Thursday, January 24, 2013

Home, Once Upon a Time


One of the things I have found about being so sick is a tendency towards nostalgia about bygone days.  Another way of putting it would be wallowing in the past.  It can be an exercise in fond memories or a descent into self-pitying regrets.  If I am not careful, I can go way too far into darkness, where to re-hash sadder times is pointless.  It is one thing to learn from one’s mistakes and move on, quite another to relive the same sorrow over and over, to open that book of pain and keep reading.  I try to find a balance, but it is hard.  Pity parties can be such fun.

In a particularly idle moment the other night, I typed into Google the address of the first apartment Dennis and I lived in together, rented in an act of daring months before we were actually married.  It was on East 65th Street in Manhattan, a locale with a usually chic cachet.  But our apartment, on the top floor of a five story walk-up, was a classic Barefoot in the Park pit. I used to joke the tiny one bedroom was the only tenement on the upper East Side.  There was a single sink in the place, immediately to your right when you walked in the door.  The tub had once been in the “kitchen”, a five by five open space with a refrigerator against the wall along with a teeny, ancient stove that had to be lit with a match.  There was a little counter bordering one side with open shelves underneath.  No cabinets.  Crude plywood enclosed the tub.  There was no door on that space, so I hung a curtain over the opening.  Very Bohemian.

The toilet was in a separate little closet all by itself.  It had a skylight, which leaked when it rained or snowed.  The floors were the original wide planks, painted white in the bedroom and covered with hideous dark brown faux wood vinyl tile in the little space that passed as the living room.  There was actually a wood-burning fireplace in the bedroom.  We often had to use it for heat as the building’s boiler was frequently broken.  There was no closet. 

Yet I loved it.  I was thrilled to be living in the city.  Every step on the long walks to and from the subway reminded me of how happy I was to be back in New York, where I had grown up before my parents moved us to New Jersey when I was 12.  That sense of energy and unlimited adventure was what New York represented to me.  But as pleased as I was to be there, I have no photos of the place, except for one of me smiling, sitting on the bed with our puppy in my lap.  All you can see is the wall behind me, so it is pointless to even post it here, except that it shows I was happy at least once.  Mostly when I remember that year it is through a mist of pain and disillusionment.  Our brand new marriage was going badly and I was shattered.  I had been so certain that my all-consuming love for him would be enough, but nothing could heal the broken history he carried with him.  Neither of us knew how to be a spouse, so we did what we had learned.  We each stayed in our family roles:  I put on a relentlessly cheerful face and he engaged in deeply wounding abuse, the way he had always been treated and the way his family treated each other.    

I was working as an editorial assistant at Avon Books in the landmark Hearst Building on 57th Street and Eighth Avenue.  It should have been a dream job for anyone who had been an English major, but I hated it.  As a guileless kid, faced with the back stabbing and cut throat ambition, I was completely out of my league.  By that time I was expecting our first baby and that was all I cared about.  I just wanted to be a mother.  I had no other career goal.   But if I was unhappy at work, I was desolate at home, frightened by the hurtful stranger I was married to.  I was confused because I was so nice to him, yet it made no difference.  Sometimes he would be warm and loving, sometimes cruel and cutting.  I never knew which I was going to get, so I was constantly on guard.  I was only 22 years old, naïve and with no alternative but to stay with him. My mother had provided this helpful wedding day advice: you’ve made your bed, you have to lie in it.  She made it clear there was no recourse there.  I was emotionally exhausted and we had only been married a few weeks.   Because hope springs eternal, and because I did not have resources or the courage to do anything else, this would be the pattern for the next seventeen years, ending only with his fatal heart attack at the age of 40.

So the little apartment I had been so excited about became a symbol to me of the beginning of a long, hard road.  What I had entered into with such optimism came to be a place that echoed with anger and disappointment.  We lived there for a year before moving to Brooklyn to be near his family.

Incredibly, when I Googled the address the other night, a realtor posting popped up.  It was for the exact same apartment we had lived in.  At first I thought I was being silly, that would be too much of a coincidence.  I looked at the pictures, nothing like the shabby little dump we had had.  We had no shiny new floors, recessed lighting or exposed brick.  But the more I looked, the more I could see the footprint of what had been.  The transformation was jaw dropping.  Our rent had been $165 a month.  The current rent was now $2,350.  For a fifth floor walk up with no proper bathroom and no closets at all.     

Here is the layout of the apartment as we had known it:

The front of the building, pretty much the same:




And here are pictures of its present day transformation with notes on the original configuration:






So the memories have been flooding me over the past week, how sad it was that two young people, two good people, should have lived in so much unhappiness.  But of course nothing is black and white and there were some good moments, and laughter.  Dennis bought our Christmas tree at the florist around the corner, Exotic Flowers.  But he didn’t cross the “x” on the check, so it looked like he had purchased something at Erotic Flowers.  We laughed about that for a long time, our erotic Christmas tree.  Our puppy Ellie was a constant source of fun.  Sometimes Dennis would surprise me by meeting me at the door as I came out of work and we would walk home together through the Manhattan twilight.  Most of all though, we were overjoyed about our coming baby.  We were both thrilled about becoming parents and loved our precious child from the moment we knew. 

