The International Writers Magazine: A Marriage is like any other ...
Sir, I do not need you to save me and perhaps belittle me a little in the process.
In case you have not noticed, I am not drowning. I am not the drowning visitor. I have not descended upon you like winter or a case of the blues. I think that you are the one in need of saving. I only want someone to love me for me. I know it will be a long shot. I know it will at times be heinous when I am unproductive and pouting like a two-year-old child over their spilt milk who wants cake, ice cream and a milkshake. Is that asking too much? Is that simply put, rather asking too much for the world to love me as I am? I go up and down. I go up and down. Up streets and down streets. Down streets and up streets. I love. I love. I love and still it is not enough. I love men. I love the world of men. I love to be dominated by a man but still this is not enough. Do kiddies have to find themselves in the details of that ‘loving me’ picture? Does a house have to fit with a white picket fence?
I would rather pick blue over crazy any day but the choice is not up to me you see. Why the world cannot just love me and see me for who I really am is what I cannot get my head around and then finally I will put a stop to them all. The monsters under the bed. The skeletons in the closet. The ghosts in my head. I find that your kind of intellectualism exists in a reality that is not of my making or made by the hands and instruments of God but of your own. Jesus, there is a word for it. Oracle. You are an oracle. A man after Nostradamus’s own heart. Machiavellian too. There are too many dimensions though for me to completely understand it. Up and down is what I know best of. High and low is what I know best of. I can be a somewhat highly functioning individual if I want to. I can love you even in the end knowing that you will leave me and in leaving me, I will be transformed authentically.
I will long for your arms, your eyes, anything that reminds me of you. Your papers, correspondence, shirts, blazers, ties and your briefcase. I will marvel at the intelligence in your eyes. How can a man be an oracle? How can a man tell the future or your fortune? How can a man be a medium? How can that kind of man love me and then leave me. How can that man have told me repeatedly that he would never leave me cold and when I saw the winter in Arthur Miller’s eyes, I knew I was finished. I knew we were through. Love me once that is enough is all I ask. Silly me. This story should have been called Marilyn or Monroe. Instead, I called it pain. Perhaps I should have called this story Norma. Norma Jean Baker but I am not that dimwitted redhead anymore. He loved me once. Perhaps he will love me twice, and in the end three, four or five times more.
We will renew our wedding vows but I can see that I am not enough for him. Love is stupid because someone and usually it is the woman that is being hurt or worn out in the end. All her vulnerabilities on show for the world to see. She is the type of woman; I am that type of woman, who will wear her heart on her sleeve. Joe, Joe, Joe DiMaggio. Sometimes I miss him so. Everything has to rhyme sometimes. Perhaps he was the only one who really understood me. It is not as if he called me wise in the end. I was the one that pushed him away. He kept on trying to love me and I was fiercely unlovable. Oh Joe. Those were good days. We had good times but the oracle is something else. A man. A man. A man. I swear, he is the type of man who would call me wise. My oracle. My Arthur. My Arthur Miller belongs to the world. There is no escaping him when I am a child.
When I scream I frighten him. When I am violent, he turns around and leaves the room. When I want to be alone, even then I cannot escape him. I want freedom. In the desert is when I feel the most free. To think and to be me and not be everybody’s friend or the socialite about town or off to a premier or play. Las Vegas all the way at Sinatra’s or any of the Rat Pack. They understand me. All of me. I can be a girl or a woman. A bleached blonde femme fatale that is all that men see. Women want to be me. Homemakers in New Jersey. All across the globe. Young girls wear their hair as I do. Think they have to dress a certain way, usually inappropriately to impress a fellow. Laugh inappropriately. Smoke, be a smoking hot sex object in the movie business and not a serious actor. I never really wanted this kind of attention in the beginning. All I wanted was love and kiddies.
A house with a backyard and perhaps a swimming pool. All the houses in the Hollywood Hills have swimming pools. A garden (glory, yikes! Is that asking too much and the world said in return, yes, kid. You cannot have everything. Be careful what you wish for or it just might come true.) I am a wise kind of girl now. I know what men want. I know what women want too. I am a loner. I am a goner. I am an interloper. I wear all these elaborate costumes at work but at the end of the day when I go home, I am lonely. Arthur, well he has his work. Listen to me. Look at me. Marilyn Monroe lonely scoffs the world. Never. Paparazzi and people surround her wherever she goes. You are too needy Marilyn. I can hear Arthur say. I cannot meet his eyes now. Already I can the spell of winter. It is hellish. Despair is hellish. Whenever you come across the territory of hardship that is particularly hellish for any girl.
