A Fairytale Is Just a Fairytale
It was all a lie
“I love you, Daddy,” the young blonde bride giggles in a bright Marilyn Monroe-style voice. Facing the ocean sun, she squints happily into the video camera. She holds tightly to her groom as the tide draws closer, her feet buried in the sand.
It was a dream covered in sunshine.
We were just two kids from Malone, New York — a small farm town on the Canadian border. High school sweethearts who were ripped apart when he moved across the country before our Junior year.
It was a nightmare covered in darkness.
Years later, like something out of an overdramatic indie flick, I threw caution to the wind and deserted what young adult life I had started to build and began my new adventures heading toward the West Coast. I ran away from a marriage, job, responsibilities, and worried family and friends.
I ran with no intention of looking back.
I ran away to Chicago with The Lizard King and ran from there to Los Angeles to begin my life with Jason. My soulmate. Twin flame. Although we hadn’t seen each other in years, we were taking the leap and moving in together. I knew it was meant to be. We belonged. I’d never been more sure of anything in my life.
It all seemed so romantic. And it was. Our families and friends loved our story. It was like something out of a fairytale. “Those two goofy kids ending up together? Jason and Kristi? The ones who practically spoke in a secret language, who laughed nonstop? The ones who were so weird together? Wow!” It wasn’t like something out of a fairytale. It was a fairytale.
We were married on the beach in Malibu.
It was a private cove in Little Point Dume that you could only get to by a steep rocky staircase. It was built into the cliff leading from the home we rented above overlooking the ocean. The house, while more modest than most in the area, sat next door to Johnny Carson’s at the time — the same cliff where Madonna and Sean Penn were famously married. We loved owning the bragging rights to that. We loved that our dreams of getting married on the beach in Malibu came true.
It sounds fancy, but we were extremely thrifty — and by no means wealthy in any sense of the word.
We rented the home from a friend of the family. It would be where we would have our family stay, where we would be married, and where we would have our modest brunch reception for the thirty people we invited.
I purchased my simple satin gown on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills for a whopping two hundred dollars at the Laura Ashley store. I didn’t need shoes — I planned to go barefoot, in true Kristi style. But I did get myself a three-dollar toe ring down on the Venice Beach boardwalk and a nice pedicure. I did my own hair and makeup. What money we put into the wedding went into our photographer, and it was money well spent.
Not only did our photographer win Kodak’s picture of the year with our wedding photo, which appeared in a Kodak brochure next to John Kennedy Jr.’s wedding photo, but a store window-sized version hung from the shop on Rodeo Drive for nearly a decade.
With only those thirty people, we were surrounded by our closest friends and family. Our parents, siblings, and best friends. Our dear friends Sean and Chris flew from the East Coast to be part of our wedding party, as did our parents. My little sister sat on the beach playing The Alan Parson Project’s Time as the tide started to close in sooner than anticipated. We took our photos frolicking in the quickening tide under the cliff.
Our guests toasted us with orange juice telling goofy stories of our wild escapades as we ate super gourmet Trader Joe’s quiches at our reception tables on the clifftop before we took off for our Maui honeymoon.
My brother recounted the day Jason left for California when we were in high school and how heartbroken I was. I stood there on the street with my bike next to downtown Kinney’s, holding back painful tears as I watched his father drive him away. But here we were now, getting married on the beach in Malibu.
It was a fairytale come true.
“I know what you’ve been doing.”
My head snapped around when I spat those words with spite and resentment. Like Medusa cornering her most feared captor, the blood from my rosy cheeks drained as my eyes narrowed in at him, ready to aim. He looked frail at that moment. This was the man who spent years behind closed doors emotionally breaking me down. This was the man who spent years outside closed doors putting on a show to the world that we…that we were the perfect fairytale couple.
“A fairytale is just a fairytale,” is what the Greek chorus sang as he motioned me toward the sofa. Our love story had sadly become a tragedy.
It was supposed to be everything I dreamed of. But dreams are just that, aren’t they? Reality’s folly. Tragedy dressed up all fancy-like.
It was closing in on Christmas time. It was the sweet spot between Thanksgiving and holiday break and I’d been sitting on the floor wrapping presents when I burst. I had been holding it all in for so long. Years. Years long. A lifetime long.
He looked frail at that moment. This was the boy who spent our wonder years flipping between being my best friend in the world to my most hated rival. We were innocence wrapped up in a shiny package and tied with a big red bow.
He was that man. He was that boy. And the moment had arrived. I wasn’t nearly as nervous as I thought I’d be.
I didn’t even need to speak. He admitted to everything.
A fairytale is just a fairytale.
We sat quietly on the old, worn sofa in our living room. We had always planned to have it redone but never got around to it.
A fairytale is just a fairytale.
I could never muster up the courage to leave him. No matter how unhappy I was. I couldn’t do it. How could I leave the fairytale? I couldn’t. When he received word he’d be transferred to a new job in the deep valley and we’d be leaving Los Angeles, I lost my mind. I did not want to move to the 818.
Los Angeles at least walled me in. Kept me isolated. I was unhappy and depressed in a city filled with others just like me.
I was careless and wild in a city filled with other careless and wild transplants.
When he told me we’d be moving, I rolled up in a ball on the floor and sobbed. I didn’t want to go. But I knew I wouldn’t fight it. I didn’t have the strength.
Who was I to say anything?
I was rife with laryngitis.
