What goes around comes around (Lily’s Story) (2 page)

Greg and I first met at university, when I was barely nineteen. 
He had been my first (and only) real boyfriend – an ‘older’ guy of twenty-four
who had totally dazzled me.  He was tall and thin, with the kind of disregard for
fashion and physical appearance that had called to my emotionally scarred self-image. 
To be honest, with the way I felt about myself after the horror of school, I
expected it would be unlikely anyone would like me, let alone find me in any
way attractive.  It meant that I was pathetically grateful for any attention
from the opposite sex.  Greg was doing a fine art degree, but he was one of
those people who just seemed to know something about everything – a
worldly intellectual to my naive eyes who could run rings round me in any
argument and made me feel in awe of his greater wisdom.  It felt like I fell in
love the moment I saw him, hardly daring to believe that someone so magnificent
could want anything to do with me, even as a friend.  In the end I gave my
virginity to him and was happy to do so, despite the fact that, in retrospect, the
experience left much to be desired.  It certainly bore no relation to the toe-curlingly
delightful experiences I had read about in the romance novels I had devoured throughout
my adolescence.

I remember a lot of fumbling and pushing, followed by a
harder push, until he finally gained the entrance he sought, and I distinctly
remember being shocked that it had really hurt me at first; I suppose I wasn’t entirely
ready, especially with it being my first time and all, but his lust quickly
took over and made him oblivious to my responses, or lack of them.  He had
started moving quickly in and out of me anyway, caught up in his own rhythm.  The
initial discomfort eased slightly as my body had caught up.  And I recall it had
started to generate some nice feelings inside of me, so that I was starting to think
I might like it, when he had quite suddenly groaned and collapsed on top of me,
crushing me slightly as he lay there panting for a few moments, before swiftly pulling
out, rolling over onto the bed beside me and falling asleep virtually instantly. 

I was left lying there trying to get a handle on my
scattered emotions.  On the one hand I remember I felt joy at the loss of my
virginity finally, while on the other, a part of me registered that the
experience had been completely underwhelming, and somehow even at that stage I
couldn’t help wondering if there wasn’t meant to be slightly more to it.

On reflection, and with the twenty-twenty hindsight of a
much older (
and wiser?
) woman, the speed with which I moved in to share
a room with him, taking on the role of his washer woman, cleaner, cook and lover
should have set off some alarm bells.  My best friend at college, Emma, did try
to warn me many times, but to be honest I thought I was completely in love by
that stage, and therefore blind to any flaws in my new boyfriend.  I was happy when
he grudgingly let it be known that we were together. I put up with any
derogatory comments he made about me when we were with friends, despite Emma
telling me in anxious tones that I shouldn’t, that he was too controlling, that
I was losing my own identity.  To be fair to him, at times he could be a model
boyfriend – mostly when we were alone.  He ‘rewarded’ me with sex every
night, although it always followed a similar routine to that first time, no
real foreplay, just functional sex until he came; but despite my lack of sexual
fulfilment from the physical relationship, just the fact it was me he wanted to
have sex with every night was enough to see me through. 

The first fly in the ointment – and it was a massive,
bluebottle-sized fly – had come several months into our relationship when
Greg had pointed out that I was getting ‘even fatter’.  We had been out with
our main group of friends at the time, and he had made the comment as I had eased
back into my seat after having bought a round of drinks for everyone, narrowly
avoiding dropping the tray of full glasses as I squeezed back round the table. 
The comment had hurt a lot, especially seeing Greg laughing along with all the
others.  I laughed it off, saying it was probably contentment, but something
about the remark had niggled, and not just the cruelty coming from someone who
supposedly cared about me, made so very publicly about an issue he knew I was
sensitive about.  I was certain I wasn’t eating more; despite a bit more
alcohol in my life compared to my pre-university days, there really wasn’t any
reason for me to be putting on weight – and yet I knew subconsciously I
was. Only that morning I had changed into a skirt with an elastic waist because
my jeans hadn’t fit me.  It was the following day, while bemoaning the
unfairness of my life, and more particularly my weight, to Emma that she
tentatively asked if there could be any other reasons for my weight gain.  An
emergency rush to the chemist, followed by two pregnancy tests, and the reason
was depressingly clear – the rate of colour change on the little stick was
indisputable.  I was pregnant.  Worse was to come when, following a trip to the
GP, and then the antenatal clinic, I was found to be almost twenty weeks gone –
with twins.

