#79 THE CRACKS THAT APPEARED WITH MY EX/FIRST HUSBAND
Love makes us believe what we want to believe even if there is evidence to the contrary
This post has officially become just shy of a novella (or the equivalent of two of my longer posts) so you may have to view it in the app. I’d say that it’s a record even for me! I thought about breaking it up but the narrative flows as one piece so I hope I’ll get some readers but do feed-back if it is just too long. The next chapter will be shorter (promise).
Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans, although I rarely celebrate these days. I was very happy to have Thanksgiving with my Florida family last year, though, so I’ll be sad to miss the stuffing, green bean casserole, and pecan and pumpkin pie – the people go without saying.
at Life Matters just wrote a cute post about Thanksgiving this week saying how stuffing was America’s favourite dish. I’d have to agree. Not to be confused with “dressing” or the British version of stuffing that contains meat.
What I’ve learned from my marriage failure is that fractures appeared like a fraying rope with the two of us standing at either end. We didn’t know that we’d been cutting the threads ever so slightly, bit by bit over time.
I thought love was enough to keep the threads together. Love is never enough. That is love’s tragedy.
I mistook comfort for happiness. Adventure and excitement for contentment. I had never known what true partnership looked like (thankfully, I did know what that was like years later) so I didn’t know where we were going wrong or that in a marriage, you’re meant to align your journeys or at least talk about what each of you wants – and how you’ll achieve that together.
Unequal dynamics
Benoit established a pattern where he was in control and dealt with everything and I was the helpless almost infantilised wife. I went along with that dynamic because it was easy but it was only later when I started re-asserting myself did I realise that the dynamic had been faulty all along – and that he didn’t particularly like these changes.
Thanks to knicks and cuts along the way, too, we’d gotten to a place where we couldn’t be vulnerable with each other. Our actions in the marriage had inadvertently said, “This person is no longer a safe space. We can’t share our deepest, darkest, truest parts of ourselves. This person isn’t in it with me. There’s no teamwork.” What each person wanted differed, of course.
Often marriages fall apart not because there’s no love but because there are so many barriers to that love, so many hurts that build up and in their vulnerability, people erect little walls around their hearts to protect themselves when really, the work should be in tearing down those walls, trying to heal and come together.
Well, the best dynamics are actually when you have such an understanding that you don’t build the walls in the first place but if you’re stuck in a marriage with walls, then you have to dismantle them. But often we don’t know how.
Only in almost a decade of hindsight can I see what went wrong, where these walls started being built for myself and for Benoit. Perhaps the marriage could have been fixed. Perhaps it couldn’t. Perhaps from the moment we met, it was doomed.
There had been love, plenty of it, but no true connection or understanding. And unrealistic expectations on both sides.
The fact that I now have Michael in my life who truly brings me joy in a way I had never experienced before, I am now glad my ex didn’t want to work on our marriage no matter how desperately I had wanted to make it work, how crushed I was at the blow of him leaving me. (Of course, more on that later.)
The good bits
I’ve focused on the more negative, more controlling aspects of mine and Benoit’s marriage but – like with anything – there were good bits. Of course, the early days seemed incredible, how differently and well he treated me compared to anyone I’d met before.
But overall in our marriage, I felt safe and protected. He was physically imposing but also mentally imposing. He seemed to be wound up with power like a coil that could snap at any time. He didn’t suffer fools and he was intimidating to those he deemed as threats. He had a temper, but thankfully never directed physically at me (physical abuse certainly wasn’t one of his faults even if my therapist pointed out that his behaviour could have been construed as mental abuse).
At the time, I liked being connected to this Alpha Male type of person, even if my personality doesn’t truly align with that ethos of the caveman protector type.
Benoit did lots of “acts of service” for me, my family, and my friends. He showed he cared via his protection and concern for me and perhaps his way of telling me the “best and right” way to do everything. I’d ring him whenever I needed him to fix anything and he’d be there, guiding me through.
Once, I’d been out for the day in Munich or somewhere with Orienna and Victoria. I had to change carriages so I could go back to Weiden and O and Victoria were going to Vilseck so were going a different way.
I thought I’d gotten on the wrong bit of the train and the train was going to split and take me in a different direction. I rang Benoit and he said he was going to get in the car and drive to where I thought the train was heading so I wouldn't be alone and worried in a new place. Turns out, it was a false alarm and I was on the right bit but I’d panicked and he was there with an immediate solution. To some, this would seem mad and overprotective, but to me at the time I thought it was evidence of an intense love for me.
We’d have lunches together. We always seemed to enjoy chatting, probably mostly about gossip or people we knew rather than big ideas. He’d shower me with gifts, surprise me with flowers, and sometimes hold my hand in public (despite the fact he didn’t like doing this – why I have no clue).
If people stared at me he’d get possessive and jealous, stare back or say something. Again, I didn’t take this as a behaviour that was slightly unhinged at all. How lucky was I that my husband just loved me that much?
The negative bits were done subtly, so subtly in fact that I felt rather like – as the book version of Bridget Jones laments when she has to go to that one dinner party when she’s single – “a smug married.”
I thought my husband was smarter and more impressive than all the husbands. This was my karmic downfall, laughable, even. I thought we had this incredible bond and understanding between us. So much beyond what everyone else had!
He even does dishes!
I found a post where I’d written about feeling lucky because I’d come home from a long day of work and Benoit had dinner waiting for me (sushi from our favourite place and my favourite creme brulee from Fresh Market) – and I even got a hug and a kiss at the door (#humblebrag #isn’t-my-life-amazing?).
Sometimes he even did dishes! Benoit posted a funny anecdote one day about washing the pots:
My conversation with Elaine in the kitchen.
Elaine: You splash quite a bit of water on the floor when you are doing dishes.
Me [being Benoit]: Maybe I should stop doing dishes then.
Elaine: I won’t mention the water splashing again.
To be fair to him, in Georgia, we’d had a lovely deep double sink and in Germany, our sink was oddly shallow.
So many wives complained about their husbands but my husband was so wonderful that I never had to complain.
And…and…now I can’t really recall all the ways I did think he was wonderful, but I thought he was. I thought I was the luckiest woman on the planet (figuratively speaking). I was smitten, in love, well taken care of. I thought I was so very very happy and that I had this very very shiny happy “hashtag blessed” (#blessed) sort of life. Even I’m not awful enough actually to use that hashtag on things.
I really truly wasn’t being honest with myself. Sorry for people who hate adverbs. But what do you do when you’ve made choices and you think, “Yes, I can live with this? I am happy with my lot in life.”
He certainly also thought he was wonderful and superior at everything and because he did all sorts of things that other husbands didn't do. I should be happy – and shouldn’t expect more.
The wheelchair disaster
When my Dad was due to visit – and this was laughable now – there wasn’t a whole lot of communication beforehand in that I thought my Dad would bring his manual wheelchair not his 300lbs whopper of an electric wheelchair. We showed up to the airport to pick up Dad and Grammy in one of our smaller cars: a Toyota Corolla.
Benoit had to dismantle the wheelchair (he was an engineer by trade), buy rope at the airport, and figure out how to fit it all in the boot of the car and batten down the hatches. It was a very good job that Dad only travelled with a duffel bag – no idea how because he even fit three-piece suits in it – and Grammy (my Mother’s Mum incidentally) only had a carry on.
I was proud that Ben was so, so strong and capable and able to problem solve.
When we arrived home, Benoit realised that we had a step up to our door so the next day he went to the hardware store and set about building a ramp so Dad could easily get in and out of the door (even the patio doors had a lip) and he even added non-slip material. He made this ramp removable so we could store it away for future visits, too.
He made a “smoking shed” in the storage shed attached to the garage and built another ramp to that and added a heater so Dad could go and enjoy his cigarettes in the warmth without having to smoke in our house (which I would have hated). He made sure to get the beer Dad liked and arranged for us to take Dad and Grammy to Christmas markets, out for dinner, and for various outings.
However, in true Benoit style, we had planned a visit to Austria and Switzerland and Benoit was called away to something and I took them both solo, driving around the Alps with my Dad and Grammy in tow. It was a lovely trip but at the time I missed also having my husband’s company.