Jason never let me forget how much I didn’t fit in. His aim, in my opinion, was to make me the perfect trophy wife. And the trophy wife I was. I was the perfect anorexic weight, had the perfect hair, the perfect makeup, the perfect clothes, the perfect three-inch heels, and followed his rule to absolutely never leave the house to go to the grocery store not made up perfectly. “Sweat pants are made to grow fat in,” he’d say.
The control was there and my resentment continued to grow.
However, life with Jason wasn’t all bad. We knew how to make each other laugh. And we laughed a lot. Even through the bad times. We enjoyed the same things — we loved the same movies and had the same passion for Hollywood and the theatre. We enjoyed cooking together. We were the absolute best travel partners and went to some amazing places with one another.
Most of all, we had a beautiful, creative, amazing son together — who brought us both incredible joy. We traveled with him, taught him things together, and had good times through the dark clouds.
Agoura Hills, CA — November 2007
It was his birthday. He informed me that instead of spending it with us — his 7-year-old son and me — he would be going on a hike with his “friend.”
His friend was a co-worker at his new job. I knew his friend. I adored his friend. But Jason was spending more and more time with him. And less and less time with us. My mind started going back to all the times his coworkers asked if he was gay. Just like the kids did in high school. Today I realize that his coworkers weren’t asking me — they were telling me.
But I wasn’t ready to listen.
He was my best friend. Despite the emotional abuse throughout our marriage. I’d known him since kindergarten. He knew me better than anyone in this world.
That day, his birthday, I watched them walk across the greenbelt in front of our condo toward his friend’s car. And I knew. I knew it was true. I saw how they fit together. For the first time, I looked in the mirror and saw our life for what it truly was. Not only did I see the truth, but I finally acknowledged and accepted it.
When they were gone, I went upstairs. Our computer was still on, and to my surprise, I discovered he had a secret Facebook account. There it was flashing at me loud and clear as I entered the room. Opened up to a private message between him and his friend.
I believe in privacy. I don’t snoop. But it was right there in the open. Taunting me. How could I not look?
The private message talked about how much they couldn’t wait to be together and kiss each other. So…everything everyone had been trying to tell me for, like, forever was right in front of my face.
“A fairytale is just a fairytale,” the Greek chorus sang.
Despite any of my own mistakes, I felt…numb. Sad for my son. Angry about the abuse I had taken over the past ten years. I felt like I gave him every good part of myself to take and shape into whatever made him happy.
I was armor used to shield others from a side he wasn’t ready to explore yet. I look back and think about the Stepford wife I was. We went to parties all the time, where he would tell me what to say and what not to say. He’d pick out my clothes and tell me if my hair looked okay.
There was nothing I did at that time that wasn’t directed by him.
I’ve been apart from him now longer than we were married. And our marriage still haunts me. The demise of our marriage, what I went through during our marriage, the mistakes I made, and what I put myself through after our marriage. It all haunts me. The day he blocked me from leaving my room until I rattled off as many horrible things I could about myself as possible — that haunts me.
And I have to ask myself, “Why?”
He told me I’d never be happy. Words that live on in me every single day when I wake up. And when I go to sleep. And all I can think is that I’m not deserving. I’m not deserving of a thing. That I can never be happy. And then I realize…after all these years, he’s still controlling me. Even if he doesn’t know it. That’s how deep it went.
In fact, I don’t believe he knew back then either.
I believed in everything. I believed in the fairytale.
That Marilyn Monroe-esque bride from the beach that day in Malibu was robbed. And what I am left with is me.
When I found the proof of his affair, I copied it. But I sat on it for a few weeks. I didn’t approach him that day. I didn’t tell him I found it. I’m not sure he even knows today.
We were starving actors barely getting by on temp jobs, living in our Miracle Mile apartment in Los Angeles. But this was special — this would be our first Christmas together.
We picked out our tree in the warm Hollywood sun and tied it to the top of his rickety old Hyundai in hopes that it wouldn’t stall out in the middle of Third Street on the way home. We went to the 99 Cent store on Fairfax to buy our decorations. That store was one of those stores where everything looked faded and old — and there was always a serious sewer problem right in that area so it stunk.
We bought old balls in red and gold and some gold ribbon and glue. At home, we made gold bows and glued them to the balls. With white lights, these were our tree decorations. The angel we bought for our tree is still my topper today.
Our first tree was beautiful and our first Christmas was magical.
“I know what you’ve been doing.”
My head snapped around when I spat those words with spite and resentment. Like Medusa cornering her most feared captor, the blood from my rosy cheeks drained as my eyes narrowed in at him, ready to aim.
He looked frail at that moment. This was the man who spent years behind closed doors emotionally breaking me down. This was the man who spent years outside closed doors putting on a show to the world that we…that we were the perfect fairytale couple.
He turned pale and motioned me toward the sofa where he admitted everything.
I’d known him all my life. If there was anyone in the world he could have told, it was me.
Instead, I was robbed of years. Our entire life together was a lie.
“A fairytale is just a fairytale,” is what the Greek chorus sang as my fairytale finally came crashing down. Our love story was indeed a tragedy.
Fairytales don’t exist. At least not for me.
Christmas presents and decorations littered the floor. How far we’d come since that first Christmas together. Poof, it was gone.
Although the years after our separation were tough, we are now good friends. He and his now-husband are like uncles to my young daughter and they were there for me throughout my pregnancy and have been consistent family figures in her life from birth. My son rues our get-togethers as Jason and I always start reminiscing and fall into tearful laughter about things nobody else understands.
Just like we did when we were kids.
Wow, Kiki, that’s a haunting and raw account of your life with Jason. I held my breath reading it. Thank you.
So moving. I loved the reference to the Greek chorus. My marriage was eerily similar with me never being good enough.