Читать книгу Born-Again Marriage - Dr. Bonnie Psy.D. Libhart - Страница 8

The silence was electric as the audience anticipated who the next Man and Woman-of-the-Year would be. I looked around at the elegant ballroom. Everyone who was "anyone" in town was there. The soft light from the chandeliers flickered on the diamonds, satins, and furs adorning the women in the room. I wondered how many others had spent the entire afternoon in the beauty shop having hair and nails and facials done. I was glad I'd lost that other five pounds because it made my figure-hugging formal look better. I loved this evening blue satin blouse and the long-vested skirt. "There's not another one in the room like it," I thought. "Goes with my red hair." My thoughts were interrupted by the emcee--Cliff Jeffords.

“We've announced the Man-of-the-Year. Now it's time for the opening of the envelope for the woman -- the JAYCEE Woman-of-the-Year -- Bonnie Libhart!" That was ME - I had won! I jumped up and started across the plush carpet to the candle and flower-decked head table. Everyone was clapping--but why didn't I feel excited? I'd somewhat expected the award because of hints that had been given. And then they had invited us to the Jaycee banquet, so I really wasn't surprised. I looked around at my husband. Even though I felt no elation, I thought surely HE would!

Even though I saw Tony's frozen smile at the time, it was years later before I looked back at the picture in the paper and saw the loneliness in it.

That night I hung the dress in the closet and thought, "That's it -- it's over! Next year someone else will be Woman-of-the-Year!" Oh, what a feeling of depression! I couldn't believe this melancholy feeling was my reward for all of the work I put into getting this "honor."

This was the year so many good and bad things had happened. I had become deeply preoccupied with my television show. I had reasoned flimsily that if I couldn't find happiness in my children or my husband, surely happiness could come with power, position, and prestige. I had done what Tony wanted me to do and worked only half a day now. And I didn't care which twelve hours it was!

I had sought power through my work with civic clubs, organizations, and "causes" such as the Cerebral Palsy Telethon on which I worked for several years. I was even president of the local PTA. And now I was Jaycee Woman-of-the-Year. Part of what led to these honors and activities was my position as hostess of a popular TV talk show featuring guests, fashion shows, and speeches.

My television show had begun after I'd been on radio many years. A daily morning variety show, it was the only one of its kind in the immediate viewing area. It turned out to be another dead-end avenue where I frantically sought power, position, and prestige.

This was the year I went to Europe and was on television there. A trip to the American Women in Radio and Television Convention in Washington D.C., had provided the opportunity for me to interview Senator William Fulbright, Congressman Wilbur Mills, Congressman David Pryer (who was later to become governor of Arkansas), and Mrs. Pat Nixon, First Lady at that time. I attended the opening of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. In my home county, I was elected Justice of the Peace in order for me to be on the Quorem Court. And, to reassure myself I was not neglecting our children, both Tony and I served as PTA president for the junior high school our girls attended.

I sought glory and power in any manner possible. However, on one occasion my search ended in near-tragedy, and for a short time Tony and I became closer than we'd ever been.

The news event that triggered all this was the 62nd running of the Indy 500 in 1971. Tony, also a photographer, and I were among the United Press International, Associated Press, and TV reporters and photographers from all over the world who were covering the Indy 500 from a specially constructed stand in the pit area.

Even as a youngster Tony had dreamed of going to the 500. As for my motive, it was strictly egotistical. Women had never been allowed in the pit or garage area to cover the race. So I was elated when I had received my pass after months of waiting. I thought this would really give me a measure of prestige.

What had promised to be a dream come true for both of us ended in a nightmare.

As the red Dodge pace car pulled from the track, it went out of control on the pit apron, careening in front of the grandstand, skidding through the pit area, crashing through a safety fence. It crossed a grassy area and slammed into the stands. Most of us, many with foot-long telescopic lens cameras, tape recorders, and binoculars, were dumped on top of the car.

I saw it coming--I knew it would hit. But I didn't know where to jump. There was no place to go. No escape. I remember seeing the splintered handrail of the temporary stand cascade onto the backs of John Clenn, Chris Shinkle, and speedway owner Tony Hulman. "Oh, those poor guys," I thought. "They'll really be hurt." But almost immediately, I panicked, "Is this the way I'll die?"

I remember landing on the hood of the car and either sliding or falling off, I don't remember which. A film-clip I saw later showed I turned a flip in the air. Tony hit the windshield with his head and cheek. When I got up, he was lying on the car hood, steam rising from its edges. I was afraid the car would explode. Some men pulled him to the ground.

