Mary Walker has an infectious laugh and a natural talent for putting people at ease. She is a 29-year-old single mother living in South Provo with a dog, a cat, and her two young daughters—Summer, 3, and EJ, 5. She grew up, the daughter of a white father and a Filipino mother, in what she calls the “bad” part of Detroit, before moving to Hawaii, where she earned a bachelor’s degree in biology from BYU-Hawaii. While attending the university she met the man she called her husband for seven years. Their marriage ended two years ago after she took out a restraining order against her ex to protect herself from further harm. Although Mary grew up LDS, she says she no longer identifies as Mormon, and that along with her 20-year-old naivety, cultural pressure for women to marry young, and the importance placed on finding a confident priesthood leader for a husband led to her abusive marriage. She often finds herself wondering how the past ten years of her life have been real, and she admits she spends a lot of her time dissociating from the traumatic stress. Although she is currently applying to in-state and out-of-state, PA programs, she is pretty happy being a mom to girls, living in a “cozy” basement apartment, and working as a restorative nurse’s aide. She says one of her best qualities is her skills at time-management, and enjoys spending her free time doing therapeutic creative projects, “turning anything into something beautiful.” Because she doesn’t have much family support, she’s created a community for herself amid other single moms. As for future relationships she says, “From here on out I’ve decided to listen to my intuition, because it always seems to be right. Alarmingly right. I still do—I just want to be in love. I still want the fairytale. But I’m done looking for men with avoidant attachment styles. I’m strong enough to be alone if I have to.” Mary uses writing as a way to cope with the periodic depression that often accompanies single-motherhood, and she recently shared her work at Speak For Yourself, a once-a-month creative writing open mic sponsored by Provo Poetry and Enliten Bakery.
My Favorite Color is Blue, the Cycle of Abuse
Blue is my favorite color.
Oh, like the ocean or sky or twinkle in
your lover’s eyes, they ask?
No, as I laugh.
Like my skin!
You see, black is too harsh,
and yellow looks like jaundice,
but blue means soon-to-be promises
of kiss ups, of makeups, of tears drying and
no more crying…
Secrets that I keep for the one I want to keep.
You see, blue is my favorite color.
Coparenting
… a special place in hell found on earth…
I fall short in everything I do these days.
I fall short at my job.
I fall short as a friend.
I fall short at school.
I fall short as a sister.
I fall short at church.
And lastly, I fall short as a mother.
However you are trying to do everything.
You are trying to play all roles in the “family proclamation.”
I am the main physical provider, the nurturer and the protector.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
Raising children with a person who is not your partner,
who is not your friend,
who is not an ally,
and who you continually battle can get pretty exhausting.
You are legally connected to what feels like the enemy,
having to do the part in adult life you were once excited about,
all you dreamed about.
They surely do not train you in church,
girls camp, school, college or home—
how to go about this.
It’s the hardest thing I am learning
to navigate while trying to balance and do
everything above.
Simply raising children with a spouse united can be
draining, and even in those circumstances one can have
emotional bursts from time to time.
But imagine doing it now with someone who doesn’t care,
It’s “not their problem” you have to figure it out
on your “parent-time”—which is 65% of the time.
There’s no reassurance that someone recognizes
your best efforts. At this point efforts
aren’t good enough. You’ve got to make it happen. Period.
And there is no hug at the end of the day to let you know
it’s all worth it (not that I got one before).
Some Dirty Laundry
Sitting with the only companionship
of the sounds of air filters in the room—
Buzzing. Humming. Tranced.
Lost in thoughts.
Then fixated on one thought, idea, memory
—replaying in your mind over and over again
until it doesn’t hurt as much.
Repeat.
When should I have believed him? He told me,
showed me countless times that he didn’t care.
My mistake was giving him the benefit
of the doubt and making excuses for his behavior.
So many thoughts on the past, present, and future.
Questions concerning all the how, when, timeline,
where, what’ll take, but
promises to ask no more “why?”
So many sacrifices left unrecognized and unappreciated.
Reading books to understand the situation.
Very insightful.
I’ve learned to pick apart my personality
due to psychosocial behavior analysis.
My attachment styles, my habits, certain mistakes
that have a tendency of coming up again and again.
My favorite mistake.
All the layers.
But it doesn’t matter because you know whatever that had driven you
to this point of time
and to him, you still loved and it was more
than you had ever given to anyone before,
and it was challenged and you are somewhat proud of it.
I’ve watched too many frustrating romantic dramas
where the boy or girl
don’t plainly communicate what they want.
In divorce, at least from what I’ve experienced,
You lay all your cards on the table.
You are at your most vulnerable.
Especially when it’s you begging to keep fighting
for the marriage. Earnestly telling
how much they mean to you, spending a life together,
high and lows, how much being a family means to you.
And the scary part is when you see all their cards too
out on the table, and you’re not there.
You haven’t been there.
You try to reach out towards the light, enlisting God,
friends, family members on both sides to help
until half of these people are now awkward acquaintances.
Sacred acts shared between man and woman only in holy matrimony…
I prided myself on virtue and chastity for so long
“A child, a child shivers in the cold,”
I hear those lyrics and tune from that well known Christmas song
and think of the blessing God bestows to a couple in “holy” matrimony
and I sit here confused… repeat.
South Provo Prophet 