Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire by Naomi Atwood

Naomi Atwood

Naomi Atwood is and older Japanese Canadian woman who has lately been reflecting upon the many interesting events in her life.  Now she wants to share these many aspects of adversity in the hope that they might be helpful to others in meeting challenges in their lives.  She has found that writing in short story form is to her liking, and a way to express vignettes of her life.  She has previously been involved in autobiographical writing in her pursuit of advanced education.

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE

One evening, while we were getting ready for bed, my husband of 39 years showed me a red sore on his genitals that he had just discovered, and did not know what it was. I had never seen such a thing either, and recommended that he have it checked by a doctor. In the meantime, I thought it best that we do not have sexual intercourse, although he liked to have it every day. He would usually make me feel guilty if I were unwilling or unavailable.

A few days later, I asked him what the doctor had said.  He replied off-handedly that the doctor had said that “it was nothing.”

When I pressed him and asked what the doctor had recommended, he said, “Nothing.  He said it will go away on its own.”

I had my doubts that it was nothing.   It mostly definitely appeared to be something.

Then I asked if it was contagious. He said no. When I asked if it was safe for me, if we were to have sex. He reassured me, “Oh, yes, there is no problem.”  With reluctance, being naïve, having no reason to doubt him, and not thinking to do some of 

my own research, we continued to have unprotected sex, as husband and wife.

Our marriage had been characterized by my being dominated by my husband. I always had to be careful about what I said, what I laughed at, who I talked to, and what actions I took, for fear of criticism or recriminations. I had married him for all the wrong reasons. I suppose it was the old trope of “looking for love in all the wrong places.” He was very much like my father, from whom I had suffered continual disapproval and blame in my youth. They were also both second-generation Japanese Canadian men, traditional, and set in their patriarchal ways.

My husband and I had a child before we were married, when I was 19, and although he offered to marry me, I declined, choosing instead to move away, to hide the pregnancy from parents, friends and family, and place the baby for adoption.  At the time, it was not uncommon to “have to get married.”  But, coming, as I had, from a shame-based Japanese culture, I wanted to shield myself and my family from disgrace. 

It was a very difficult journey, with little support from him.  However, I later married him, as much for solace and respectability, as for what could be called love.  I felt like “used goods” and could not contemplate having a relationship with another man. It was little comfort being together with him, however, as my husband would never allow me to talk about our first child, and forbade me from talking to anyone else.

At the time of the medical issue, our marriage was reaching its last stages.  After many years of contemplating separation, I finally decided that I was tired of all the repression, recrimination, derision, and unhappiness, and I decided to leave him.

Some years later, I went to my own doctor with vaginal discomfort, and after some tests, my doctor said that I had genital herpes. When I asked how I might have contracted it, he said that it is only spread through direct sexual contact, and it can take years to develop. When he showed me pictures of what it looked like on the male genitals, I recognized it immediately.

I was shocked. This is what my husband had. The pieces all came together, and I realized that he had told me a series of barefaced lies. Whether or not he had actually gone to a doctor at that time, I will never know. But what I did know was that I was not the one who had caught herpes from another sexual partner.  So, his philandering left me now with a lifelong, embarrassing, incurable condition of the most intimate kind. Although not life-threatening, I could have an outbreak at any time, requiring medical treatment, and of course, would have to discuss it with any future sexual partner.

Yes, I had been the one to end the marriage.  My husband acted the part of the victim, but ultimately, the real victim was me.