He was thoughtful when it came to family and he never minded a houseful. He was a lovely host that way. He adored and welcomed my family and I did the same for his.
I had a rule that Benoit and I had to sit together on the sofa and not in separate chairs so we’d spend many evenings curled up together, either both reading or watching something on a laptop, sometimes talking. We often laughed together. He liked to do goofy dances or funny voices to try and get a laugh out of me.
He seemed affectionate and loving. He said he hated PDA but I liked hand holding so he’d sometimes allow that except on base where he had to salute to people or be saluted.
Benoit’s Lebanese friends, ties to his past
I have fond memories, too, of visiting his charming twin friends in Switzerland. They were twin brothers who had grown up near Ben in Lebanon before being sent for an education in Germany. They’d since moved from Zurich to Kreuzlingen, which is a truly stunning part of the world on Lake Constance, near the German town of Konstanze which has a fascinating WWII history.
One twin was a talented hobbyist woodworker and was lamenting his recent divorce, which meant he spent less time with his beautiful son much to his heartbreak. He joked that he’d supported his wife as a stay-at-home mother, then sent her to law school, and her first case when she qualified was to divorce him. Even still, he seemed a gentlemanly sort of man, despite the off-colour joke. I am not sure he knew what went wrong in his marriage, poor man.
The other twin seemed more progressive and had a gorgeous German wife. She was a zen yoga sort of person. Highly intelligent but also a very maternal, mother-earth sort of person who had given up her career to have her children – and wanted a lot of them. She spoke English, German, Arabic (formal and the Lebanese dialect), and some French. I was fascinated by her. I think her father had been a psychologist and her mother was equally highly educated.
When we first met, she only had one son who was so adorable. Then they had a beautiful daughter. I think they’ve since had at least four children total and she retrained to be a psychologist (and earned her doctorate – she had a master’s when we met) and now has her own practice.
Both twins seemed to be rich businessmen of some sort yet I no longer recall what they did. Something that required them to travel over to Zurich. They were welcoming and lovely hosts. And we’d all have such intellectual and engaging conversations that I always enjoyed visiting them.
I recall, though, my husband and the twins’ habit of arguing over who would pay the bill, which is something particular to Lebanese culture where there is a sense of pride in paying the outrageous restaurant bills. I never understood why we couldn't each just couldn't pay for our own part.
We also met another couple who were also Ben’s friends from Lebanon, this time a rich doctor, his wife, and children, who were on their way to Dubai to make shed loads more money. Although from my vantage they seemed to be doing very well for themselves in Germany.
The doctor husband had become disillusioned with that life and stood to make significantly more abroad. I think they lived around Aachen and there we saw another friend, a restauranteur, where we ate in multiple of his restaurants on that trip for free (which was rather surprising and nice).
When we first moved, Benoit discovered a hookah/shisha bar in Amberg that he’d frequent. The owner was a Syrian man who had been shot in the leg when young in the war in the 80s. The cafe also had a cat named Franz.
Benoit was good at making friends and bringing people together. Through the shisha bar owner, we discovered the Lebanese restaurant in Amberg and Benoit arranged many Lebanese dinners at this restaurant in conjunction with the owners where everyone learned to be absolutely obsessed with how amazing Lebanese food is. Everyone being my Germany ladies, their husbands, and Benoit’s friends. The restaurant owners would bring dishes and dishes of food until we were all so stuffed we had to take multiple containers home as leftovers.
He was a generous friend and he’d regularly break out his scotch and cigar collection and his friends would sit outside, talking and drinking, snack bowls at the ready.
Our message exchanges
Our voice messages and texts to each other were exchanges of information. Endless to dos. Like a PR team. Swapping to-do lists, figuring out when to meet up to do tasks together, or what we had to do individually. We seemed to work in conjunction, like a team at times, but also I was under a dictatorship in other ways.
He wanted me to do things the way he told me to do them and I wanted to do things the way I wanted to. Sometimes he was right and I’d have to re-do them the way he suggested and we’d laugh about it, but the point was I was always vying for freedom and autonomy that was never fully granted.
I’ve always been an oversharer and I poured my hopes, dreams, and fears into him. I shared my daily thoughts and talked about friends, family, life, the way you do with a partner. He shared some things back – but never deeply enough. The irony being that when he left me he told me I knew him better than anyone – and I thought I knew the least about him than anyone I’d known.
Our January 2014 texts were of practical things – four months into our life there. His friend from Switzerland was visiting unexpectedly (the twin who no longer had a wife) and I worried the house wasn’t tidy enough. He said he’d come home early to help me tidy, how I needed to change the bedding, and what food his friend liked that we needed to buy.
I always did love hosting and I took every unexpected event in stride.
Another exchange was his instruction to me to text the commander’s wife when we were invited for dinner, which meant I needed to make cornbread for twenty people last minute. (This was before my friend Orienna was the commander’s wife and before I met my wider group of lovely Germany ladies.) He advised me to try out the recipe beforehand so I didn’t mess it up. Sigh! As if he’d win a prize if his wife could cook but everyone would gossip if she couldn’t?
On the day we had to be there, he messaged saying he’d been trying to call me for an hour. What was going on? I said I was with Jen (the friend who later became a lawyer). Then he was saying I was late and I sent him a photo of the plate of a million individual cornbread muffins piled high and wrapped in clingfilm (we didn’t think about the environment back then – now I don’t even own saran wrap or the UK equivalent).
There were messages about the dinners we were having with new friends (that I’d almost forgotten about), buying presents for their children (for some reason), dinners with his single friends, exchanges of information, for me to bring this or that to the base, or him to pick up this or that for me from the commissary (Noxzema face wash and Infusium 23 shampoo – I’d long forgotten about these brands).
Messages of “Don’t forget the whiskey for Captain [so and so]” and replies of “Already in the hall with the chips.” The hall being the entry hall I suppose and chips being crisps.
One of my messages to him on a Wednesday in December 2015 said, “I’ve graded 41 essays since Monday.” I think he glossed over it.
Enthralling, deep, meaningful exchanges, of course. But, perhaps, this is what marriages settle into.
I tried to write the odd sexy aside – like can you pick up razors and I can shave everything so you can fuck me sort of thing – and those messages went ignored, even then.
Winning Benoit’s love felt like a prize. I felt proud to be his wife, as if his accomplishments, accolades, and talents demonstrated that I was a worthy partner. I was worth something as he was so impressive – and he chose me.
And because maybe on his end it wasn’t true love, his love for me was conditional, I could feel in my subconscious things were wrong yet I didn’t know how to fix them.
My husband’s soldiers
We had a few BBQs that we organised together for his soldiers to boost morale.
I felt awful that one of our knife covers went missing (they were those colourful Kuhn Rikon knives) and Benoit had his soldiers search the bins (covers face with hands). The cover never did show up!
I recall one soldier showing me around the base, the tanks, and other bits of equipment, and demonstrating some sort of specialist tracking tool that felt like it was made of polystyrene and he told me it cost the military about $20,000 and the military would sooner save it than his life. No wonder US defence spending is about 13% of the budget and into the hundreds of billions. Another soldier told me a tank cost upwards of a million dollars and sometimes it wasn’t worth the cost of shipping them out of countries they’d taken them to. (Hopefully, these aren’t military secrets.)
I was often inexplicably sad at the disconnect between enlisted soldiers’ lives (i.e. where they had this feeling they were cannon fodder) versus the officer class (where they got paid more and had more respect). Of course, NCOs are highly respected because if you reach the higher ranks as a noncommissioned officer you have years and years of experience behind you and really garner more respect than young fresh-out-of-uni officers. I suppose it’s like trainee manager schemes in the UK where experienced staff in their fifties are managed by practical children whose brains aren’t yet fully developed.
And then there were Warrant Officers who were between the two ranks (and I never knew what they did) and MPs (or military police), that role seemed fairly self-explanatory.
I had a lovely run-in with an MP on post once where I think I was speeding on base or on my phone when I shouldn't have been and was pulled over. Of course, whatever you do on base as in the ultimate feudal system, my behaviour was directly reported to my husband’s commander and he was none too pleased but still had a laugh with me about it.
The soldiers I met were lovely. A few I recall were highly intelligent and I never understood why they would enlist for worse pay than becoming officers. And how they put up with a system where you were constantly made to be “in line” and told off for various things or made to do menial tasks like painting railings or standing in formation for hours.
