Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing Read Online Free PDF Page B

BREAKDOWN

    “Rick, would you please rinse the breakfast dishes for me? I’ll wash them when I get home tonight,” I yelled as I was about to leave for my eight A.M. appointment with the speech coach.
    “That’s not my job,” Rick snapped.
    “Well, what exactly is your job?” I insensitively retorted. “During the last year-and-a-half since we’ve been married you’ve worked exactly four days. At least you could stop watching TV for an hour or stay away from your mother’s house one evening and help me with some of this housework. I can’t do everything.”
    From the beginning I knew that Rick was unnaturally devoted to his mother and loved her far more than he could ever love me. He wanted me to be like her, and I did my best to imitate her many good qualities. But I could never measure up. He used criticism to try to mold me into an acceptable human being. I didn’t respond well to it, however, and withdrew.
    “The insurance on the cars is due today,” he admonished me, completely ignoring all that I had said about helping me with housework.
    “Oh, no, that’s over 600 dollars! Can’t you pay half of it?” I pleaded.
    “That’s not our agreement. I made the down payment for the house. You pay for everything else,” he boldly reminded me.
    It didn’t take me long to see that our financial agreement was an unfair arrangement. But I had agreed to it and there was no turning back.
    I went out and slammed the door. Through the window I could see Rick return to his TV where he would spend the rest of the day while the dirty dishes sat on the counter. “It’s obvious that this marriage arrangement is not working out as I’d planned,” I thought as I drove to my speech coach.
    Living with a male roommate was definitely not what I’d expected. My loneliness had increased, and my fear and self-doubt had mounted. I began to feel that I was better off single. At least then I only had to support and clean up after one person. With my busy schedule and Rick doing nothing at home to help, I was constantly angry with him. There was no communication between us, and although we had a sexual relationship, there was no affection or tenderness outside of that. I needed more from him than he could give, and I resented him for not being able to give it. Silently I demanded that he love and adore me, but he couldn’t. He had his own problems, his own depression, and I was so steeped in mine that I couldn’t begin to understand his. I had no idea what he wanted out of our relationship, but I was sure he wasn’t finding it.
    As I drove along Benedict Canyon I passed Cielo Drive, the street where Sharon Tate had lived and the house where she and her friends were murdered. I shuddered. Even in the daytime I was afraid to drive there, but my speech coach was just down the canyon, so this was the most direct route from my house.
    “Hi, Gloria, sorry I’m late,” I mumbled as I walked past my speech coach into the warm, rustic living room typical of many canyon homes in Beverly Hills.
    “You look very tired. And why are you mumbling?” She showed her displeasure.
    “I am tired and I just had a fight with Rick.” I tried to speak slowly and remember all she had taught me.
    For years I had studied with different voice therapists to try and overcome a speech impediment I’d had since childhood. Hours and hours of tedious, boring exercises resulted in only minimal improvement month after month. As a child I tried to hide the problem by either being quiet or carefully rehearsing what I had to say. That’s why acting appealed to me. I could practice lines over and over, work them out with my speech coach, then say them without shame. Gloria had helped me tremendously. Besides regular speech therapy two times a week, I sought her expertise with every acting part I received. On this particular morning she was going to help me learn to speak my lines correctly before I went to the studio at ten.
    “Slow down—you’re