when it was my turn. I pouted at the moon. I glared at Time for passing so slowly. I gazed longingly at the not-too-distant moment Romeo would finally come to me.

Moments later, neither control nor performance could stop my jaw from dropping. I didn’t know him well.  I thought he was a bit of a jerk.  He launched into Iago’s speech with a smooth, deep voice and a flawless in-character sneer: “And what’s he then, that says I play the villain?”

Oh, that moment certainly did not win me over. He was still a bit of a jerk, and I avoided any situation that would oblige me to make small talk with him.  I did, however, have the thought, “Okay, there is something to this guy.  I can see why my friend is dating him.”

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

About half a year later, I sat next to him at an extracurricular club meeting.  I had broken up with the guy I had been dating.  My friend had transferred to another college and ended things with him.  I said, “Hi.  Life kinda sucks right now, huh?”

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

In another year and a half, we sat on a beach and watched a summer sunset.  We kissed. We said, “Happy anniversary,” for the first time. The next morning, he gave me a ring and we announced our engagement.  It was the first day of the rest of my life.

Three years later, on the first day of the rest of our lives, we signed a contract.  He wore a tux. I wore a white gown I’d sewn myself. 

Five years later, we sat side-by-side on a transatlantic flight. We wanted to have a good vacation before the baby came. I ate butternut squash ravioli. For the first time, the fetus inside me wiggled and danced so excitedly that I felt its movement.  I put his hand on my belly. We marveled at the fact that we could make something that could become a whole other person.  That was absolutely the first day of the rest of my life.

Within two years, the cracks were showing—and propagating rapidly.  I told him the situation hurt.  He said, “You’re making a big deal out of something that really isn’t important.”  I told him my feelings were hurt. “This really shouldn’t hurt. You’re being much too sensitive.” I said it hurt. “You’re just starting trouble by bringing this up now.” It hurt. “Okay, I get that it hurts. But does it actually hurt enough to complain about it this much?” It hurt. “You’re bringing this hurt on yourself by acting the way you do.”

“If you hurt, it’s your own fault.”

“Okay. Fine. You broke me. I love you enough to pander to your psychotic idea that this situation ‘hurts.’ You win.”

On the first day of the rest of my life, I told him that I could not fight any more.  I believed that there were only two potential ends to the pain: an end to my life, or an end to the painful situation. I would rather burn down my entire concept of my future, and the sense of self I’d tied into our marriage, then stay in a situation that just kept hurting.

I moved out of our apartment thirteen years after he asked, “And what’s he then, that says I play the villain?”  He wasn’t a villain, not in his heart. The way he treated me sure played a villainous role in my life, though.

I’m pretty sure that’s how he treats himself.  I think we loved each other so thoroughly that the boundaries between us blurred. I think he asked me, “Do you really need those calories?” and said to me, “That’s not very charismatic of you;” and interrupted a point I was trying to make by tearing apart my grammar/word choices/diction; and gave me constructive criticism after social encounters; all because he did it to himself.  He saw himself as a work in progress that would never be good enough. We both saw me as one part of the unit that was Us. So, he treated me like a work in progress that would never be good enough.

There were about seven months between the day I left our apartment and the day I really chose Life. I had my Plan in place. My dad was watching my kid. I wrote, “Thank you for bringing joy to my life. It is not your fault I didn’t have enough of it.” All I had left was to send my Note to the people I loved, and then I could go.

Our kid was, though. And my dad. My brothers. My mom. Other family members. Friends I spoke with regularly.  Friends I hadn’t spoken with recently, but whom I absolutely still loved.  My list of names grew and grew until it transformed, like magic, from, “People to say Goodbye to,” into, “People to stick around for.”

I slept for something like twenty straight hours. 

When I woke up, it was the first day of the rest of my life.

I got new medications. I changed where I was living. I ended my medical leave and returned to work. I continued with talk therapy and spent several months with Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), a trauma-specific therapy.  I returned to creative writing.  

I strengthened my anchors to this life by spending more time with my beloved friends and family. Some of those relationships grew. Some remained the same.  Some no longer suited the other person, or me, or both. 

I spent countless hours outdoors, breathing fresh air, staring at leaves and flowers, wading in the ocean.  My kid followed me down forest trails. He climbed on playground equipment and every available big rock. I taught him about tadpoles and poison ivy.

One day, I realized with surprise that it had been over a week since I’d last woken up under the crushing weight of self-loathing. That was the first day of the rest of my life.

One day, I realized I was making plans months in advance—evidence that I believed in my own continued existence.  That, too, was a first day of the rest of my life. 

One day, I stood my ground and refused to allow my ex to heap blame on me for something that wasn’t my fault.  I’m proud to add it to my list of First Days.  It led to another: the first day of the rest of my life, when I felt confident enough in myself to ask my partner to move in with me.

So far, there have been about eighteen and a half years between my first First Day and today. Healing this much has been hard work. I still have hard work ahead of me.

I also have more first days of the rest of my life ahead of me—many of them, if I’m lucky.


First of the Rest

There have been about eighteen and a half years between my first First Day Of The Rest Of My Life and today. I've had many First Days, and might have many more.

I’m very facially expressive, but I did my best to keep it in check as my classmates took turns reciting monologues from Shakespeare’s plays.  I did not cringe at the half of them who barely got by, pronouncing most words correctly, shouting as if volume were the only aspect of performance they could grasp.  I didn't weep for joy when I saw that my particular friends were also the only competent actors.  



First of the Rest

There have been about eighteen and a half years between my first First Day Of The Rest Of My Life and today. I've had many First Days, and might have many more.

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Deanna Cassidy

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Deanna Cassidy

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Andromache at Epirus

First of the Rest

There have been about eighteen and a half years between my first First Day Of The Rest Of My Life and today. I've had many First Days, and might have many more.

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}Deanna Cassidy

About the Creator

Deanna Cassidy

Comments

Upgrade to see comments and join the conversation

Keep reading

Andromache at Epirus

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Deanna Cassidy