They all seemed to share a bond, a comradery, and lived almost like university students as a collective in dorm rooms, often blowing what money they had on expensive cars and nights out. But always at the beck and call of the military.
Some found coupling up and getting married as a key to getting more as they’d be paid more for having families and they’d get to live in a single-family dwelling and be assigned an on-base house. The military seems to engender many a rushed marriage, often unhappy ones.
There was also the lore of the “Jody” who was the soldier who would sweep in and help your wife out when you were deployed (i.e. come and do the jobs that needed doing around the house, which may have included sleeping with your wife).
Since I wasn’t “allowed” to talk to any men and I most certainly feared my husband’s repercussions as underlying his “good nature” I got the sense he could be very menacing and very vindictive (but not physically abusive), I never even wanted it to seem like I could possibly be cheating. I only hung around women and I made sure I was never alone with any men as not to create any sense of gossip.
I’m not saying I was inclined to cheat. I definitely wasn’t. But I certainly never wanted it to look that way as my husband would get “worried” if I didn’t answer the phone in an appropriate amount of time. I can’t imagine I’d even have been able to pull off such secrecy even if I wanted to.
Meritocracy
I have never been gung-ho patriotic about anywhere I’ve lived as where we grow up is a happy accident. I’m “lucky” I grew up in the UK and the USA and I think each place has its merits and detractors but I’m sure I’d feel patriotic if I grew up in Spain or Sweden.
I never understood why people wanted to join the military for, say, patriotic reasons but I understand that the US Army, particularly, recruits often in poor areas because the military is a meritocracy of sorts.
So, not much has changed since Jane Austen’s Persuasion days. I mean you won’t be renting the equivalent of Pemberly on a military salary like Admiral Croft or as rich as Captain Wentworth (they literally got the spoils of sunken ships from Naval battles – imagine getting one with something really crap and being disappointed) but you can have a comfortable life and many soldiers are drawn in by the sign-on bonuses, the annual leave, the benefits, the free education, the decent salaries, the room to grow in your career, and the early retirement (twenty years in or something like that by which point your body may be broken from PT and deployment). Phew! That was a long sentence.
Benoit’s secret dream job
Whilst we were married, in an ever-present bid to ‘hustle’ and earn more money – because it was never enough – Benoit would ‘flip cars.’
He’d buy cars from people who were leaving Germany to move back to the States and fix them up and then sell them on for a small profit or a big profit? I have no idea. He never discussed this with me, naturally. He was truly gifted in this arena (as I said here about him fixing my computer and doing something mechanical with a washing machine to do with an Easter or Christmas display) and could really fix anything and I always found that impressive and attractive.
In a rare moment of confession, he told me once that if he’d have gotten to live his dream life or dream job, he’d have been a mechanic. He loved working with mechanical things.
This is also how at one time we came to have four cars: his Camero, my Toyota Corolla (which later became an Audi A6 convertible – none of these ever my choice but the Audi was lovely), a Ford Explorer, and a Mercedes A-Class (cutest and funniest Mercedes I’ve ever seen as we loved how much this small car could haul from IKEA). The Toyota was eventually sold and we ‘just’ had the three. I think we had five cars at one point but I can’t remember the fifth now.
Benoit put himself under constant pressure. I was living with more money than I’d ever had in my life and to him it was never enough because he came from a millionaire family and his siblings all earned better. His brother was a successful businessman in Lebanon and they all had multiple houses and nannies and maids and here he was doing something his family (meaning his parents) were not proud of – or he perceived it that way (his nephews were thrilled he was a soldier and his sisters were always supportive).
His parents had been proud when he was an engineer because that was one of the acceptable Lebanese man careers (the other being doctor which his Lebanese brothers-in-law were or businessman, which his brother was, or lawyer or anything of the high-earning professional sort) and he was breaking the mould, but not in a celebrated way. It’s sad really he never had anyone supporting his dreams and what he wanted to do.
He also lived with this constant sense of guilt himself that he was never doing enough. I’m sure he projected all of this onto me, which did a number on my head for certain. Why couldn’t anyone just be happy or be content with the stage of life you were in? Why was there this constant striving for more and more and more ad nauseam?
His mother would lament he didn’t ring her enough. I’d argue the phone worked both ways, which he did not appreciate. I’m sure he used to ring her almost daily but life got busy. He didn’t call every day anymore. Who has time for that? He had a family friend who he used to lavish with gifts and call regularly but he also forgot that, so she complained to him. I’m sure she thought it was my interference but I never interfered with his family life.
I adore my parents and I have never called them daily (of course now I wish I’d visited my Father more than once per week or written more and all that but it’s fruitless because he isn’t here anymore and I can’t change any of it). I called my Mother daily when I was in university but equally, I had the gift of time then.
‘Good parents’ – I’d wager – are just happy when their children are happy and busy and thriving, right? Who wants everyone to feel the burden of calling constantly to keep a parent happy? No one is directly responsible for anyone else's happiness.
This is how I approach friendship now too. I want to be the low-key friend where we can always pick up where we left off. We acknowledge life is busy and people have shit going on but they can know I always care sort of thing. Sometimes I’ll write or send flowers or a surprise gift but equally sometimes I won’t. I like to do thoughtful things for people but sometimes I’m selfish, busy, absentminded. I give that grace to my friends and family too. I don’t suffer slights where there are none.
The holiday strain
We spent our first Christmas in Germany apart. Benoit couldn’t get away or time off during winter and I was eager to have Christmas with my family. Perhaps I should have stayed in Germany and had a cosy Christmas just the two of us but I went to England to be with my English family.
In hindsight, it wasn’t the best choice and he spent Christmas with a lovely couple who had met when she was teaching abroad and he was an officer. I think he and Benoit worked together at the time. They had just had one baby son then but I think they have at least five or six now (including two sets of twins) and live some kind of elaborate homesteady life.
I remember a tense phone call when I said how much money I wanted for Christmas presents and Benoit thought I was being unreasonable. I was excited that I could (potentially) get something a lot nicer than had been my usual “broke grad student” fare. I wasn’t spending a ton per person but I have a big family and friend network (i.e. at the time my cousin Pam’s family had three people as did my sister’s family so it starts to add up even if you’re only spending £10-20 per person). In hindsight, my family would not have cared at all. They were just happy I was there.
This whole stress over presents would not be something I’d undo until years later when I was with Michael as in now we only buy for our niece and nephews and we neither give nor receive presents from “grown-ups.” We sometimes buy for parents and Grammy, of course, but otherwise, it cuts out lots and lots of stress, expense, and an overload of unnecessary consumerism. Plus, I only have so many places to put things! I want fewer things, not more things!
I also went to England one Easter and in rapid succession for my friend Ruby’s second wedding (as in she married the same person but in two ceremonies). There was the wedding with the gorgeous red sari that looked fabulous but I can’t recall why I couldn’t make that one and then the English Cheshire wedding where she wore a stunning white lace fitted gown.
Like so many events, it was almost as if I had no husband as he could rarely attend anything with me including my Dad’s side’s family reunions and many other events. I went to things either alone or in the case of Ruby’s wedding with my cousin Pamela (and a beloved childhood friend, Sarah, did my hair and makeup for the event and I purchased my dress from my other gorgeous childhood friend Kate’s boutique).
After over a decade away and only affording to visit England every couple of years or so in my uni years, it felt amazing to have my English family so close and they were able to visit us in Germany too, but every now and then Benoit would show strain over the money spent on these trips, but I couldn’t align on finances because he wouldn't talk to me about them. There just was never enough. I didn’t get to see what was in the accounts, even if ‘technically’ we had a joint account.
Finances
I recall him joking with my family when they came to visit one Christmas that if he gave me fifty Euros or five hundred Euros, I’d spend the lot no matter what. Cheeky so and so! Since I never had financial oversight, I had no idea what money I actually spent but I, like a total idiot, asked permission for every purchase I made.
I didn’t buy new clothes or loads of things. Sure, we went on trips. I went to England. I bought Polish Pottery and crystal at the Crystal Factory but he was with me for those purchases. I bought my friends presents. I hosted dinner parties and afternoon teas but I always “cleared” expenses with him.
