I became a “serial bride” in my desperate, futile search for love

“Always the bride, never the bridesmaid,” I muttered to myself. Some girls get all the luck.

I’ve been married so many times, I’m running out of dress colours to choose so I don’t repeat them from one wedding to another. It’s getting tricky to find great wedding music and be absolutely certain I haven’t used it before. I’ve got bridesmaids on permanent stand-by and a divorce lawyer on retainer. He’s given me an estate home with an ocean view — “A little ‘thank you’ gift,” he said.

Well, okay. Maybe it’s not quite all of that.

While sometimes I find it hard to believe I’ve been married six times, it doesn’t seem weird to me because I understand how it all unfolded.

But then, I guess when you live in the asylum, crazy is normal.

So let me invite you into the asylum and I’ll explain just how crazy it got. And why.

First, I’ve gotta tell you, it was never my intention to become a “serial bride.” I wanted only one husband forever, that “Happily Ever After” in the storybooks. I wanted kids, the picket fence, the whole 9 yards. I wanted what I never had growing up — a happy home, free of alcoholism, insults, fear, abuse and violation.

I wanted to be loved.

The problem was, I didn’t know what love looked like. My birth mother was 15 years old. Knowing her mother would force her to have an abortion, she did her best to hide my existence until it was too late to kill the baby she so desperately wanted.

Sent to live in a home for Naughty Girls, my birth mother tried — unsuccessfully — to figure out how to keep me, which was just not done in the Dark Ages. Tenderly, she cared for me for the first few weeks of my life before I was snatched away and sent to foster care to await adoption.

I don’t know how many foster homes I was in, but I would have bonded with at least one more mother figure over the next several months. Those bonds, too, would be broken when I was adopted by a woman who never liked me from the moment she laid eyes on me. In the meantime, the abandoned little girl inside me was desperate for this Mummy to please love her, please, please, oh please?

I used to catch glimpses of love from my father now and then, but he was away a lot with his work. When I was 9, he experienced some significant career disappointments and turned to the bottle to escape his failures. I got the brunt of his drinking, plus he was nowhere around to protect me from the abuse I endured at the hands of my mother and my older brother.

Desperate for love, I began chasing Happily Ever After like a deranged hamster on an ever-spinning wheel. Apparently, I’d read one too many fairy tales because — well, life happened. Or at least, my life. I ended up marrying half of Canada before moving across the planet and beginning to work my way through England, too.

Toxic Seeds are Planted

“You were so ugly,” my mother told me more than once, always laughing. “Fat, ugly, with eczema all over your face. I was so ashamed of you. I begged your dad not to let anyone come and see you until you weren’t so ugly.”

She fed me a constant diet of insults and criticisms, an assortment of statements that felt like, “You don’t deserve to breathe.”

She was an angry woman. I’m sure if Satan actually existed, she’d have scared the crap outta him. Along with her physical and emotional abuse, she violated me in an awful way until I was about 12.

And if there was something in the oven, she’d say if I made the tiniest noise, the oven would explode, kill my family, and it would be all my fault.

I grew up believing that I was responsible for other people’s lives and happiness. I’d better make damned sure they were never disappointed.

All of this became the foundation for my life, the belief system upon which I would base every single decision for decades.

Let the (Wedding) Games Begin

By the time I reached my teens, I’d had more than enough of my father’s alcoholic rages, my mother’s suffocating anger, and my brother’s abuse and violations. I was ripe for the pickin’ when at 15, I met a 20-year-old man (let’s call him “H1” — Husband #1). We fell hard and fast for one another and within 6 months, I was wearing an engagement ring. My parents were, um, less than impressed. Go figure.

At 16, I left home, quit school and got a job. We fought with my parents to let us get married. I couldn’t figure out why they wanted us to wait till I was 18. However, what I did not — could not — articulate was that as the months passed, something shifted. I felt trapped with H1, suffocated. And unable to do anything about it.

I suppose H1 sensed the shift, too. He began saying that if I left him, he would kill himself. Oh, great. That would be my fault.

I was 17 when we thought I was pregnant. We told my parents I was knocked up and a wedding was planned for about 6 minutes later. Two days before the wedding, I got my period. Yay! A “Get Out of Jail Free” card! I wouldn’t have to marry him! Oh, but wait. Yes, I would, or he would kill himself. I choked on my feelings, swore that somehow I’d make it work, and got married.