And there was this.  Right before we moved in, Dennis was painting the apartment.  One evening before he quit for the day, he playfully painted something on one of the unfinished walls.  If an archeologist scraped though the dozens of layers of paint that have probably been applied since 1976, they would find in big letters “I LOVE MARIE LYNN”.  Me.  And I hang onto that, the most important thing to remember.  Despite the things he did and said, I think that deep down he really did.  As I loved him.  If only we had known how to prove it to each other.



Photobucket






Did you like what you read? Let others know. Thanks!

8 comments:

Cheryl said...

Oh, Marie...what a bittersweet story. Nostalgia is an allusive thing, isn't it. It comes and goes in wafts of memories both good and bad.

I felt your pure joy in living in the city but the sorrow is evident as well.

I know that your "looking over" your memory bank is more pronounced because of your illness but I have found myself more and more nostalgic as I age. There is something about knowing that the bulk of your years are behind you that prompts people to analyze their life, I guess.

I lived a life that is the reverse to yours. I lived with a single father that was a powder keg. I lived day to day never knowing when he would blow up and do horrible things. By the time I married I was an emotional mess without an ounce of self esteem.

I married a man that thought/thinks I am perfect....so after awhile I starting coming out of my shell. 42 years later, I am still happy with him and our 2 grown children.

I love that your little apartment was a place that you had some joy though. I, too remember the joy of anticipating the first baby.

Isn't it amazing that you found your apartment online. Really charming.

Changing the subject..how are you doing???I hope all is going well.

Muffie said...

A beautiful, though sad, story. Thank you for sharing it! I thought you had been a nurse? Will the story continue? Please?
Peace,
Muff

Patty Woodland said...

When you look back, look back and find the joy. Looking at the bad does nothing. None of it can be changed. Maybe I should be happy I can't remember?

Jane Turley said...

I am glad to see you writing again, Marie:) I know this post probably means you're a bit downbeat and reflective at the moment- but on the other hand you've written it which is a very positive thing - and maybe writing those thoughts will act as a catharsis.You have had a rich emotional life, Marie, which has been full of love and despair but ultimately that has made you who you are - one of the funniest, warmest people I know. And that is a true gift:)

On a side note, the first flat Mr T and I lived in was above a jewellers. It had bars on the windows and when you sat in bath you could hear about fifty clocks chiming on the hour. Ah.. those were the days:)

Marie said...

Thank you all for your warm and loving comments! What would I do without your incredible support and encouragement?!?!

Cheryl - thank you so much for your kind words. I've said this so often before - it is heartbreaking we do not always get the wonderful parents we deserve. Some are simply indifferent, but it is especially cruel when you have a deliberately abusive parent. I am so sorry you had that experience.

But it sounds as though you were one of the lucky ones to escape and find a loving spouse. I am so happy for you!

Thanks so much for asking how I am doing. I'm hanging in there, currently going for lymphedema treatment for my legs, which is quite an ordeal, but it should be successful in reducing my leg pain. The breathing is still not so great, but I am just taking one day at a time.

Muffie - I am so glad you like the post! I am a licensed nurse, but I started out with a degree in English. Then I became a childbirth educator and breastfeeding instructor, then I went to nursing school. I worked mostly in administrative nursing rather than clinical after my husband died so I could work business hours and not be away from my kids on weekends and holidays. Then I went back to school for my Master's, this time in Corporate Communication. I love school. I would go forever if I could. :)

Patty - excellent advice, my friend. Thank you for being such a faithful reader. :)

Jane - thank you so much for your lovely comment. Your kind words brought me to tears. You are such a dear, dear friend.

That is a great note about your first flat. Clocks and bars! So romantic. lol xoxo

Anji said...

I was fortunate enough to escape my first 'love' before marriage trapped us

We go past our first appartment building from time to time. I'd love the chance to see how it has changed over the years - hopefully decorated to look brighter. Even though we were on the top floor, somehow mosquitoes seemed to be the problem in the toilet!

The building you lived in looks exactly like the ones we see in the movies.

Despite everything you remember the good times too.

Shorespinner said...

I'm so proud of you for putting these words down. You have been so good at being upbeat for so long, and I know how painful it is for you to bring this into the light. I don't know if you ever saw this quote at one of the altars at St. John the Divine - What is not recognized cannot be redeemed. I know that you always loved Dennis, and he always loved you. That must also be recognized.

Marie said...

Anji - Thanks, as always for your sweet comment. I love to imagine your Continental life. :) And I love your first sentence! So profound!

Shorespinner - Thank you for your loving and affirming words. I do not remember seeing that particular altar, but the sentiment is apt. There was much pain over the years but there was much love and laughter as well. How lucky I was to share it some of it with you. :) It feels good, too, to write about it, finding the balance in the good and the bad.