WHAT IS LIFE

Rainbow

What is life, really? It's a question that creeps into our minds during those moments of existential crisis when the familiar becomes uncertain, and the struggles we face seem insurmountable. We've all been there - watching our lives unravel like a movie script gone wrong. We ask ourselves, "What's the worst that could happen?" only to find out that, indeed, things can always get worse.

In those moments, we're forced to confront the complexities and mysteries of existence. We begin to wonder if life is nothing more than a series of unpredictable twists and turns, or if there's something more profound waiting to be discovered.

Or we catch glimpses of serenity in everyday moments: a mother's laughter intertwines with her child's giggles as they play together on a sun-drenched street. We wonder, is this what life is all about – finding joy in the simplest of moments?

Or we observe the gardener, hands gently nurturing the petals of vibrant flowers, their passion evident in every delicate touch. Their devotion to beauty makes us ponder: is life about cultivating our own unique brand of beauty, and sharing it with the world?

Or that young couple, hands entwined as they stroll down the street, their love radiating like a warm glow. Sighs... Even after they vanish from sight, my imagination lingers, picturing the tender whispers of reassurance the man might be sharing with his loved one, and the unborn life they're nurturing together.

And yet, in the same breath, doubt creeps in. Can we ever truly be certain what life is about? Are these fleeting moments of beauty, love, and connection merely fragments of a larger puzzle, or are they the puzzle itself?

Growing up, I was enveloped in a sense of belonging. My family, though unconventional, was vast and loving. As an orphan in the system, I found solace in the communal atmosphere – everyone was a sibling, and the caregivers were surrogate mothers. In my naive childhood mind, I genuinely believed that this was what life was all about: being surrounded by people who cared and having a support system that felt like a warm, comforting blanket.

But life, as it often does, had other plans, and adulthood brought its own set of challenges. The most significant one is the man I love with every fiber of my being. How did I end up here? Well, that's a story for another time. For now, let's get back to the present.

Oh no, I did it again – got lost in my thoughts. He's going to kill me! Time for introductions, I suppose. Hi, my name is Rainbow Williams. Nice to meet you.

I'm a wife, a cook, a cleaner, and everything in between. Or so it seems. My life appears simple: do as I'm told, and harmony reigns. Easy peasy, right? Wrong.

In this modern age, how does one surrender their autonomy without a fight? Especially when the person calling the shots is your husband – once the love of your life, now a constant reminder of the compromises you've made.

I'm not making sense, am I? Let me try to clarify. As human beings, we're born with inherent rights – the right to life, freedom of speech, and access to necessities like food, electricity, and running water. These are fundamental entitlements that no one should be able to take away from us.

But what happens when it comes to relationships, like marriage? I was taught that marriage is a partnership, a union between two equals, not a master-slave dynamic. So, why do I find myself struggling with the feeling of being owned, of being stripped of my autonomy and agency?

Mama's words still echo in my mind: "Marriage is a partnership, sweetie." But it's taken me years - almost an entire marriage - to grasp the harsh reality. The truth is, I'm standing in my kitchen, cooking breakfast for my husband, with no guarantee he'll even acknowledge my effort, let alone take a bite.

The familiarity of this ritual is suffocating, a constant reminder of the unspoken expectations that have come to define our relationship.

Before cooking, I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the house until it sparkled. Our quarrels often ignited from the smallest specks of dust or disorder, and I'd learned to be vigilant. But now, I'm standing in the kitchen, orchestrating a breakfast symphony: tea, coffee, toast, bacon, pancakes – a dizzying array of options to cater to his mercurial tastes.

I've learned the hard way that anticipating his mood swings is crucial. The memory of "that faithful day" still lingers as a painful reminder of the consequences of failing to meet his expectations.

(Flashback)

I was lost in the pages of my book, the words blurring together as my mind wandered. But his voice cut through the silence, jolting me upright.

"Is my food ready?" he asked, his tone firm, expectant.

My heart skipped a beat as I scrambled to compose myself. The book slipped from my fingers, landing with a soft thud on the floor.

"Um...yes!" I stuttered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Just give me a second...lemme bring it to you." My hands trembled slightly as I hastened to the kitchen, my senses on high alert.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" His voice was eerily calm, a stark contrast to the fury blazing in his eyes. I stood paralyzed, unsure which was more terrifying: the menacing serenity of his tone or the scorching glare that seemed to sear my skin.

"I said..." My words were cut short by the sound of his palm connecting with my face. Slaps rained down, each one a stinging reminder of my vulnerability. I curled into myself, hands raised in a futile attempt to shield myself from the onslaught. Yells pierced the air, a cacophony of anger and pain that seemed to drown out everything else.

"I fucking heard what you said, bitch!" His voice was a venomous hiss, spewing toxic words that cut deep. "Why didn't you have my food ready? All you do is waste my money on useless shit, and yet you can't even manage to put a decent meal on the table for me?"

His rage was a palpable force, suffocating me with its intensity. I cowered, desperate to placate him. "I'm sorry..." I began, but my words were drowned out by the sound of his palm connecting with my face once more. The yelling continued, a deafening barrage that left me trembling and helpless.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch!" His voice was a brutal slap, silencing me. "Did I say you could talk?" The words hung in the air, a stark reminder of my place.

His anger was a living thing, pulsing with a malevolent energy. "So, not only are you wasting my money on useless crap, but you've also lost all respect for me?" The accusation cut deep, a painful truth that would haunt me for years to come.

(End of flashback)

That day marked a turning point, a harsh awakening to the reality of my marriage. The fairy tale wedding, the promise of happily ever after – all just illusions. The truth was far more sinister: there are no fairytale marriages, only the harsh realities of love turned toxic.

The memory of that day still lingers a painful scar that refuses to heal. I was left shattered, my body broken and bruised, my spirit crushed. The image of his retreating and the sound of the door slamming shut is forever etched in my mind.

Even now, I'm haunted by the same questions: Is this what I deserve? Is it my fault? Did I do something wrong? The echoes of my past whisper cruel taunts: "Maybe this is why your parents didn't want you." The anguish of abandonment and rejection threatens to consume me.

There's no solace in the uncertainty, no comfort in the silence. The answers I crave remain elusive, lost in the void of my troubled history. That day was a turning point, a moment when everything changed. The memories still sear my soul, a constant reminder of the fragility of my existence.