***

Needless to say, the marriage was doomed. I got pregnant right away and 10 months after the wedding, I had our baby, nearly dying in the process. Shortly after the birth, I was a basket case of anxiety disorders. I had panic attacks, OCD, and anorexia. Clearly, marriage wasn’t a good look for me. I moved into my parents’ basement when my daughter was 10 months old. A divorced, single mum at 19, I felt like a complete failure.

Occasionally, I’d meet someone and invite him over. My mother always said, “What would a nice guy like that see in someone like you?” I wondered the same thing. I didn’t deserve a “nice guy.” Or anything good at all.

I had another baby a few years later (a shocking story, not appropriate to share here. No husbands were harmed in the making of this baby. I was a very single mama). I nearly died in childbirth. It was a miracle that I survived.

Fast forward. It’s 8 years post H1. I have two children and I meet H2 in romantic circumstances. A mere 3 days later, he proposes. Caught up in the romance? You bet. Did I say yes? You bet. Did I have any working brain cells? Apparently not.

With the wedding 3 months away (⁉️), we bought a house and moved in together. I discovered I was pregnant. In the interests of brevity, I will say that H2 and I were not getting along. Two weeks before the wedding, my girls and I went to stay with my parents. The night before the wedding, I told my mum, “I can’t marry him! We’re not even talking to each other!”

“Look, here!” she barked. “You’re pregnant. You’ve got two other kids. I’ve got food in my fridge for 25 people. His mother and brother have spent all that money to fly here! You’re damned well going to marry him!”

H2 and I should have got an award for Most Awkward Wedding Ever. We weren’t even speaking that day, yet I walked up the aisle, looked him in the face for the first time in days, and we got married.

We didn’t stand a chance. When it blew up, I felt like an even bigger failure, the shame and embarrassment of two divorces weighing heavily on me.

***

The H3 situation was similar, only this time there were 120 guests coming to the wedding and about half of them had flown from all over North America, spending money on flights and hotel rooms.

It was Friday, 2 days before the wedding. I was out that morning when it hit me. I don’t want to do this. I don’t know why. I don’t have a reason. I just don’t want to marry him.

My mother was screaming in my head, echoes from the last time only this time, the stakes were much higher. “All those people have spent so much money! You’re damned well going to get married!”

And the biggest issue of all: I had vowed, sworn, absolutely promised promised promised my 9-year-old daughter that yes, darling, this will be our forever home, and no, sweetheart, we will not be moving again. No matter how often I said it, she didn’t believe me. Eventually, she would prove to be right.

After three divorces, the shame, humiliation and feelings of failure were overwhelming. Imagine after six …

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

H4 and H6 — same old, same old. As the weddings approached, something didn’t feel right. I wanted out but I didn’t have a “reason.” I felt like I had no choice but to honour my word. Heaven forbid I should disappoint them. Their feelings were all that mattered. Mine were irrelevant.

At least I can say that with H5, I most definitely did want to go through with the wedding. He was sweet, patient, kind, a proper “English gentleman” who loved and accepted me as I was. Every evening, we would sit in wingback chairs by the fire, drinking wine and making plans for our future. He was steady. Solid. Reliable. We got along beautifully. No drama, no violence, no displays of temper. Just a gentle, peaceful, perfect existence, a romantic, idyllic life in a cosy old cottage in the English countryside. I adored him and we were so happy for a few magical, beautiful years. It seemed too good to be true.

And you know what they say about that.

The first ugly shock was a massive amount of debt that H5 had kept hidden from me. Ultimately, I lost everything I’d worked for throughout my life … the little home I’d managed to acquire as a single parent in Calgary (and which had been making it possible for me to travel back and forth frequently to be with my children), my beloved cottage, Ravenswood; the peaceful, idyllic dream-come-true life I couldn’t believe was actually mine … gone.

And while I was still reeling from that and trying to figure out how on earth I could ever trust him again, another much more disturbing secret was revealed. But I’m sorry, dear reader. It is just too personal for me to share it here because of the way in which it affected me in an intimate manner.

I can only tell you that by this point, I knew I could no longer be married to this man. Seventeen years on, I still wish — oh, how I wish — we could go back to Before, back to those wingbacks and wine, to a time when there was hope and joy, and the security of love, and of trust.

