Tiny murders splattered across my first marriage, leaving me with stomach-wrenching cramps and a serious case of self-doubt.     

Now, to tell the truth, no one else ever described what happened as murder. They called it by other names, casual phrases like “going with the flow,” and “taking it easy.”   

But how else can I describe what happened to me?  One minute I was a bubbly Southern Baptist girl who sang in the choir and wrote passionate essays in the diary I had kept since I was 11.  Then suddenly I was smitten; dazzled by a smooth-talking guy I met while working on the Jimmy Carter campaign.  Ted was smart and savvy, a political whiz kid.  He was a visionary.  He could toss ideas up like flapjacks over a hot griddle, sizzling when they landed and smelling like cake.  We had long earnest discussions about my conservative upbringing. I felt crazy stirrings way down deep, a restlessness that made me want to toss my Pollyanna ways out the campaign headquarters door.   

On the day of the Florida primary, I shocked myself and Ted by telling him that if we won that day, I was going to make wild passionate love to him.  When I saw him later, in his brown suit and earth shoes, he told me that he had been to First Baptist, St. Anne’s Catholic, Bayview Episcopal, and Scenic Heights Presbyterian Church that day, praying for victory.  Carter won the primary and the election, and I gladly kept my word.  Ted and were engaged at the Inaugural Ball the following January, my brilliant diamond solitaire shooting prisms of color and hope out onto the dance floor. 

But after being married only six weeks, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.  My handsome young husband urged me to let go of my insecurities and old-fashioned ways, so that I could enjoy an exciting “open marriage.”  We had endless conversations about the women he wanted to sleep with, and how that wouldn’t affect his love for me one bit.  Each day my romantic dreams died a little bit more, and the fiery cramps in my stomach became a little bit worse.  I felt anxious and cried a lot. He felt tied down and was gone a lot. 

I went to see my family doctor and told him about the constant pain.  He laughed and said, “It’s just colitis, Terrie!  Lots of young brides have it.”“What does that say about marriage, Dr. Pyle?” I responded, holding my stomach. 

Just before our 10-month anniversary, Ted and I separated.  I decided marriage was too painful, and resolved never to try it again.  It took ten years and an extraordinary man to change my mind.