But he had expensive tastes. Scotch. Cigars. Hermes ties! I wasn’t out there treating myself to top dollar items – and I’d been used to being frugal for years – and besides, I earned close to half his income. I contributed! But I didn’t have oversight.
Although no one had ever told me this – I made the choice to deposit my income into my husband’s account. I thought it was what married people did. But where that idea came from is beyond me. In fact, eventually, I didn’t even need my own Bank of America account because all they did was charge me fees because nothing was deposited in, so I had no account of my own. Everything was ‘joint’ except I never had any visibility on the accounts and never saw any balances.
I even asked once if he thought I spent too much money could I see the accounts, could we make a budget, could we align on the expenses but I was dismissed.
Our steamy sex life (I got lots of jokes)
It’s funny that I’ve written seven chapters about my first husband and besides an early encounter where I vaguely recall he was skilled at oral, I haven’t mentioned our sex life.
That’s because we didn’t have any – cue drum cymbal crash thingy (you know, ba dum dum).
The early days of three times per day can’t keep our hands off each other were quickly replaced with weeks on end with no sex. In fact, we only had sex four times per month. Why do I know? I tracked it. In an app. Just to make sure that it was as little as I thought. I’d gone from being someone who loved sexual expression and had sex most days to someone who was barely touched – outside of cuddles and chaste kisses.
Those four times of sex per month also may have consisted of two times in one week and then not for two weeks and then again twice if I was lucky.
What’s worse was that the sex was always initiated by me at which point I felt predatory and despondent – at my fattest, I was thinner than I was for most of my marriage with Michael (except now thanks to my nutritionist, David) and yet he truly worked a number on my head.
Was my twenty-pound weight gain really that abhorrent that I was rendered so repugnant that we could no longer have sex? Instead of being all (fakely) confident in my body as I had been with sex in the past uni years and early teaching years (full frontal, fully naked), I took to wearing a shirt in bed or a nightgown and never donned lingerie because I was just too vile, too shameful.
The sexlessness plus the millennial body image issues in which we were told Jessica Simpson was fat that one time in the ‘Mom jeans’ when she clearly was just ‘normal’ (actually, no, very thin just not skeletal) or the same people who said Kate Winslet was fat when she was also very thin meant I truly felt disgusting. I felt like I had failed. I’d failed at suppressing my appetite enough, exercising enough, being attractive enough to keep my husband happy.
I’d once had insecurities (sure, they’d always been there) but once in the bedroom, I was able to enjoy sex with abandon and freedom but no longer. I felt like this was almost a punishment. Was he punishing me for what he considered a ‘whoring’ past? Was I being actively slut shamed in my marriage?
Of course, he never revealed how many sexual partners he’d had but he had lost his virginity quite young to someone older.
Why was I so unfuckable? Was he this asexual or was he fucking someone else? Sometimes better not to know.
The only value I’d had was being attractive to him and being sufficiently slim enough (though not thin) to fit his standards and once I wasn’t that, once I wasn’t domestically useful, then I was no good.
Unbeknownst to me, I got sexually more and more frustrated. Thanks to growing up in the Bible Belt, this was before I learned to get myself off but I did occasionally use the shower. I tried to bring it up. Was it okay? Was it normal? Were we just tired? Was there a problem? There was no discussion. Eventually, these questions prompted shouting and frustration. I was made to feel I was wrong for even wanting sex.
According to a text though in March 2014, I did have at least one “amazing orgasm” from him that I texted him about but he ignored it.
Getting back in shape
A few times during our marriage, I made an effort to whip my body back into shape as if aspiring to be forever twenty-five wasn’t utter madness.
I embarked on a fitness regime where I did Insanity six days per week; walked miles with my friends, often Megan and my librarian neighbour Amy (no longer meeting up for cake and tea – it had to be walks) through the beautiful German countryside and into town and back; and I counted calories. I lost weight.
Other times, I tried various diets: keto, Whole30, raw vegan, each one making me more miserable than the last. And diets, especially fad ones, just make you progressively fatter I’ve found.
I was now lower on the scale than when we’d met. I wasn’t lifting, of course, so your body shape is different when you’re walking and only doing callisthenics. I later tried lifting again at the gym but it wasn’t the same without a personal trainer motivating me.
I have always absolutely loved food and my day usually revolves around food. When embarking on these diets, I was often eating food that wasn’t pleasurable and not having such variety made me want to cry. Also, I can barely live without chocolate. I got thinner. I wrote the stupid Tumblr page about my journey (written about in my opening chapter here).
When I asked my husband if I looked better, he told me I didn’t look the same as when we met but he loved me anyway because I was his wife. Not because I was attractive to him or anything. Oof! I was his wife and he married for life, he’d say, emphasis on the last bit. Side hug and patronising forehead kiss included.
This commentary crushed me but I didn’t know it. The motivation to keep the weight off faltered and my weight came back up again. Even with all this, I thought I was still happy. I should have kept exercising and I know I did lots of walks with my Germany ladies because exercise is just good for you but I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t.
I do have mirror selfies where I looked heavier and, perhaps, doughier and pictures where I look thinner because, well, human bodies fluctuate. I use these terms loosely because it makes me sad to think of all the time I wasted feeling not good enough. All the ways when I was thinner, I still felt I wasn’t reaching some standard because I wasn’t Paris Hilton, Keira Knightley, or Nicole Ritchie thin (sorry my references are from the 2000s) – who is that equivalent now or do we celebrate curvier frames now?
I still never think I’m thin enough because of my broad shoulders, oversized boobs, but that’s my lot in life. I’m working with my therapist on these deep-seated body issues because it is sad not to be liberated from these thoughts.
Did it start with my first husband? Not entirely but he compounded the issues. At least in my uni days, I was validated by sex (unhealthy, sure) but I always had people available to me who complimented me, and now I was married to someone who barely wanted to touch me.
The ways I wasn’t good enough
Everything was done so subtly. The breaking down of my personhood, my self-worth.
I’d thought I had the perfect fairytale marriage at first and the unravelling of it was confusing. What had I done wrong to lose it all?
I’d tidy up or make dinner, wagging my figurative tail like an eager puppy. “Look at all I did today! Aren’t you happy?” I’d trill, hanging on his neck and showering his face with kisses. I probably said something verbatim like this. He told me something like “You shouldn’t expect praise for doing normal everyday tasks like housework.” Oof! But I did need praise, you see. Of course, this is a repeat of something I said in the previous post but it lodged in my brain, this idea.
I had gone from a half-teenage boy living a life free from household tasks for the most part until the dreaded laundry month hit and here I’d had so much improvement. Everything was tidy every week. Didn’t he know that was so much work for me?
The amazing Russian-German cleaner lady, Nadja
We hired a cleaner. She was a godsend. I absolutely loved the Russian-German no-nonsense blonde lady who came once per week and thought to clean everything. Door handles, tops of doors, baseboards, under the fridge, under the cooker, under the dishwasher. She was strong and capable and armed with ways to make the taps shiny. I still don’t know how to make taps shiny.
She’d clean all three bathrooms. And miracle of all miracles, she folded the washing so all I had to do was put it away.
But didn’t my husband see that you have to tidy before the cleaner comes and the washing didn’t put itself away, but nothing I did was ever seen.
Only all the ways I failed and all the things I did not do and the list was becoming endless, more than I could even keep up with.
Valentine’s Day in Poland
Benoit used to plan lovely trips for me to make me happy I think. He planned a trip for us to go to Poland for Valentine’s Day and to buy Polish pottery, which was all the rage amongst military wives.
I recall at many of the Polish factory shops, Benoit spent ages selecting pieces for his mother which made me feel a little inexplicably jealous, even though I really adored my mother-in-law. Maybe it was because it was supposedly a romantic time away and he was thinking of his mother?
He booked us into this romantic Polish castle which was incredible and he paid for us to go horse riding on the grounds, which he knew I’d love and then proceeded not to touch me the entire time. A sexless Valentine’s weekend.
I asked if we could have sex and he somehow deflected. I felt miserable. I was in a castle with someone who loved me – and I know even your spouse doesn’t owe you sex – but I wanted to be touched and wanted. I wasn’t.
