Art by: Stephen Mackey
It was October the 29th, back when I hated myself the most. It was a time when I couldn’t go a day without crying. Why was I crying? A broken heart. I fell in love with someone that broke me open, our love broke us open. We triggered our childhood wounds that we didn’t even know we had. Well, we had clues they were there, but our love made these wounds be felt in such an intense way. It was that crazy type of love that keeps you up at night. We were mirrors for each other and sometimes, it’s really hard to look at the mirror. I didn’t even know my brain could function the way it was during this time. Every time he pulled away, I felt insane. My mind and heart shattered, each time. The most maddening part is, that he didn’t pull away because he didn’t like me, he pulled away because he loved me. His childhood wounds were different than mine. His mother died when he was young, so every time he felt the deep love he had for me, he disappeared. Losing a mother at a young age can make someone fearful of true intimacy and vulnerability. A true avoidant, I would say. And for me, I had a big rejection and worthlessness childhood wound that followed me forever. So every time he did pull away, my anxiety took over and it was hard to breathe at times. I felt so rejected, just like I did, as a child.
Anyway. It was October 29th and I looked like shit from crying so hard the night before. My eyes looked so puffy and dead looking. His distance became unbearable. The loneliness made me repeat intrusive thoughts that I don’t even want to admit. I needed to give my tear glands a break, this I knew.
Thankfully I had plans to go to a Halloween party. My friend’s Halloween party that she throws every year. I thought, I can put makeup over my sadness and lean into the purpleness of my eyes from the tears that I cried the night before. I decided to be a dead bride because it was two things that seemed so far away from my reality. I had my step mother’s wedding dress in the closet that I pulled out for fun every once in a while, what a perfect time to wear it.
As I got ready, alone. I looked at myself with this wedding dress on and thought, “Will this ever be me? Will I ever get to wear a wedding dress?” This question I told myself was too deep for me to ask right before a social event, like a Halloween party. So I moved on and left the house.
Auguste Toulmouche, The Reluctant Bride, 1866
On my way to the party, I stopped at the store to pick up a six pack. Beer is always a good option to bring at parties. As I walked through the aisle of my local Jiffy Store in my dead bride outfit, I started to feel lighter. Looking at people with Halloween costumes on in public spaces made me giggle to myself. It was a vibe and made me feel a little cozier.
I grabbed the beer and suddenly I noticed a preteen in a zombie outfit walking straight to me. I kinda looked back to see if he was walking towards someone else, he wasn’t. He went straight to me.
He said, “I didn’t know you were supposed to be here. You said you weren’t supposed to be here.” It kinda took me off guard a bit. I’ve never seen this kid in my life before. Ever. I finally replied back and said, “Sorry I think you have the wrong person.” He stands there, looking at my face. It got real awkward, I had to slowly move out of the way towards the front. The boy’s eyes followed me. Like where is your parents young boy? For real.
I finally got to the cashier and no one was behind the counter. I looked to see if the cashier was around, I only saw, what seems to be a few other customers. The young boy approached me again. He looked at my bridal outfit and said, “You’re gonna die a bride. Not a literal death. An emotional death. Ball and chain. Your future husband, the person in your heart, will put a chain on you that will have the heaviest iron ball. That’s how he will control you. You will wear his mother's jacket and carry his trauma. You will drown. We tried to keep you away. And now you’re here and you weren’t supposed to be here.”
Vasili Vladimirovich Pukirev, The Unequal Marriage, 1862
The cashier appeared, I quickly paid and walked out. I didn’t have anything more to say to the young boy. I didn’t understand why he thought he knew me. Gosh, it felt like maybe he did know me.
Not even thirty seconds passed and I saw my ghost phantom, my love. My mirror. My heart dropped. He was smoking a cigarette with a black tuxedo on. His blue eyes pierced through my heart. We smiled at each other. I saw his fake vampire teeth, he looked handsome with his costume. Vampire, what a choice, it was a metaphor that I didn’t even catch at the time. The life he slowly sucked away from me. We looked like a bride and groom already. We spent the night together, people thought we did a clever couples costume. We didn't have the energy to tell the real truth, that it’s been six months since we have spoken. That night, we decided to be together again.
Three months pass and he got down on one knee and asked for my hand in marriage. I said, “Yes.” Then I said, “I do.” The wedding itself was bigger than I wanted, he wanted the big wedding and I would have been fine doing a court house wedding. Walking down the aisle with a beautiful vintage 1940s dress on, I looked gorgeous. If only how I looked on the outside equaled how I felt inside. Each step I took, I felt the weight of my emotions getting heavier and heavier. You see, we weren’t in a good place before our wedding day. He became distant, not physically, emotionally. He would go out with his friends as he forced me to stay home. He was so frightened of losing me, especially to another man. His jealousy reached a toxic peak, I was conflicted. I would look at my ring and thought how shiny it was, my wounded self thought I wouldn’t have a chance to get another ring from someone else. So I stayed. As a wife, the energy of the young boy echoed daily through the walls I was confined to, by choice. I thought maybe, I wasn’t suppose to be at that Jiffy Store on October 29th buying that beer at that moment in time. Then I thought, the type of person my husband is, and the obsessiveness he has over me, we would have reconnected again. And again. The young boy was right. I did die as a bride, a lonely death. I was still breathing, but stopped feeling, stopped crying, stopped living. Numbness went through my body. My social life ended and I would have dreams about it starting again, and meeting people, possibly falling in love with another. Then that dream stopped and I lived on with my nightmare. The chain hurts my ankle as I drag the iron ball like a ghost through this house. The loop I’m in with him will last until my real death. The way he watches me, every move I make. The way I smile as if I’m actually feeling something that makes my mouth muscles move involuntary. Our traumas made us mirrors and our mirrors made us become a rubber band. We stretch out, far enough, to snap back together again. Writing from my golden cage. Happy wife, happy life. “Till Death Do Us Part.”
Firs Sergeyevich Zhuravlev
1911. Frederick William Elwell – The Wedding Dress
Thanks for reading,
Elisa Victoria