***

When I was first with H6, it was all about fun, passion, and ridiculously mind-blowing sex. A confirmed bachelor, he surprised me with a proposal on the Rialto Bridge in Venice one night. Down on one knee, the ring, a crowd gathering to see how it would turn out. I wanted to say NO NO NO NO NO! But there was my childhood training again. In fact, it was the day of my mother’s funeral in Canada but there she was, front and centre in my head in bloody Venice. You are responsible for his happiness. If you say no, he will be humiliated with all these people watching. You can’t do that to him. But I don’t want to marry him! Too bad. You have to say yes. So I did.

Gradually, our relationship became dark and horribly toxic. He grew increasingly selfish, demanding and manipulative, doing whatever it took to get his way while not giving a rat’s ass about my needs or my feelings. I was beyond suffocated.

I was suffering from unstable angina, having already had a couple of heart attacks brought on by stress and abuse. He did not believe me; thought I was making it up to get attention, even though I showed him test results. One night, when he was being nasty and hurtful, it started again. Familiar jaw pain, left arm going numb, chest tight. Grabbing for meds to stop the budding heart attack, I begged H6 to stop. Stop. STOP!

But he wouldn’t. He kept hurling offensive comments at me, jacking up my stress level and my symptoms. I told him I was trying not to die. He ignored me.

I managed to get up to my room. He continued shouting and being horrible for some time. Honestly, I don’t know how I did not die that evening. I was deathly ill. And so was our 11-month-old marriage. I ended it the following day.

I’d had enough. There was absolutely no part of me that wanted anything to do with relationships again. The Universe had given me exactly what I needed — an opportunity to see just how bad things could get if I didn’t listen to that inner voice, damn it, once and for all. How many times did I need to experience the same miserable lesson?

As many as it took.

I understood how childhood toxic beliefs had messed me up and I’d had loads of counselling down the years plus done lots of spiritual work. So why was I still repeating this pattern?

Because I hadn’t fully healed the wounds in my heart and soul.

I had spent much of my adult life chasing that Happily Ever After dream that would give me the love I’d been so desperately craving since childhood. I was always getting into a relationship, working on trying to fix a bad relationship, or cleaning up the fallout from yet another failed one.

After H6, it occurred to me that what I needed most was a relationship with myself.

At the time of this writing, I’ve spent 13 years doing just that. I no longer “need” the love of another to create my Happily Ever After. I am creating it for myself. I did stick my toe back in the Dating Pool a few years ago, wasn’t sure if I wanted a relationship but figuring it might be fun to have a bit of a social life.

I met a lovely man. We hit it off immediately; sparks flew, we talked every day. A few times, I alluded to having had “more marriages than I’d like to admit,” but he never pressed for details. Yay! He doesn’t care about that! For the first time in many years, that black, sticky, ugly energy of shame began to dissipate. Oh, the relief! I could be myself! I didn’t have to hide anymore, fearing he would discover my dirty secret.

For 3 beautiful months, we grew closer. I supported him through family crises. I taught him how to meditate, which we enjoyed doing together. Finally, I felt safe enough to tell him the truth. I’d given him plenty of time to get to know me, and to see that I’m much more than “six divorces.”

He was so kind. He listened ever so patiently as I explained my childhood and how those beliefs had impacted my life. I spoke about my healing and the ways in which I’m different now. When I was finished, he reminded me that he was a 10-years-recovering alcoholic. “I’m in no position to judge,” he said. “I’ve done plenty of things I’m not proud of.” I was so relieved.

By the next day, he was done with me.

It shattered my confidence, left me feeling even more shame and humiliation than before. Thankfully, in the years since this happened, I’ve reached a point where I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks. Funny how we accept addiction to drugs, gambling, shopping or alcohol etc. as an expression of people’s emotional wounds. Being married multiple times is just another such expression, but instead of compassion and understanding, it brings ridicule, teasing, shame and judgement.

Peace at Last

That last dating experience served to strengthen my relationship with myself. I cannot and will not place my happiness in the hands of another. I’ve never been single this long before and I love it. I enjoy my life and am perfectly content on my own. I’ve learned how to give myself the love I craved from others. And I know that if I say, “Yes” to welcoming someone into my life, it will be because I choose it and not because I believe it is my responsibility to make him happy. And it will be someone who is worthy of me and all I have to offer.

For a more detailed account of my childhood and my marital journey, as well as my Multi-Divorced Woman’s Manifesto, you might like to read this:

Secret Confessions: the Painful Reasons for My Multiple Divorces