I spent so many trips and have so many memories of simply being made to feel that because I had gained weight my body was disgusting and it was further evinced by the fact he hugged and kissed me chastely but didn’t ravish me. Two years into marriage (as this was 2015) and he could certainly keep his hands off me.
The US Embassy in Prague
Once, for about a month, he was sent to Prague to work at the embassy doing goodness knows what. He had top security clearance or something like that. He was amused that a guard at the embassy loved his Camaro so much that they let him park right outside on the street.
I recall having a glass of wine with Benoit down the road from the embassy on one visit but he mostly didn’t want me to visit (suspicious) but I recall going to spend the weekend once but his best friend, we’ll call him Andrew, would be alone for the weekend because his family was somewhere (I no longer recall, most likely visiting the States). The trouble was that Andrew hated me.
I had no idea why really. I wasn’t used to being disliked. I tried to talk normally to him but he’d always put my defenses up and I’m sure I was awkward. Anyone who knows me knows that one of my plus points is how good I am socially. I genuinely love and am interested in people. I was not on “plus point” territory when interacting with Andrew. What was worse was that Benoit would semi-shout at me for how I “behaved” with Andrew and here we were going to spend the weekend in Prague together as a trio. Brilliant.
We’d spent time with Andrew back in Columbus, Georgia, too, when his family was living in Colorado so the children didn’t have to have their schooling disrupted and we’d gotten on fine then, going on hikes, having him over for BBQs, and so forth.
But I can’t quite describe the dynamic shift and what happened but he started to dislike me and it made things tense. What was worse was Benoit picked up on the dynamic and was not on my side about it.
Maybe Benoit complained to Andrew about what a terrible, lazy, selfish wife I was or whatever Benoit’s narrative was.
Side note: I adored Andrew’s wife. She was a badass sweetheart. She could do it all. She was beautiful, thin, could bake, do nails, do DIY and fixing up things, and she could even fix cars. I think she now has a career as a welder or something very fitting for her. She had three lovely children and I babysat the youngest two at least once – and they were delightful. They even drew a picture or two for me which I recall, featuring all of us in a very elaborate crayon drawing.
Before Andrew arrived, I think Benoit and I maybe even had a rare romp in the sheets in a beautiful light-filled apartment bedroom. Then the dynamic changed when Andrew arrived and Benoit, again, mostly left me out and I felt alone and sad.
In marriage, though I couldn't have articulated it at the time, you want someone “on your side.” Someone who understands you and your point of view. Sure, most of us have to encounter people we do not prefer. But generally, you want your husband to empathise with you, come up with solutions, try and smooth over the cracks, and cuddle away your fears.
After our marriage had ended, I found Benoit had an account on odd CouchSurfing websites – a hobby I had no idea he had – and he friended women on Facebook which I didn’t notice at the time who had no friends in common with him and who lived in Prague. Suspicious indeed. Who knows if he was unfaithful? He’d never have admitted it to me if he was, but equally what purpose would knowing ever serve me now? It certainly would explain why I was starved for physical affection.
But before all this, we had a day planned where he was giving me a tour of the embassy and we were in the beautiful walled private gardens and he received a call that he had to go back to base, so we had to leave and drive back to Germany, our lovely plans dashed as was so common with military life. I was, naturally, upset and he said his usual phrase, “It is what it is.”
We had another trip to Prague with Joe’s ex-girlfriend (the girlfriend being the stunningly gorgeous woman from Columbus, Georgia who Benoit and I adored and Joe being the “flavour of the week” guy I fancied before I met Benoit). This time she was dating a new military guy and we all stayed together in a flat for the long weekend they were doing the new couple fun of can’t keep their hands off each other and Benoit and I were having a chaste weekend. On one night out, Benoit got aggressive at a shisha bar which was a very odd space where everyone hangs out on bed-sofa thingies when some drunk man bumped into gorgeous Miss Columbus and I and we all got kicked out (fun!).
The Venice trip
Andrew, his family, Benoit and I all went away together to Venice once for about four days and I recall spending time in our bedroom reading, away from everyone because I wasn’t feeling well or sociable, and Benoit bollocked me for that, for being weird. Perhaps, it was brought on by being around Andrew, who, again, actively disliked me.
I found photos of this time and even though I had lovely memories of a Gondola ride and buying a hand-crafted pen (with inkwell) I knew my Dad would love, you can see even my body language is protective and standoffish. I have my arms folded, I’m wearing baggy clothes to hide a body I was no longer comfortable with, and I didn’t feel supported.
But then there are photos where we are walking together and talking, but also how rude of me to walk so far ahead of the group as Andrew’s wife took these photos.
The Dublin drama
In August 2014, Benoit had some beloved friends visiting Dublin from Pennsylvania to go to a Penn State game. I’ll call them Ingrid and Jack. Apparently, in recent years, American football has been popular in Europe and even though I wasn’t all that fussed about a football game, I was excited to meet his friends that I’d yet to meet.
Jack and Ingrid paid for the tickets and for us all to stay in a hostel and we spent time exploring some sites around town. Jack’s wife, Ingrid, was from Norway and had done her PhD and I found her charming and interesting. I think we even went on a literary pub crawl thing together, which was kind of her.
Back in Pennsylvania they’d all been part of a crowd that used to frequent a scotch and cigar lounge owned by a couple – let’s call them Karen and Bob. Karen and Bob became like Benoit’s American parents. They were incredibly significant to him – just like Jenny and Derek have been in my life – so I got it.
They were the family we stayed with in our first Christmas and Karen made her famous Buckeye Balls (I think they are called), which are like round versions of peanut butter cups. We all stayed with their son, daughter-in-law, and grandson that Christmas at their house in Maryland/the DC area. I think Bob and Karen’s son was a golf pro or something. They had been incredibly warm and welcoming that Christmas but the relationship had since cooled.
Bob got snarky on a FB post with me one day when I’d posted about going somewhere and he said something about how Benoit was always on holiday. Me being stupid and taking things literally and not like the joke it probably was intended to be defended Benoit and said he’d been working incredibly hard and we were having a break. Bob then replied with some nasty message or other.
Another time, I’d written a post where I’d said I was going somewhere with “my love” and Karen replied something like “why do you keep using ‘my love’? Why don’t you just use his name?” sort of thing, which I was taken aback by.
Benoit would say that Karen kept getting upset at him because he was usually attentive during holidays and birthdays but he hadn’t sent gifts or a card or called as often and I’m sure Karen and Bob thought that the relationship had cooled because of me but it hadn’t.
Of course, after they took an active dislike of me, then I just kept out of it. Then, unfortunately, Bob died suddenly of a heart attack. Benoit went to the funeral but even though I asked if he wanted my support he said he didn't and went alone.
I’d found out after our marriage ended, that Benoit had told the daughter-in-law who also hated me that winter we stayed with them at Christmas that he’d “never marry me,” which hearing after your marriage is rather hurtful. I have no idea what that was about.
So, Facebook comes along to add to the drama of it all. I attended the football game and posted a picture of Ingrid and I, wearing football jerseys, faces painted in patriotic spirit, and in my caption, I said something along the lines of attending a football game in Dublin at my husband’s alma mater or former grad school (the game was against the University of Central Florida, which I lived near at one time). I went full-on with the face paint and my whole face was blue and white with paw prints.
Karen’s daughter-in-law sent a snarky message of “I hear congratulations are in order.” Benoit got nasty messages from Karen that he hadn’t told her and hadn’t told Bob before he died.
For my part, I had been living life for over a year in a community where everyone knew I was married and I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t know it would cause inadvertent drama. In an effort to do damage control, I sent Karen a message:
“[Benoit] and I did get married – eloped, really over a year ago – but [Ben] decided he didn’t want to tell anyone because we had hoped we would have our ‘official’ wedding soon after. We still plan to have a wedding, but that may be some time away. We also hope that you will be there and take part.
Subtext that I was too people-pleasing ever to say: That may be never away and I’d really love if you are not there because you’ve behaved like nothing but a toxic bitch to me actually.
He decided to tell his parents only recently, and at the time, it was not an appropriate time to tell you. He has felt very guilty at not having the opportunity to tell [Bob], who had a tremendous impact on his life. He had admitted this to me over tears. I have never seen him so sad and dejected. I too am so sorry for your loss. I did send a sympathy card, but [Ben] forgot to give it to you and I didn’t feel it was appropriate for me to message you at the time.
