the best thing to happen

"I never thought he'd meet someone he loved more than himself!" 

"She's a beautiful addition to our family!... He's... 😬"

"She's the best thing to ever happen to this bunch of losers! They're so messed up... if anyone can fix it, she can.”

These are real quotes from members of my abusers family, over the course of roughly 36 hours.

Now what could possibly prompt three different members of his close relatives to say such things?

A wedding.

His wedding.

His and mine.

The first was the rehearsal dinner. His dad was making a speech (at my Ex's request) to the family and bridal party.

He shared a couple of amusing childhood memories, and said how excited he was for the nuptials the following afternoon. He didn't make much comment on me; I didn’t expect him to. We had only met a few times. As he finished his speech he lifted his glass and turned towards me "MacKenzie, I never thought he'd find someone he loved more than himself! I don't know how you did it. Congratulations!" There were a few uncomfortable chuckles from my friends and a couple of puzzled looks from my family. 

Everyone knew he had a selfish streak. It wasn't a secret. But I thought was OK being selfless enough for us both. I forced a laugh. I was a little uncomfortable with such personal struggles being shared as an amusing anecdote.

The second comment came roughly twenty four hours later. The wedding day was beautiful even if it never quite felt like my day (that’s a post for another day). The ceremony was over and the reception was in full swing. 

Ex’s aunt pulled my mom to a corner of the dance floor. “MacKenzie is a beautiful addition to our family. Ex is, well… 😬”. 

Mom said it definitely registered as odd that now two of his family members had commented on his character negatively, in fairly public settings, and in less than a day. She politely responded that she too was excited about the joining of our two families and moved on with the evening, not knowing this hat trick of commentary on Ex’s behavior was yet to come.

The final statement and probably the most telling came the following morning. Ex and I had left for our honeymoon, but our families bumped into each other at the hotel’s continental breakfast. They pulled up a table together and started chatting about the previous night’s events. A comment was made about about my addition to the family being a positive experience. This left the door wide open for his grandpa to speak. Big Papaw was not one to mince words and this was no exception. “She’s the best thing to ever happen to this bunch of losers! They’re so messed up. If anyone can fix it, she can” 

(spoiler alert. I couldn’t.)

Wow. 

Generations of hurt. Of self centered choices. Of entitlement and utter disregard for others’ wellbeing. And I, the twenty something young woman, was the key to fixing it all? I, who had only been truly enmeshed in this family for a year would be the one to repair these relationships wrought with the decay that only comes from years of neglect? 

This precedent was never voiced to me, but the expectation was set just the same. I was to be the saving grace of this family I had just entered. I was to be mediator, judge, and jury. I was to bring repairations through my love, and demonstrate how to be a functional family while being the only member to put the energy into that goal. 

When I uprooted my life in Illinois I was told I would be able to count on them as a support system. But somehow in the year and a half since I had moved, it had become clear my position was to be the sole source of support for the family in it’s entirety. I was drowning, and in my mind, it was entirely my fault.  

I agreed to this marriage but I seemed to always be falling short of expectations. Why couldn’t I do this? What was wrong with me? I should be able to shoulder this. I should be able to pull this entire family up by the bootstraps. 

Every time we spent time with his family I came back exhausted. I was constantly running interference, much in the same way I did in my preschool classrooms. 

There was one specific time I remember feeling that my efforts would always be in vain. Nanny and Big Papaw had decided to sell their home and downsize. They had a lovely home that was always neatly kept. Ex’s mom (we’ll call her MIL) had determined that she wanted to take a good deal of the furniture they couldn’t take with. I immediately saw the oncoming storm.

This furniture she planned to take had nowhere to go. The living room still had all her old furniture, most of which was permanently damp from dog urine, and the garage had been left to the three dogs for several years. The first time I set foot in the garage the stench was acrid and eye watering. My bare feet had gotten wet from one of the piles of laundry the dogs had been using as a toilet.  

I was only a few months out of treatment and had been explicitly told to take it easy. All the same, I volunteered my help. “Do you want a hand getting the living room ready? I don’t mind giving it a good scrub and I’m sure Ex could get a couple of friends to help move the furniture out!” 

MIL brushed me off “oh no. I’m just gonna put it in the garage until I can get to it”. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it pulsing in my ears. “Ok, well, if you change your mind…”

Nanny and Big Papaw’s moving day rolled around. The furniture was dropped at my mother in law’s home. We soon got a text I assume went out to all three of her children “I need help cleaning out the garage”. I was frustrated but not surprised. Ex made a point of grumbling the entire 10 minute drive to MIL’s house. I scolded him; reminded him his mom was on her own and we should be first in line to help.

