I was not subject to an arranged marriage. Though I have acquaintances from India who have benefited greatly from such arrangements. I was not wed when I was 16, but I know more than a few people who wed at very early ages. None of the thoughts indicative of this blog's title apply.
I wed my beloved wife (and she is truly my beloved) when I was 26. She was the first woman that I trusted who did not betray my trust. She became my best friend and I asked her to be mine forever whilst we cuddled on her bed on a simple, TV watching afternoon. That simple explanation covers how my family began. But the fact that it began in mid to late 20's, without ever having previously been involved in a real relationship, requires some explanation.
When I was a boy of 6, I learned the hardest lesson of my young life. I became aware that I was adopted by my dad. The man raising me did not give me his genetics because someone else played that role- a man that I still have not met at 38 years of age. My dad (and he is my dad for certain) chose to love me as his own. My father for reasons unbeknownst to me, short of an assumption regarding his own youth, left my mother and a three week old Jamie for a different life. I was ill equipped for that knowledge; I was anything but emotionally capable of facing it. Devastation enveloped my little being.
I recall the chilled Saturday morning when my poor dad took me out to get new tires at the local Big-O franchise. In the front seat of a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle, I sat. And in that canary yellow vehicle that was rolling down East Pages Lane in Louisville, I learned my truth. Let me assure everyone, the truth does not always set you free. Sometimes that sonofabitch slaps handcuffs on you that just do not let go. And that is what happened to me. From that day on I would have issues with trust, relationships, desires and God.
While my friends were becoming increasingly committed to their carnal urges, I was entrenched in my own personal pain. When they were getting their first kiss, I was listening to a preacher convince me that even looking at woman's firm bottom meant a sure fire trip to everlasting condemnation. The cocktail was mixing at a furious pace. I was bloated with hellfire, damnation, abandonment issues and pain. And no one was noticing that I was different because I was so broken. Why would they? We were young and physical fervor was paramount. Adults paid attention to kids who genuinely showed damage not to the kid that was just labeled "shy" or "too smart for his own good". The problem is that I was not shy; I was lost.
I was interested in girls. But I was not interested in the girls who showed interest in me. It was not because they weren't good enough or because they weren't attractive enough. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was only interested in girls that I could never have- girls already in relationships, girls on the other side of the tracks, girls who simply saw nothing but friendship in me. It was easier that way. If I could not be involved with someone I wanted then I could not be further harmed (or go to Hell for "giving into the flesh"). My solidarity and the commitment to faith that some admired and others found so confusing was a self-imposed, immature logic. My "denial of the flesh" was not some great WWJD stand; it was a mask that did me far more harm than good.
I simply chose not to live. I opted out of being a normal teenager, a normal kid. I believed wholeheartedly that my way was the right one and that my eternal soul depended upon my never enjoying the company of a girlfriend. And I believed this in spite of what I was witnessing amongst my friends and schoolmates. I am certain that my disregard for lovely, potential partners hurt a few girls. (And I carry that guilt with me still.)
I was smitten with a few girls at various points who would return my interest fleetingly and then destroy my weak self-esteem with a wave of their hand. But they were meaningless short of one or two. Only my Lisa ever accepted my brokenness, appreciated my trust and did not harm me with impunity. It's no wonder that I love her so extremely. When you add to the mix that she is not even remotely close to being from the faith in which I was raised, and that we spent most of our time building our friendship with beer and tequila, it is laughable to think of the "going to Hell in a handbasket" upbringing that I experienced. She is nothing that I ever thought that I needed and she is everything that I could have ever desired.
Did S maul me? Yes. Did H bruise me? Yes. Did I crush on A because I could not have her and I knew it? You betcha. Did I break the hearts of another A, M, C and more? Likely. And I am sorry for that if any of you are reading.
Now did anything I learned while sitting in a pew help me through this? Nope. Do I believe that a greater Power must exist because my broken being was not condemned to isolation or incessant emotional bleeding? You had better believe that I do.
I wed my beloved wife (and she is truly my beloved) when I was 26. She was the first woman that I trusted who did not betray my trust. She became my best friend and I asked her to be mine forever whilst we cuddled on her bed on a simple, TV watching afternoon. That simple explanation covers how my family began. But the fact that it began in mid to late 20's, without ever having previously been involved in a real relationship, requires some explanation.
When I was a boy of 6, I learned the hardest lesson of my young life. I became aware that I was adopted by my dad. The man raising me did not give me his genetics because someone else played that role- a man that I still have not met at 38 years of age. My dad (and he is my dad for certain) chose to love me as his own. My father for reasons unbeknownst to me, short of an assumption regarding his own youth, left my mother and a three week old Jamie for a different life. I was ill equipped for that knowledge; I was anything but emotionally capable of facing it. Devastation enveloped my little being.
I recall the chilled Saturday morning when my poor dad took me out to get new tires at the local Big-O franchise. In the front seat of a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle, I sat. And in that canary yellow vehicle that was rolling down East Pages Lane in Louisville, I learned my truth. Let me assure everyone, the truth does not always set you free. Sometimes that sonofabitch slaps handcuffs on you that just do not let go. And that is what happened to me. From that day on I would have issues with trust, relationships, desires and God.
While my friends were becoming increasingly committed to their carnal urges, I was entrenched in my own personal pain. When they were getting their first kiss, I was listening to a preacher convince me that even looking at woman's firm bottom meant a sure fire trip to everlasting condemnation. The cocktail was mixing at a furious pace. I was bloated with hellfire, damnation, abandonment issues and pain. And no one was noticing that I was different because I was so broken. Why would they? We were young and physical fervor was paramount. Adults paid attention to kids who genuinely showed damage not to the kid that was just labeled "shy" or "too smart for his own good". The problem is that I was not shy; I was lost.
I was interested in girls. But I was not interested in the girls who showed interest in me. It was not because they weren't good enough or because they weren't attractive enough. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was only interested in girls that I could never have- girls already in relationships, girls on the other side of the tracks, girls who simply saw nothing but friendship in me. It was easier that way. If I could not be involved with someone I wanted then I could not be further harmed (or go to Hell for "giving into the flesh"). My solidarity and the commitment to faith that some admired and others found so confusing was a self-imposed, immature logic. My "denial of the flesh" was not some great WWJD stand; it was a mask that did me far more harm than good.
I simply chose not to live. I opted out of being a normal teenager, a normal kid. I believed wholeheartedly that my way was the right one and that my eternal soul depended upon my never enjoying the company of a girlfriend. And I believed this in spite of what I was witnessing amongst my friends and schoolmates. I am certain that my disregard for lovely, potential partners hurt a few girls. (And I carry that guilt with me still.)
I was smitten with a few girls at various points who would return my interest fleetingly and then destroy my weak self-esteem with a wave of their hand. But they were meaningless short of one or two. Only my Lisa ever accepted my brokenness, appreciated my trust and did not harm me with impunity. It's no wonder that I love her so extremely. When you add to the mix that she is not even remotely close to being from the faith in which I was raised, and that we spent most of our time building our friendship with beer and tequila, it is laughable to think of the "going to Hell in a handbasket" upbringing that I experienced. She is nothing that I ever thought that I needed and she is everything that I could have ever desired.
Did S maul me? Yes. Did H bruise me? Yes. Did I crush on A because I could not have her and I knew it? You betcha. Did I break the hearts of another A, M, C and more? Likely. And I am sorry for that if any of you are reading.
Now did anything I learned while sitting in a pew help me through this? Nope. Do I believe that a greater Power must exist because my broken being was not condemned to isolation or incessant emotional bleeding? You had better believe that I do.