Probably Ben didn’t forget and realised that Karen would rather not have heard from me or maybe he wanted to perpetuate that I was a truly awful wife. I was always empathetic to him and his feelings; obviously, he did not feel the same about my feelings.
Before moving to Germany, we decided to marry because we were intending to marry anyway and as a military fiance, I would not have access to go on post alone or use the facilities, join support groups, pay bills if necessary, and so forth.
Not that she was due an explanation but I tried to explain the situation. And this is why secrecy never gets you anywhere. It was all so pointless to keep it a secret and I still have no clue as to why I was meant to be the secret wife? Was it that they all saw me as too young and naive and a bad match for Benoit? I’ll never know.
The unit where he was going was deployed, and there was a chance he would deploy too. I’m sure you know this would leave me with no housing either or any rights to speak of. Single soldiers live in private apartments here and their belongings are sometimes placed in storage when they deploy. At the time, it was the best decision for us, and I honoured [Benoit’s] wish to remain silent.
I’m very sorry that you found out as you did on Facebook. I most definitely wanted [Ben] to tell you in a more appropriate manner as did he. He hasn’t found a time he felt fit. I am used to calling him my husband and didn’t mean for it to be any sort of “big reveal.”
Nope, I was frankly thinking of her as little as I could since she and Bob had become increasingly more nasty on my posts, which I’d try to talk to Benoit about and he did not defend me ever.
I hope, however, it is a point of celebration and not of contention. You mean a great deal to [Ben] and to me. Your hospitality and kindness has never left me and I have no intentions of making you feel that you aren’t part of [Benoit’s] life.”
I really didn't have any intention of coming in the way of his friendships even if I wasn’t particularly keen on the people and even if they didn’t treat me nicely. Benoit was responsible for his own relationships.
Whilst I was there giving this explanation, Benoit was there messaging her lying. Saying we weren't married or something. When I revealed what I’d said, I got a bollocking because it didn’t align with the lies he was telling. So I guess that made me seem to Karen that I was the unhinged one, despite the fact on reading back through my response I was being rather diplomatic especially given that I was only twenty-seven.
Karen replied: “Sorry I have to have time to take all of this in. But now I know why he has been acting the way he has since he or I guess I should say the two of you went to Germany. I will have to wait and speak to him later. Like I have told him before, actions speak louder than words. I need time.”
I mean why anyone else’s marriage would impact someone so devastatingly is beyond me. Even back then I didn’t know why people would act like I cut off their toe. I wasn’t lying to my people about things. That was all on Benoit.
This wasn’t the first time, though, that Bob and Karen would cause tension in our marriage. And I was always on the wrong side. Benoit would always defend them. He also said that back in the day, Karen had hated his first girlfriend (the perfect nurse practitioner) and had semi-caused him to end things. And I have a feeling that Karen played her part in our marriage ending too. Perhaps, really, I should be sending a thank you card. I know she’d just love to hear from me.
The in-laws visit
Once, my in-laws came to visit us and Benoit navigated this dynamic quite well. This was before I’d gotten a cleaner and my mother-in-law decided that she wanted to clean the kitchen top to bottom and since we only had a Swifer thingy and not a mop, she wanted Benoit to get a specific kind of mop.
More credit to him, he did ask me if it was okay if he followed his mother’s wishes. Just thrilled that I was not having to clean my own house in this mad frenzy, I said it didn’t matter to me if he bought fifty mops. I had no intention of using them that often anyway.
I did once ask my German neighbour, Jasmine, how she got her floors so gleaming – this was before the Elf Christmas gift Amy moved next door – and she showed me the floor cleaner she used and I tried it once and Benoit was impressed but then I realised that the floors soon get mucky again and all that effort goes to waste. I didn’t have the mental energy for that sort of thing.
Instead of my usual dinner planning, cooking, and hosting, my mother-in-law had that in hand, too. She cooked Benoit all of his favourite dishes. I had the back of my mind feeling of A) does she think I’m inadequate at caring for her son, feeding him, cleaning, or B) I should equally just enjoy this because it is easier for me. It’s not like I was treated like Cinderella or anything. I just got to do my own thing and asked my mother-in-law if she needed help.
She also taught me how to make a famous Lebanese rice with chicken dish (riz a djej) that Benoit loved and I would make from time to time even though simple rice and chicken in the Lebanese kitchen had about fifty steps. As well as a dish I loved called kibbeh. For skilled Lebanese women, they shape their kibbeh into diamond-shaped balls but for the novice, you just press it into a pie dish and bake like that.
There was also some Lebanese beef dish I learned and how to make tabbouleh the ‘real’ way and not the American way which barely sees a parsley leaf. The Lebanese way it’s mostly parsley and a little wheat and lots of lemon juice, mint, tomatoes, and olive oil.
With the Arabic-style flatbread, too, everyone always wanted to eat the brown side and not the white side and I was an easy guest because I’d happily eat any side.
When I first met my father-in-law, he gave me a big hug and said in English, “Welcome to the family,” which I’ll always remember.
They bought me a gorgeous Swarovski necklace, too, that was one rose gold chain and rose gold disk with a heart shape punched out with crystals and a silver chain and silver heart that I suppose was meant to symbolise coming from the punched out bit.
My father-in-law spoke Arabic, French, and German as he’d done a lot of business in Germany but very little English, so we mostly communicated in smiles. But I thought it odd that he’d come to visit his son for a week or two and instead of sticking around, he went off to do some business deals and Ben may have been at work some days (this was clearly before I worked as well) and I recall taking my mother-in-law to my favourite new cafe in Weiden called Café Le Père that served the best and most elaborate frühstück, which means breakfast but this was like a feast.
It had cold meats and cheeses, honeys, jams, a bread basket filled with bread, and pastries, fruit, yoghurt, and boiled eggs. The presentation was stunning and it was served on tiered trays with everything in little pots and the fruit folded and cut in lovely ways. Plus, they actually made good pots of tea and lovely hot chocolate.
My in-laws were warm and I always liked them. What I liked less, however, was the fact that Benoit said that if we ever had a daughter, we had to name it after my mother-in-law. Now, she had a lovely name (named after a month of the year) but I thought if my daughter is not born in that month of the year isn’t it odd? To be fair, I don’t think my MIL was born in that month either but I can’t recall now. (Sorry that’s a spoiler as there are only four months that are also women’s names.)
Visit to Lebanon
In June 2015, Benoit was going to attend a wedding (or something) in Lebanon and I was to follow in July. I have no idea if or why I wasn’t invited. Maybe it was to do with my working at the Kindergarten and maybe not getting time off. With the uni teaching job, there was certainly never any room for sick days in the ten weeks of class or whatever it was.
I remember being nervous to fly on the plane into Beirut as I didn’t know what to expect. The plane looked as if it was landing into the water with a runway nowhere in sight. When I got into the airport, a random man collected me (a friend of Benoit’s brother) and although I tried to keep up with this tall, striding man, and ask questions, he didn’t respond but I was delivered safely into my husband’s waiting arms.
Whilst there, I was amazed at the richness of everything, the divide between the haves and have-nots. It was a lovely summer, though, with all my in-laws – all Benoit’s siblings and their spouses and children (I absolutely adored being around all the children, especially the children who lived in Kentucky that I’d gotten especially close to).
We went to a private beach, many a private restaurant, and once a club or an event space that was surrounded by shipping containers in some cool, industrial-built sort of amphitheatre space and the lounge spaces were on risers. I think Benoit, who was a good dancer, was embarrassed when I got into dancing to a favourite Daft Punk song.
I think equally he compared me unfavourably to the nipped and tucked perfect-looking Lebanese women who wear gorgeous gowns and party outfits to events and in contrast, I looked plain and dowdy. He later told me one of the women at the club we’d gone to had flirted with him and asked why he was with me. She was recently divorced. I never understood his reason for telling me. Was it to shame me? Make me jealous? Make me realise he was a desirable husband and partner to others?