You are always courting hardship when you, a woman, or a girl-woman falls in love with an insane workaholic. It is hard to explain the feeling that I have sometimes inside of me. The feeling of being incomplete. Incomplete without the kiddies. It is hard for me when I feel as a public figure I am being put on a pedestal and worshiped and at home I am kind of humiliated in a way as if I do not know what the word ‘insight’ means. I have plenty of insight into real life. You want to know what you are missing from having this kind of life. This kind of insight. Meeting Hollywood people. It is a sham. The entertainment industry is a sham. It means everything to the wrong people and nothing to the right people. It means absolutely nothing to me. That is the truth, darling. He says my name. I turn my head. Will he be smiling I think to myself or will he be frowning. What have I done wrong now?
Why can I not just please, please him all the time. I want to you know. I am his wife now. I should but I am making all the wrong moves. I am an idiot, I say the wrong thing to set him off, and then he is gone. I am fragile. I am happy. Look out world. Marilyn Monroe is happy but wild at heart I am unhappy all the time these days and I do not know why. Pay attention to me. I am pathetic. I am frustrated. I am a fool and a coward. There are days when I know it is not working anymore. I am not hot stuff anymore. I feel tired. You are fine honey just the way you are. You light up the room when you walk into it. Men forget their manners. Rush over to introduce themselves. We have a film for you. The perfect role. A blonde bombshell but I have heard that one before and I know that repeatedly I will hear it until kingdom come. Women on the other hand seem to forget themselves.
They do not want to be my friend. I do not understand why they do not like me so. I am cute. I have a cute personality not just for the fellows but also for the dolls do. I can do all the talking if you want me to but I am a good listener as well. A swell romantic at heart. I am important not because I am an actor I want to tell all the women folk standing in the room staring at their shoes, smoking a cigarette or taking a sip of champagne. We are all in this together. Let us make this world a better place but already I know what they are thinking. Yikes, can she calm down a bit and not play the showgirl! Does her husband not show her enough attention (no, he does not because he is insanely good at what he does, being a workaholic and all, he writes and writes and writes and stays up all hours of the night while I lay awake at night in bed)? For goodness sakes they all say (the women) in unison. She is Marilyn Monroe Productions. The women stand in a clique. They stare me down like tigers on parade at the zoo.
She is just a bird. She will be here today and gone tomorrow. After all, she is nothing like us. She does not know what real life is about, they say. She lives for and in the limelight. I want to tell them how fragile I am but do you think they will give me a chance? She is nothing like us. She is not a mother. She does not know what anxiety, fatigue, depression, stress is (little do they know I do, I do all the way to Cairo, on the river Nile, to Timbuktu and back again). Norma Jean knew what the pressures of family life was. I was almost a child bride. I am failing. Failing for him to love me completely. Oh, I know that he desires me. What is desire? Love is something else. I know you will be there in the morning but he prefers his desk, his lamp, his journals, his work must come first, he says or else there will dying. I shout and I scream in his face, ‘Love me. Love me. Love me.’
He turns around and says, ‘They were right about you kid. You are nuts. You are cuckoo. I cannot have children with you. I cannot love you anymore not like this. I cannot work under these conditions with a wife who does not give me the time to do what is most important to me, which is to write and give me progeny.’ He says the word ‘progeny’ as if I do not have any idea of what that word means. What he does not realise, what I must emphasise here is that we all have ‘it’ in us. The fear. I do not care what you call it. The fear of loneliness, the fear of people laughing at us, being the joke at the party instead of the life of it. The fear of madness spilling its unholy guts onto the cement garden out in the backyard.
I wanted the patio. In those days Arthur Miller said things like, ‘anything for you darling.’ He does not say things like that to me anymore.
I am terrified of being alone. I wish I could look at the reflection inside of the mirror and say I like you woman. You are my kind of intellectual. I fall down some days. I pick myself up and dust myself off. They say it is the pills. A chemical imbalance. My acting-bones are as serious as poetry. Some days I feel a little unsexy. Some days I drink a little champagne and take another pill to cure the hangover from the previous day. I hate going out into the backyard now. I hate the sun. I hate the swimming pool. Stuff it. The likes of me is the most famous person in the world. I do not have a mother. I do not have a father. I am a cute monkey who has an appetite for bananas. Self-medication and treatment takes discipline.
‘Hello. I am Marilyn. I am pleased to meet you. Norma Jean is dead and buried. She is pushing up fields of daisies. She is six feet under.’ That is all introduction that you need to hear from me.
© Abigail George May 2015
abigailgeorge79 at gmail.com
After Leaving Mr Muirhead for God
Grief is waving at me. The animals with their gobbledegook. Geese with their social cohesion.