A Bad Marriage Is Fattening
Can a bad marriage really be fattening? Yes it can! In my own bad marriage I went from 125 pounds to 275 pounds 20 years later. This is the story of how my unhappy marriage made me fat — and how I divorced my husband and moved on to a happier new life.

Chapter 4: Lost In My Fantasy

The year was 1972 when Paul told me he didn’t love me.  My relationship with Paul continued on because I was a woman who told herself fantasies, as women often do, when they don’t want to know the truth.

The fantasy I told myself was that Paul really loved me, but he was scared of marriage.

For the next three years I never mentioned the word marriage until December 1975.  By then Paul and I had been going together for five years and I was 31 years old.

Paul and I had nicknames for each other.  I called him Porgie and he called me Pussycat.

When I was in a playful mood, I would say to Paul, “Porgie, I love you!”

“Ummm hmmm,” Paul would answer me back.  His lips would be tightly closed as he acknowledged what I had said.

“Ummm hmmm what?” I would ask Paul teasingly. “Ummm hmmm you love me?  Or ummm hmmm you don’t love me?”

“Ummm hmmm,” Paul would say.

“Come on, Porgie,” I would coax Paul, “say you love me.”

“I love you, Pussycat,” Paul would croak.

Every Christmas Paul would fly to New York to visit his mother.  I decided that it would be a wonderful idea if Paul and I flew to New York that Christmas of 1975 and got married.

I thought it would make his 71-year-old widowed mother happy to see her only child married, and then I would become pregnant and make her a grandmother.

“Oh, Porgie, imagine how happy it would make your mother if we were to get married.”

“Ummm hmmm,” Paul said.

I took Paul’s “Ummm hmmm” to mean yes.

I talked incessantly to Paul about our up coming nuptials and how happy this was going to make his mother.

Paul was totally agreeable.  He said, “Ummm hmmm,” to everything.

A couple of days before Paul and I were scheduled to fly to New York, I went shopping and bought new clothes for the trip.  I even purchased a white peignoir that I intended to wear on our wedding night.

When I came home I went to hang my new clothes in the closet.  To my dismay Paul’s side of the closet was empty.

I ran to the dresser and pulled open the drawers.  Paul’s underwear, socks and handkerchiefs were missing.

I went dashing through the entire apartment trying to take an inventory of everything that was missing.  (Since 1972 Paul and I had moved into a one bedroom apartment.)

Paul’s antique gun collection, guitar, medical reference books, skis, skiing poles and skiing boots were all gone.

Everything of mine was in place – my jewelry, clothes, books, writing – everything.

The blood raced through my head.  I tried to figure out what had happened.  There could be only one explanation.  We had been robbed.

I collapsed on the couch.  This burglar had just ruined my entire life.  When Paul found out that we had been burglarized he was not going to be in any mood to marry me.

My hand trembled as I dialed Paul at work.  “Paul,” I said when I heard his voice over the phone and then I broke down and cried, “I have the most terrible news to tell you.  A burglar broke into our apartment and stole everything that belonged to you.  It’s awful!  Everything is gone — your gun collection – everything!”  I sobbed uncontrollably into the phone.

“Joanie,” came Paul’s calm voice, “we were not robbed.”

“What are you saying?  Paul, you don’t understand.  I’m sitting here in a half empty apartment.  I know it’s shocking!”

“Joanie,” came Paul’s calm voice, “I want you to listen to me.”

“I’m listening to you, Paul.  Should I call the police?”

“Joanie, don’t call the police,” Paul said firmly.

My mind was on one track.  “But I have to do something, Paul – we’ve been robbed.”

“We haven’t been robbed, Joanie.”

Tears streamed down my cheeks.  What could I say to make him understand? He was in shock like I was.

“Joanie, I want you to listen to me,” Paul said calmly, “I’ve moved out.”

What was he saying?

“I’m not going to marry you.  I’m going alone to visit my mother.”

No this can’t be true.

“The apartment is paid for until January 31st.  You have a little over a month to think about what you want to do.  I suggest you buy some new tires for your car and drive to Oregon and live with your brothers for awhile.”

What was he talking about?  The apartment, the 31st, Oregon.  My life.  My life has ended.”

I hung up the phone without replying.

For a long time I sat in silence, not moving, just staring vacantly into space.  I watched the leaves from the big tree outside our patio window cast their dancing shadows on the white wall of our living room.  The room slowly began to darken.  I never moved.  It was like time had stopped.  When the room was pitch black the telephone rang piercing the silence.  I didn’t bother to answer it.  It kept ringing and ringing and ringing until I finally picked up the receiver and placed it to my ear, saying nothing.

“Joanie, I know you can hear me,” came Paul’s concerned voice.  “Look, I don’t want you doing anything foolish – like committing suicide.”

“I won’t,” I promised numbly, “I’m already dead.”

3 Responses to “Chapter 4: Lost In My Fantasy”

  1. My friend told me about your blog. It’s very interesting and you are a very good writer. I read this like a novel. I can’t wait to read the next chapter!

  2. This post read splendidly. Keeps me hungry for more!

  3. I usually don’t post in Blogs but your blog forced me to, amazing work.. beautiful!


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