The sister-in-law who lived in Rhode Island and had a paediatrician husband was building a massive six-bedroomed house somewhere just outside the city and even though the upstairs wasn’t finished (I think it had three floors and a massive balcony with a swimming pool that overlooked the views in the hillside), we all had a night there of merriment.
One of the loveliest memories of that time, though, was going to the village where Benoit grew up and looking at his massive childhood home with marble floors, seeing the relics of paintings and furniture left behind in an empty house, where some things had been left and others taken to their main apartment residence in the city.
We looked through old photos and I took photos of them for posterity. We slept in one of his sisters’ old bedrooms that had two single beds. He read me an Arabic children’s book and translated the story. He shared memories, showed me Jeita Grotto, took me to his old undergrad university, and we had some pictures taken at a tourist trap on the side of the road where we dressed up in traditional ancient Lebanese clothing. We bought souvenirs and I even bought one of those traditional dresses, beautifully made, in pink silk. I never wore this outfit so in hindsight it was entirely pointless.
Once we went out with Benoit’s brother, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law (the former TV presenter one) and a few of their friends. I got into a debate with one friend about something. Sometimes the male opinion was a little “questionable.” At this time, I thought Benoit was rather progressive and I asked after if I’d embarrassed him but he always found my opinions amusing. My mother-in-law probably thought I was an alien but she was always lovely to me.
This time one of the friend’s argued to pay the astronomical bill at this sushi and shisha bar and Benoit and his brother argued that they’d pay. Sigh! The friend won out.
It was a different sort of world, these insulated and wealthy people, with nannies, maids, flashy cars, and luxury goods in a country where this type of consumption is conspicuous. The wealthy liked to flash it but, perhaps, that’s anywhere.
Here’s what I wrote about the trip at the time:
It's a place where high rises and trees appear to grow together on hillsides. Where the sky is blue and the light shines in dusty rays. The traffic is madness. I saw my first stop sign here and snapped a photo, but it was ignored by motorists. Drivers enter and leave roads as they please – even if it's against the grain of traffic.
The food is amazing. Hands down. The French bakeries have some of the best wares I've ever tasted. The people are welcoming and friendly. Everyone seems intent on feeding me (which I don't mind); however, many women here don't seem to indulge as they are all glamourous, petite, and slim with thick, penciled eyebrows (I fit in!). Other details I forgot to mention: on the Christian side of Lebanon, the radio announcers speak only French. Here you're not greeted with "marhaba," but "Bonjour." Thank you is not "shockran," it's "merci." The affluent hire live-in help. I was surprised to return after my pedicure to a perfectly made bed, my heavy suitcases ushered and tidied away, and my nightgown and previous day's outfit hung. Also, the sheets are ironed!
[Benoit] says I should allow my clothes to be pressed, but I disagree. He'd be confused to see me in ironed clothes. :) Argile/shisha is a delivery service and can be brought to the door along with pretty much anything else including crepes after midnight. Speaking of midnight, in the late evening, stores and food establishments are lit up like nightclubs including the pharmacies, which are under contract to alternate who opens at night. I also saw the bin men out collecting rubbish around 11.30 pm.
Breakfast foods: Manoushe (no idea how to spell this) jibne (with cheese), with thyme, and with meat. It was pretty delicious the first three or four mornings, but after that I kinda wanted some fruit. Luckily for me, Lebanon has some delicious tasting fruit.
Power outages: Lebanon only has consistent power for about twelve hours per day. So power outages in homes, restaurants, anywhere are totally normal. Those who can afford it have generators, so the power is only gone for a few minutes, but people don't even get alarmed when suddenly all the lights and electronic gadgets come to a standstill.
Downtown Beirut: The downtown area is breathtaking. The stores are high end (think Hermes and Chanel and many, many diamond stores with amazing jewels galore). The architecture is beautiful, but it's also eerie because many stores cannot afford to keep shop, so many store spaces and luxury apartments are empty. Downtown boasts many Roman ruins so there's always something interesting to see amongst the churches and mosques as well as the Lebanese Parliament. There are Armed guards everywhere, and on the roads there are security checkpoints.
Types of stores: I have never seen so many ball gowns and wedding dresses in my life. There are couture stores everywhere. The Lebanese really go all out for weddings. They are lavish and expensive affairs and people dress as if they are going to an award's ceremony or gala.
Syrian refugees: One of the saddest sights are the numerous poor Syrian refugees. You see children begging on the streets, imploring those in passing vehicles to give spare change.
More on the traffic: So, I encountered some roads with traffic lights and painted lines (yes, painted lines); however, there were many drivers who thought these lines were where you place your car – as in they drove in the middle of TWO lanes ON TOP OF the lines. Yes, this really happened. Other cars took lights as a suggestion, running red lights.
Jeita Grotto: According to Wikipedia, the grotto is a set of "karstic limestone caves spanning an overall length of nearly 9 kilometres." One is walkable and the other you take by boat. They were around since the times of the Phoenicians, and they were breathtaking. I've never seen anything quite like it. Unfortunately, no pictures were permitted. The stalagmite formations were some of the biggest and most impressive I have ever seen.
Greetings: Just like in Paris, the Lebanese greet with three kisses; however, I've observed that most of the time these kisses are accompanied by a loud and over exaggerated kissing sound.
Service: The Lebanese take service very seriously (unlike in the UK and Germany). There are often bathroom maids and attendants who clean the stalls after every use. Service is fast and almost unimposing. The help try to be as invisible as possible, which is opposite to the big "personalities" of wait staff in the States.
The family as it was only my mother-in-law and father-in-law in the posh Beirut flat now had gone down to one maid. It felt strange having an invisible woman go behind me and tidy things away when I’d nipped to the loo. Her story was a little sad and perhaps common in the Middle East. I think she was from Bangladesh and she earned her wages and sent most of it back home to a mother and daughter she’d had to leave behind.
I asked Benoit if it would be too rude to give her extra money since she’d had to look after extra people and she worked early morning and long into the night. He did tip her and we even shared some very posh chocolates from a company called Patchi with her that Benoit had bought for me downtown. She timidly only took one and I had so many that I gave her a handful. Another of my favourite chocolate brands there was Côte d'Or.
The maid would be there cooking alongside my mother-in-law. The maid would chop and prepare everything and my mother-in-law, like some kind of cooking show, would assemble everything together.
I always adored big family gatherings and I loved his sisters so I mostly have lovely memories, especially when I learned of my first husband’s childhood in his village.
Travel
We had so many trips from Vienna, Hungary, France, Liechtenstein, Italy, Belgium, the Netherlands, Switzerland, Poland, the Czech Republic, Austria, and perhaps places I’ve forgotten. I have both good memories of all those places tinged with sad ones.
Before we went to Budapest I found a text where I said: “Well, it upsets me that you insinuate that you don’t like the way I look. I get it. I looked ‘hotter’ when we met. I’m sorry I look like this now…” I can read the hurt dripping from my words, the seeking of validation that would never come.
He just replied, “You don’t have to be sorry and I never said I don't like the way you look.” Then he moved the conversation on saying ‘the guys’ had backed out of our trip and we were going alone. I said I loved spending time with him so it didn’t matter. Why did he always turn every trip into a group affair anyway? (I didn’t say that bit.)
I recall Bob and Karen pulling their usual toxic shit on the trip and crying in the bathroom. I’ve never been prone to tears or overly dramatic (at least not in that sense) but I remember them so badly upsetting me and Benoit yet again defending them and gaslighting me, well before the term ‘gaslighting’ was a thing. Naturally, I was overreacting. I did things wrong, not them.
Apparently, before we went to Milan he shouted at me because I’d taken his passport from the car. I said I thought he’d seen me put it in my bag in the car in front of him but he hadn’t. I acted very arsey and indignant that he’d overreacted to such a thing. I think he thought if he’d been stopped at the border without his passport, there’d be serious repercussions, which was probably right but he’d noticed in time.
On having children
He had wanted children practically straight away when we married. All of his siblings had two to three children already, even his younger brother. I was hesitant. I thought we needed to get to know each other better first, see if we aligned on our philosophy of children so I stayed on the pill.
Maybe if we’d been trying for a baby, I’d have gotten perfunctory sex more often? Who knows?
