It was almost four years ago to the day. I stood behind the double doors of the cathedral about to walk down the aisle in my custom ball gown, but all I wanted to do was run. Maybe I had subconsciously chosen a sensible 2” heel for that very reason.
Our engagement had been a short one. Too short. The more time that passed, I knew it was getting too late to call things off. Deposits were paid, dresses altered, invitations out, multiple parties thrown. I was dying inside. This wedding had been hijacked by his family and morphed into an event of which I was simply a guest. I knew roughly one third of the people attending my own wedding.
There, standing behind the doors of the church I closed my eyes and listened to the string quartet drone out the melody of Canon in D. I had another two minutes (I knew this because we had timed everything meticulously at the rehearsal the day before, and I took note of my escape window just in case I really did decide to flee.) I wouldn’t though. It would be the scandal of my small town if I did. The story would never escape me.
I didn’t even question how things had gotten this far. I knew. With every red flag I chose to ignore and every ounce of disrespect I tolerated from him was another green light forward towards this very moment. When we were dating, Richard and I had broken up and gotten back together so many times I could hardly count. And every time we rekindled I had convinced myself that I somehow needed the toxicity of this relationship in my life.
He had his moments of being a loving and kind partner. But they were becoming increasingly scarce, like tiny islands in a massive body of water. In between islands I found myself swimming furiously to find land again. To me, it was worth it to get to the island. I was completely fatigued from swimming. And yet I had resigned myself to the fact that there was little else out there for me and that it was “time” to get married. Where I come from, you’re an old maid at thirty.
And so, standing there on my father's arm the doors opened in front of me and I took the first step down a road that I perceived to be my last one. A voice in my head was screaming “Mistake! Mistake! Turn around, go back!” But it was most certainly too late now.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had just made my scandalous escape that day instead.