We arrived and exchanged pleasantries. As the garage door opened my eyes started to adjust from the early spring sun to the dim garage but the smell hit me first. 

Urine. 

Mildew. 

Feces. 

Mold.

As my eyes adjusted I realized exactly how big a task we had agreed to and the danger it would pose to me. Piles of clothing strewn across the floor were soaked with dog urine and allowed to sit in a hot, damp, dark garage for probably years. Who knows what was growing on them. A large dresser sat overturned on one side of the garage, a couple drawers remained in it, most were scattered around it in various stages of decay and disrepair. A layer of petrified dog feces was crusted into the porous concrete floor. I couldn’t see it yet, but I was sure there was rodent droppings. I had seen them inside the house.This was too perfect an environment for them not to be out here too. 

I knew I was still weak from treatment. I knew I shouldn’t be anywhere near this amount of mold. I knew at bare minimum I should be wearing gloves and a mask. But I didn’t want to embarrass my mother in law. So we got to work.

 

The stench inside the garage was overwhelming. I had to take breaks to go outside for fresh air. There were debates about what clothing was salvageable. I wanted to scream. If it had been in a pile of dog waste for this long surely she wasn’t missing it all that much; but I kept my head down and continued to work.

We had been working for maybe an hour when his sister pulled into the driveway. Uh oh. MIL had been fuming that she was late. This wasn’t going to be pretty. Sure enough they started into it. It began with her tardiness but quickly unraveled into picking apart each other’s character flaws. 

I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me: Not my circus. His sister stormed off and drove away in a huff: Not my monkeys.

Ex made a snide comment to his mom about how she had scared off our only help. I cringed at what I knew was coming. Ugh. Why? Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut? MIL rounded on him so quickly I genuinely thought she was going to backhand him. She was closing the distance and fast. Damn it. My circus. My monkeys.
I was still trying to learn how to speak again. After all, I had my tongue amputated a few months ago. By the time I processed what I was doing I was already in between them. I found myself using the same tone I did with my preschoolers when they were unruly. “HEY! E-NOUGH! Both of you. Cool down.” I turned to MIL “I get you’re upset but this is NOT an appropriate response”. I turned to my ex “You and I both know that comment was uncalled for.” I looked back to his mom “MIL. Over there. There’s more clothing to go through.” Back to Ex “And you need to go through that dresser.”I looked between them “I’m going to take this broom and start sweeping. We all have our tasks so there’s no need to talk until we’re all calm.” 
I swept in silence. The petrified dog waste turned to dust under the broom that kicked up in clouds. I kept my head down and kept sweeping. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this but nobody was stopping me. Besides, if I left who would mediate for them?

Fast forward about a year, to when I got that exact question answered.

We were in the depths of divorce proceedings. He had refused to come to an agreement which meant we had to hire a mediator to the tune of several hundred dollars an hour. At one point the mediator trudged back into the room and through a heavy frustrated sigh said “Come on. Work with me! They’re yelling at me in there!”  

My initial emotion was anger. I had put up with this circus for years, done so freely with a smile, and never once complained. He was being paid hundreds of dollars to put up with it, and still felt he wasn’t being compensated appropriately. 

As I sat with it a moment I realized that I had been providing this very service to him and his family for years for free. No wonder I was tired. This was a job. And a lucrative one at that. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. But instead I simply gave a small downturned smile as I looked at my hands in my lap. I searched my mind for an empathetic response. I knew it was exhausting, the kind of exhausting that money doesn’t truely mitigate. I met his eyes and simply stated “I dont doubt that.” 

 I was a chef, a maid, a teacher, laundress, dietitian, and chauffeur but the job I actually fulfilled, the one that made me the best thing to happen, was moderator. The best thing to happen to them was to have me perform a service that would have cost thousands of dollars otherwise. 

 I thought these grown adults were my responsibility. I treated them much like a class of toddlers because they never demonstrated the capability for more. I thought I could shoulder the weight of their problems forever if it made him happy. But the thing is, I never paused to think if someone who truly honestly loved me would be willing to ask that of me. If I was the best thing to ever happen, then why would you insist on misuse to the point of failure? Why would you not foster the very thing you declared to be a gift?
Just because you are the best thing to happen to someone doesn’t necessarily mean you are obligated to continue to be the best thing in their lives. You are deserving of the kind of love that fosters each other’s growth and talent. You are far more than a resource to be used and discarded. You aren’t capable of being the best part of anyone’s life if you aren’t first the best part of your own.