When I expressed concern about having children, changing my life, what type of mother I’d be, how you raised intelligent and lovely children, Benoit thought I was super odd and weird for questioning it all. In Lebanon people had babies, they didn’t think about if you wanted them and what that experience would be like. Of course, everyone wanted them!
I’m sure I wouldn't admit to myself, we weren’t aligned in how to have a marriage, how to build a life, and children required much more. I’ve always been afraid of being trapped in a life where I did everything and was so burdened, the way I observe so many women’s lives. They may love and adore their children but that doesn’t mean the realities of having them aren’t difficult. I was worried what space that would leave for me if I were to become a mother and since I failed at everything, I worried I’d never pass in Benoit’s eyes.
Eventually, the topic of children seemed to stop coming up. He didn’t seem to want them with me anymore. Now my Dad’s genetic condition was too much of a concern to pass on (despite the fact my niece is healthy and fine and my sister has the condition and I don’t).
He, of course, never questioned if he’d be a good father. In his eyes, he’d be the best. It didn’t matter that all of his siblings had amazing, beautiful children but were equally helped out by cleaners or maids and nannies.
The TV presenter sister-in-law had a nanny and two maids! I was expected to do it all because I didn’t earn the same level of salary as them so hadn’t earned the rest. I was lazy despite working two jobs. I needed to have dinner on the table and the house in order for him. I needed to exercise religiously and eat better and be arm candy and have pleasing opinions and smile.
He once brought up how I did so much more for my girlfriends than I did for him, as if slightly jealous, not understanding how I worked. He said how much I poured into my afternoon teas but how I didn’t have dinner on the table every night. When my friends were coming, I blitzed the house. I cooked lots of food. But a party is a fun thing, daily chores are not.
Hang on a minute, we were two grown adults and when we met we did ‘all the things’ (like in this Hyperbole and a Half comic) together and now I had to do ‘all the things’ alone? And when I did the things and wanted a pat on the head for doing the things, then I was a silly goose for wanting praise for all the things? I truly could not win.
The word for silly goose was one of my favourite Arabic words and I’d call one of my nephews that and he’d giggle.
His father’s illness
My family was visiting from England one winter (Grammy, my cousin Pam and her family, my cousin Dylan who is Pam’s brother) and we were taking family photos in Weiden when Benoit got a call that his father had been diagnosed with cancer.
In hindsight, just as I handled the loss of his beloved family friend Bob rather badly, I didn’t handle this situation well either. Now I know the depths of grief and how that could change a person, but in my twenties, I was thinking entirely selfishly, at how his grief and loss would impact me, and how his Father’s diagnosis would put a damper on family events.
Of course, I didn’t say all that. I tried to be sympathetic. But I wasn’t really sympathetic or understanding enough and this was certainly a failing in my character then.
I didn’t stop the photoshoot the way, perhaps, a normal person would. We kept going as he was on his phone call. When we got home, I recall him having snapped at me and Pam and Grammy comforting me.
And, perhaps, this event was another cut of that fraying rope that tethered our relationship together on ever-tenuous threads.
The lessons learned
I found some text messages where I’d said I’d been working hard to keep up with his expectations (ugh how sad). I said, “Last month, I exercised a lot, graded on time, and cooked two meals a day and kept the house clean and did laundry.”
I was making an excuse because I’d been exhausted and wanted to see my friend Erin that day. I told him, “It was important for me to see Erin today because I have limited time left. And you said to me during our negative time that you hate how I'm fat and I don’t have a meal ready for you when you get home so I have been trying to do those things when you get home.”
He replied, “You don’t need to live up to my standards. I am just messing with you. You should have the day off from exercise. Take a day off and watch an episode of something. You have been doing great.” Praise like a puppy with the subtext of ick. I guess I had wanted the praise bit.
In that exchange, he never said what time he’d be home and I said I’d been cooking pork belly for three hours and when would he be home because dinner was going cold. I recall many nights like this. I was expected to have dinner ready but he wasn’t expected to tell me when he’d be home.
Oh and on my RunKeeper that I screenshotted to him, it showed I’d walked 103.1 miles in November and 80.1 miles in October. This was the days before FitBit and I used a Polar watch and a heart strap. That was also with doing all the other things. Sigh.
On another occasion, I sent him a picture of me in a bra he’d bought me a couple of years before and instead of complimenting me he said, “It was a long time ago.”
He didn’t always answer my messages. We sent multiple voice notes often and my accent was different to now. Very generic American back then. I, of course, couldn’t go without answering messages. He was allowed to be busy, though, and not have time for me.
It shows that I knew things were wrong if only subconsciously. I no longer recall what the “negative time” was, what happened, or when it was.
In speaking to Orienna this week and cousin Pam a couple of weeks ago, though, they said I was happy. Orienna said I was “the happiest wife” so even in this sadness I really did think I was happy, loved, and content, and looking back that’s rather sad.
The irony, though, is Benoit probably did teach me a thing or two in our marriage – besides the burdening weight of other people’s expectations – and the difference is that the partnership I have with Michael means that we do ‘all the things’ together.
I tidy the house each morning, do all the dishes, and put away the laundry. I am the kind of wife now that my ex had wanted but I couldn’t be that for Benoit because he did not provide the support the way Michael does. Michael does the cooking, the gardening, an equal amount of housework, the fixing things, the grocery shopping, the laundry, and he finds so many ways to make my day-to-day life easier and vice versa. He brings me a cup of decaf tea when I’m working in the evening. He brings me a drink every night after my bath. He generally takes care of me and I take care of him in return.
We are a balance. We each recognise what needs doing and how to take care of things together. Of course, more on this later when I talk about my marriage to Michael.
Cousin Pam once said the same thing to me, how now I was more like the person Benoit would have wanted me to be. I am productive, I have been fairly successful in my career, I’m on time, I do housework, I am pursuing my passions, but it demonstrates the importance really of the right partner in life.
Pam said I was happy and she did think Ben had loved me. But equally, we had different expectations of life. I was younger and we were in different places in life. Ultimately, I wouldn’t have been happy but I had been then or I thought I had been.
“Married for life”
“Married for life” was a phrase Benoit bandied about often. He’d say to me when he got married, he married for life. What beautiful lies we spin! But also what a difficult promise to keep.
I mean some relationships run their course and that is okay. The choices we make at different times in our lives won’t always stand up decades later. People in relationships have to grow, evolve, and learn together, and sometimes they just don’t. They have midlife crises or something significant happens in their life (often death) and they change their mind.
But I wonder now why he would say it so often. Would he say that because he felt like the desire for me was unravelling? As a manta he hoped he’d keep? To reinforce it to himself, to buffer against the disappointment that I didn’t turn out to be what he wanted? I’ll never know.
“What do you think I’m not taking responsibility for, but should be?”
“Right now, do you love me for who I am or for who I was?”
“What does it mean to be free in this relationship?”
I was in a marriage with someone who thought I wasn’t pulling my weight financially and emotionally, who loved me for a past version of myself, and who limited my freedoms and clipped my wings at every juncture. Yet I didn’t know I was a caged bird.
Coming up next, that time my first husband dropped a bombshell to be followed by the final chapter on Benoit: when my first husband left me unexpectedly (obviously, looking back I’d just missed the glaring neon signs).
New here or haven’t followed from the beginning, why don’t you catch up on the other seventy-eight posts I’ve written, including the one on why I’m writing these chapters in the first place – with the odd “present day snippet” of what is happening in my world lately. (Spoiler: things are much, much better.)
Have you ever thought you were happy in a relationship only to look back with the rose-tinted spectacles firmly taken from your eyes and shattered into hundreds of pieces?
#80 WHEN MY EX/FIRST HUSBAND DROPPED A BOMBSHELL
I learned a pro tip this week from the very hilarious Stevie Martin (from The S is a 5 ) about “doing voiceovers.” Of course, she’s a professional with real equipment and often does voice-overs in studios but I’m now recording this post with a towel
So happy that this post was longer than others. Binge-read it. As always, thank you for sharing your life so openly with us. 🤗
I think everyone has rose-tinted glasses in the beginning—well, almost everyone; there are always exceptions. Those are the people who truly know themselves and what they want (not what they think they want). Those of us who figure out our authentic selves are the lucky ones, even if that means divorce, break-ups, etc. Some poor souls keep looking for happiness in other people instead of themselves.