I remember Greg had flipped his lid when I told him.  I had
never before seen him so incredibly angry. “You stupid bitch,” he had yelled, “how
the hell did you let that happen?”

“Well, how do you think?  We weren’t exactly as careful as
we could have been.  You didn’t always use a condom.”

It was true, we had often had sex without any sort of
protection, like that first time.  When I would nervously question it, he would
say it felt better without and would promise he’d withdraw in time. Clearly that
hadn’t happened, or at least not often enough or soon enough in the proceedings
to make a difference.  He had ranted at me that I was a “stupid cow who didn’t know
how to take the pill”; I had “ruined his life”, and he demanded I have a
termination, but in truth it was far too late.  I was already nearly 20 weeks by
the time I had found out.  And besides which, I had seen my babies on the scan –
there was no way I could get rid of them when I already loved them. 

My parents took it only marginally better than Greg when I
finally gathered the courage to tell them.  I had all the same “stupid girl”
and “ruined your lives” comments, combined with an extra dose of parental
disappointment and guilt, finishing with them telling me that if I was old
enough to behave like an adult, then I was old enough to face the adult
consequences which come along afterwards – like children.  After that
point they pretty much withdrew all financial and emotional support and have
barely had any involvement in our lives beyond the odd Christmas visit to see
the kids.

That had all happened eighteen years ago, and now my babies
were men themselves, in age if not behaviour.  It would be fair to say the
intervening years have not been plain sailing.  I had to drop out of
university, supposedly just for a few years until the children were older, but
in truth it just became too hard to go back once the kids arrived.  Greg had
carried on with his studies, because as he said at the time: ‘it was an
investment in our future, and it was only a matter of time before his work was ‘recognised’’;
and I stayed home in our bedsit, scraped by on benefits and looked after our
babies and Greg. 

The first couple of years were really hard, not that I think
we were anything special, just that babies are hard work anyway.  Make that two
babies with colic, teething, insufficient sleep and no money, and it didn’t
make for a happy mix, but I consoled myself with the fact we were okay as a
couple.  We were healthy, Greg’s studies were going well, he told me, and I
adored my babies.  While we might not have had any money, we still had each
other – we were coping, and Greg had stuck by me when he could have walked
away.  Greg’s sex drive had not diminished at all, kicking in a mere four weeks
after the birth of the boys, but this time I was on the pill.  We didn’t need
any more stress in the system, I figured, until we had sorted ourselves out (it
never happened).  We had finally succumbed to intense societal pressure and got
married after five years together, mainly due to the comments from Greg’s
parents about ‘how it looked’, which had eventually been too much stress for
Greg to handle.  Our boys, Adam and Ethan, had been our pageboys, and while it
had been a low-key event at the local registry office, I still thought it was a
nice party at the time, despite tripping on my grand entrance and Greg rolling
his eyes at me.  Everyone told me I looked tired and to take care of myself as
well as everyone else, but it was hard when there was so little time to do
anything but cope. 

When the boys finally started full-time school, I managed to
get myself my job.  At that time Greg had just been finishing his Masters in
Art History, so that clearly needed to be his main focus, while I started first
in an administrator position at the local doctors’ surgery during school hours,
before moving on to reception work.  Over the course of the years, my effort
and loyalty were noticed.  Consequently I was rewarded by the practice investing
in me: allowing me to do some courses and helping me to move up the ranks,
finally taking on some of the business management responsibilities.  The
increase in money had really helped at home and allowed us to move out of the
bedsit and into a very small three-bedroom semi with a very large mortgage
(those were the heydays when they leant money to people who couldn’t possibly
afford to repay it), in what the estate agent had described as an ‘up and
coming’ part of town. In other words, it was a bit of a dive area, but it was a
step up from where we had been. At least the kids had a bit of a garden to play
in while Greg had a small studio in the garden for his painting.  It was
actually a large shed with lots of windows, but he was happy, so we all were. 