Amidst the screaming, ambulance sirens and cries for help, and the "whop-whop" of the helicopters, I calmly gathered the broken binoculars, tote bag, camera, and tape recorder as if I were picking up after spilling my purse.

The four men who had been in the pace car were evacuated to the Methodist hospital in town, but no one seemed concerned about Tony even though blood continued to stream from his forehead and spatter onto his white jeans. For a brief moment I forgot about power, position, and prestige, and thought of Tony. I screamed and pleaded for help, but with eighteen others injured, it seemed hours before someone got an ambulance backed through the crowd for Tony. Even then we were only taken to the track hospital--little more than a first aid station.

The nurse stopped Tony's bleeding, his lacerations were sewn up, and then they put him aside while I was being checked. After a brief examination, they determined I had only bruises and a slight concussion.

I was told Tony had been taken to the hospital, but when I went back outside there he was on an army cot in the grass. They had taken someone else. Three hours had passed. The right side of his face was swollen. His cheek was about an inch lower than normal. An ophthalmologist checked Tony and said he could detect no permanent damage to his eyes. I was so relieved to hear it because I had a sinking feeling inside as I thought of Tony being blind. But now he began to vomit blood, and the doctor who had seen him earlier came over. "I thought this man had been taken to the hospital downtown hours ago," he said.

This frightened me even more. Would Tony die? The doctor took Tony's temperature, checked his blood pressure, reflexes. Immediately he ordered intravenous feeding. The helicopter was called, but when it arrived there was room only for a stretcher, the attendant, and a pilot.

Terrified, I began to cry. I knew no one. I was alone but I had to get to Tony. Why had I been so interested in being the first woman in the pit area? If I hadn't been, Tony wouldn't be hurt now. We wouldn't be in this mess. Half running, I searched for our car. Where had we parked?

Tony always seemed to know where we were parked. There were 350,000 people at the race, and it seemed as though each had driven a car!

The race was just finished and the policemen couldn't help me find my car, but they did give me directions to the hospital. After thirty minutes I found the car and headed down Sixteenth Street toward it. Even though the cars were traveling several abreast and slowly, the traffic was at least moving in the right direction.

As I ran from the parking lot to the hospital's emergency ward, I kept wondering about Tony--wondering, too, why this was happening to us. Was God trying to tell us something? Would my husband be paralyzed? Would he still be alive? Oh, why had I neglected him?

I was relieved to learn Tony was being x-rayed and treated. I sat alone for two hours and watched the sun set through the hospital window that late Saturday afternoon.

Life was continuing normally for other people, but not for us. I wanted to see our children. I thought of returning home, or at least calling our family. I had to find someone to do my television show. But I couldn't do anything until I heard some word about Tony.

The next morning his condition was better. He did need surgery, but the doctors were optimistic. He'd make a full recovery, they said. And with a lot of help from my friends, I managed to find a substitute host for the television show.

What was most heartwarming was the kindness the people in Indianapolis showed us. One man helped us because he had a brother living in our hometown in Arkansas.

A photographer who had been in the stands with us came by with his wife even though they were planning to leave early the next morning for London. Calls and telegrams came from family and friends. My brother, Al, and his wife, Alice, drove several hundred miles to be with us. The Little Rock newspaper, Jonesboro's TV station, the New York Times and radio stations all over the country had picked the story up.

When someone showed me the Indianapolis newspaper, I was insulted; our picture had been snapped as I screamed for help. And Tony's picture didn't exactly reflect prestige either. Blood was spurting on his white jeans, and the press hadn't even bothered to get our permission. I learned later that a number of foreign papers also had carried the picture of me trying to get help for my husband.

In contrast to the few seconds it took for the accident to happen, Tony's mental and physical recuperation took months.

Even though I saw very little of the race, I'd had my year at the Indy 500.

Still another reminder of my fruitless search for fulfillment in position and prestige was a letter I had gotten from my mother. She lived in the viewing area of the television station where I worked. Just the week before the Indy 500 Mother had written:

Dear Bonnie,

It's awful that you're right here in the room with me every morning and I can't say a word to you. Sometimes when you look at the camera I try to imagine that you are talking to me.

How is the job coming along? I wonder about all of you constantly. I'm proud that you have the ability to do the TV program. You do so well; it's something to be proud of.

You have the opportunity to do many things. And I hope you will have the wisdom to sift out the uplifting things from the shallow and empty, and hold yourself up high. Many people are watching, and you have a chance to build a good image before them.

