Pandora’s Box

There were over one hundred photographs of her in a box, amongst letters and personal items.  We were moving, and it was a box nestled in the furthest, darkest corner much like a brown recluse that should have remained undisturbed.  Contents as deadly as a spider’s poison; truths and doubts seeped slowly into the bloodstream, eating away at the soul’s flesh and self-esteem like the progress of a ravaging, disfiguring disease.

Cross-legged I sat mesmerized, my eyes greedily devouring the contents of the secret box.  Intimate moments captured on Kodachrome—a wedding day, vacations, Valentine’s Day, Presidential balls, Marine Corps birthday celebrations, pictures of her along the beach.  I couldn’t recall any photographs taken of me—couldn’t recall moments or promises of moments like that.  Later I would learn just how different my moments would be.

I rested my hand on my swelling abdomen and came to a realization:  it was what it was—I had made a decision despite what others begged me not to do.  Of course that didn’t prevent me from wondering furiously what I did wrong to deserve the experiences that I had thus far.

I was twenty-four, young, naïve, and easily impressionable.  I remember that day vividly—the day I drew into my cocoon, the day I saw myself as less—a pale shadow of the Other not worth a second-glance.

Days and months passed.  I became her foil—dark hair vs. blonde, short vs. tall, plain vs. glamorous.  Clearly the evidence showed that I was not good enough, a pale replacement for her.  I clung to my belief that he had loved her more after our fights and the monotony of our daily existence.  Major decisions were not shared—he went ahead and chose the house we rented; he chose the areas where his career would take us; he chose how the weekends were spent.  We started to live separate lives—he worked during the day, I worked at night.  He worked on cars on the weekend.  Hours of separation birthed nagging questions:  Why wasn’t I consulted about things?  Why wasn’t I romanced?  Why wasn’t my graduation celebrated?  Why wasn’t I captured on film?  Why wasn’t I taken places?  Their must be something wrong with me and how he feels about me that logically justifies my current situation.  The mind is an interesting thing, isn’t it, when it grabs an idea and holds it fast.

“I love you more than I ever loved her—it’s different with us,” words from him I disbelieved after reading letters, seeing photographic proof, and living a life with which I wasn’t comfortable.  Things were indeed different with us.  I wanted him desperately to leave the military—I wanted normalcy.  “I can get a high paying job at Rockwell Collins,” he bragged; why didn’t he do it—why didn’t he put us first?  Isn’t that what a partner does? I wanted him to believe me when his ex-wife accused me of not taking good care of his son while he was away for training.  My parents begged me to come home.  They loathed him—their doubts and criticisms increased my fear much like strange noises in a darkened room feed a hyper imagination.

“Just tell me the truth,” my heart screamed, “tell me that she ripped out your heart and now I’m paying for and dealing with the fallout.”  I can handle the truths, but I despise phony, saccharine sugar-coatings. The evidence showed that his prior relationship was indeed something special; consequently, I viewed myself as what he settled for in his third go-around.

A hideous, fierce spider’s web:  she betrayed him; his bitterness, temper, and uncertainty betrayed me; my immaturity and doubt betrayed him.   Silken strands that tied us inextricably together—an unwelcome entanglement.

Ten years later, I find myself still working through the remnants of opening Pandora’s Box.  I doubt myself constantly, feeling unworthy of love, unworthy of attention, unworthy of being cared for.  I feel like I’m being compared to others:  constantly examined and found lacking.  I see swans wherever I go—swans receiving praise and adulation, lavished with attention, showered with affection, their dreams fulfilled, their wish-list granted while I sit alone, struggle, and fend for myself.

The evidence once again speaks for itself.