That tended to be the pattern in our married life – if
Greg was happy, we were all allowed to be, but if he wasn’t, then God help us.

At the same point my career had begun to develop
unexpectedly, Greg began to find that life after university was turning into a major
disappointment.  It seemed there was a surfeit of arts students fighting for
positions and recognition, and Greg’s lack of willingness to compromise meant
he refused to apply for anything which would get his foot in the door if he
deemed it unworthy of his skills, regardless of our need for income.  He continued
to channel his energies into his paintings; convinced people would eventually see
his brilliance and rightly reward him with commissions, only to find himself
thwarted time and time again.  With every knock back, I watched his bitterness seem
to grow exponentially, and we all suffered for it at home, creating a toxic
environment the family had to live in.  In the meantime, I carried a full-time
job and parenthood.

If I’m honest I would say Greg was, and is, resentful of any
paltry success I may have had despite it being a million miles away from the
writing career I had always imagined for myself.  What I’ve found hardest,
though, is that eventually his constant belittling of my achievements has rubbed
off on my beloved boys.  They believe his propaganda: that I have been a bad
mother for prioritising my career above their care, making them feel neglected
despite the need for income to put food on the table and presents in their
stockings at Christmas.  The tirade of criticism from Greg has become a chorus,
as the boys are now old enough to join in, and I have become just too weary to
fight back.  The only constants in our married life as the years have ticked by
have been sex and criticism, and sometimes (if I am really unlucky) both.  Greg
still likes sex most nights, and if I dare to suggest I might be tired, he claims
it as his right.  Most of the time I just let him, as he doesn’t need much
involvement from me to get what he wants, but sometimes I get angry and resist. 
On those occasions Greg usually gets off on it.  He actually seems to like it more
when I put up some resistance; it brings a fire into his eyes which I don’t
normally see there.  The sex is passionate in a way that our sex life usually isn’t,
and it’s on those rare occasions that I have very occasionally orgasmed. The
first time had been such a surprise after so many years without that I had
cried, partly due to guilt; regretting I had responded physically to such
dominant, controlling behaviour and feeling I had failed womankind somehow by enjoying
it, and partly because of the immense joy I felt from experiencing such a
beautifully intense sensation and release.  I don’t think Greg even noticed. 

I have no idea how much the people around us, our so-called
friends, know about the reality of our lives, but I put on a good show and have
genuinely tried to do the best I can for all three of them, whatever their
criticism of me.  To most onlookers, I guess Greg and I seem to have a happy
marriage with staying power. In truth, I just don’t think I have the energy to
go anywhere.

If I think back, I believe it was when the boys had their eighteenth
birthday that something inside of me finally clicked.  My maternal duty felt
like it was done, and somehow it seemed permissible to put myself first again. 
Hence my awakening: allowing myself to hear and listen to the words spoken by the
lady on the T.V., followed by the resulting trip to the gym. While my critical
inner demons tell me I am insane to think there is any point in trying to do
anything about my life, that it’s essentially already over and that I should
really just crawl into a corner and sit there quietly for the remainder of my
days, there is still a small kernel of hope inside me which tells me to try,
that I still have something to offer the world, that I am good at my job and
could be good at other things if I tried. 

As I head out the door of the gym to get back into my car,
having dried and dressed myself back into the anonymous uniform of my daily
life, it feels as if the kernel of hope has grown slightly, nourished by the
time spent exercising my body, and I resolve to go again.  I wave at Stuart, who
is just leaving the building as I drive away, and I wince as I graze the hubcap
on the kerb due to my lack of attention to the road.  I glance in my rear-view
mirror, hoping I got away without him seeing anything, only to catch sight of him
grinning at my departing car.