I'm
meandering a bit in the labyrinth of my thoughts and getting ahead of
myself. While attending graduate school evenings I continued working
at the State Hospital to pay for the tuition and fees as well as the
rent for my apartment and food. The day shift, of course, was
prime time in the institution, when most of the off-ward activities
took place. This was how I got involved in the Art Therapy project
for my Masters Thesis. I also got assigned to various wards in a kind
of staff rotation policy to keep people on their toes I suppose. It
kept me on my toes alright, but the fickle finger of fate also came
along and knocked me off my feet. A kind of temporary insanity
overcame my better and more sober judgment.
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|
It
amuses me, now, to say I met M., my first wife, in an insane asylum in
1970. She was a professional Registered Nurse on one of the wards
that I worked on. But she was nothing like Nurse
Ratched in Ken Kessey's One Flew Over
the Cuckoo's Nest. She
was from a wealthy and prominent family in the city, but she was far
from being the “debutante”. She was, although expensively
well-dressed, imbued with the new Aquarian ethos of the
period—harmony and understanding, sympathy and trust abounding, and
all that. And I had also been caught up in the anti-war and social
liberation revolution sweeping campuses across America in the late
60s. So, we both seemed to have a lot in common, at least at first
blush. She was already a professional nurse and I, although merely an
aide, was a BA working on a Masters with seemingly bright future
prospects. We began to see each other socially and one thing led to
another and suddenly there was talk of marriage. Considering our
different socio-economic backgrounds I never felt entirely
comfortable with the idea. Much against my better judgement and wallet I had to buy expensive clothes from boutiques to be presentable at a country club wedding reception. I had been a K-Mart shopper until then. But wedding plans take on a life
of their own and develop a certain force of inevitability and a
momentum that is difficult to stop despite a nagging little voice in
the back of one's mind.
 |
wedding reception -
with my parents, my brother (best man) and his wife |
We
were married (in my boutique suit) in November, 1970 and moved into a new condo that was far more
expensive than my previous apartment. I also had to have surgery for
a deviated septum which took a long time to heal and would develop
nose bleeds at inopportune times--like, one time, in the middle of a party. Not a pretty sight. Anyhow, without going into the grim
details, the marriage lasted about six months and ended in
separation, and divorce about another six months later. It was my
fault. I simply wasn't ready to settle down to a married life style.
I had had misgivings beyond the usual pre-nuptual jitters, but plans
and arrangements had gone too far and I hadn't the courage to call
the whole thing off. The wanderlust was on me and I felt hemmed in
with the demands of married life, work and study. There was also the
pressure to achieve on an economic level that I could neither
realistically aspire to reach on a teacher's salary nor one that I
was entirely comfortable with on the country club and golf set social
level which, in my perception, often seemed affected and
acquisitive—even less than genuine. It may have been working class
snobbery or maybe I just wasn't sufficiently “Republican” to
appreciate the luxuries of the life style of that economic level.
At
any rate, things went from bad to worse at home and one day I simply
packed up my things, left a note, jumped in my car and left while my
wife was out. I went to see an old college friend in another city and
stayed there talking with him for a few days while determining what I
would do next. Of course I owed my wife an explanation, and was
conflicted between leaving her in the lurch and needing to be free
from a relationship that I felt unsuited for.
To
be continued...
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