I pray for you, that you will not let anything pertaining to your job come between you and God, or hinder you from doing His will. In other words, honor and glorify Him, in all that you do. (Colossians 3:17)

I also pray that you will not let your job hinder you one minute in your role as a Christian wife and mother and that you will have the wisdom to bring up your

children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. I love all of you and want you to be saved when you die. How terrible and awful it will be to fall in the hands of the

living God unprepared. I hope you can come to see us soon.

Love,

Mother

The letter had not had as much impact on me last week as it did this week when I reread it. And I thought of her words so many times. Was that why I was so unfulfilled?

I had met all of my worldly goals. I had my picture in the paper almost every day for some activity or place where I was speaking, providing a running commentary for a fashion show, or interviewing a TV guest. Life was empty -- like a beautiful soap bubble that glistens in the sunlight. It has all the colors of the rainbow, but when you touch it there's really nothing there. Day after day I'd have the thought that tomorrow, or very soon, I would make an impact on people's lives. What I was doing at the television station and what I had worked for all my life would then become meaningful. Yet when the next day came, and liquor and "joints" flowed, all the duress and pseudo-happiness I'd become entrenched in netted me only the stark reality of depression.

After Tony's recuperation, I had resumed my role at the television station and gradually seemed to forget the horror of the Indy 500 accident--and why we had been there. I fell right back into the old ways of seeking what I now recognize as those Poverty P's--power, position, and prestige. I sought power by wanting to be the Woman of the Year; position by being the only woman on the TV station in our area; and the prestige which accompanied both.

The next year I secured radio-television credentials to cover the Republican National Convention and also was elected as a convention delegate from the First Congressional District of Arkansas -- overdoing anything and everything was so typical of me. I was on the bus that the Zippies attacked in Miami Beach. Fortunately we got through that experience without anyone on the bus being seriously injured.

In all my frantic busyness, I neglected my husband and family. I was demanding success for me, through me. As I looked at my goals (gold Mercedes, white mink coat, diamonds), they seemed empty of any long-range benefit. So I worked even harder to get into more meaningful things, like participating in the Little Rock dinner held in honor of James H. Patrick, recipient of the National Brotherhood Humanitarian Award of the National Conference of Christians and Jews. I thought perhaps if I did more to "help" the community, I would "help" my own satisfaction.

As our marriage drifted progressively further apart, I never knew what Tony was doing. Of course, he could read in the paper or see on TV what I was doing, and I thought all the time he was proud of my involvement, my activities. I didn't know he was sad and jealous inside. He didn't like being "Mr. Bonnie Libhart." But I was so wrapped up with me; I didn't realize his ego was dying. I thought Tony was vicariously enjoying my position on TV as if it were his own.

Tony's extreme dissatisfaction with his life and his job led him to write the company owners and ask about their plans for his future advancement. The firm's vague answer opened the door to our next plans. A Texas company had offered me a position as their first woman executive. We had opened a distributorship for the company in Arkansas and had done quite well. Tony and I decided my job offer would give him an opportunity in a new area. After all, to succeed in his own eyes he had to get away from the town where he'd been "Bonnie's husband." So I accepted the position as a development director with the Texas company and we moved. Tony was pleased to land a job with a smaller company, which he thought he would enjoy more. But it was MY employer who financed our relocation.

People asked about my husband's plans, and I replied I was the one who was moving, and the family moved with me. A women's magazine wanted to do a story about the fact that we moved with my job, but I kept procrastinating. I was proud of being the first woman executive with the company, yet at the same time a nagging guilt feeling reminded me I had not been submissive to Tony. I was calling the shots for our family and it didn't feel good.

Why?

Our arrival in Waco brought a few new challenges. In the circles we were introduced into, it seemed that if our family had not lived in the city for several generations, we were not considered "insiders." Well, if we couldn't be members of the inner circle, we could at least be successful. And if success was to be determined by profit, perhaps what we needed was to make more money.

As a result, I worked hard and the president of the company sent me a note that said:

Re: Being a Champion again

Bonnie, what are we going to do? Two-thirds of the department's production from a 100-some-odd-pound gal!! Congratulations on the practically $50,000 production cash in the pay period! I'm excited to see you back on top and the leader, where you belong.

I'm counting on you to maintain this position. It is approaching Thanksgiving and we have a lot to be thankful for ...your future in this company...

This was the kind of motivation I lived for! I enjoyed the fact that I had the position of leader. I always wanted to win. Way down inside of me, though, the loneliness grew.

One autumn, searching for something deeper, something of lasting value, we attended an Institute of Basic Youth Conflicts Seminar at the local convention center. In one of the sessions the instructor talked about a new concept--new for me at least. He said that when wives submitted themselves to their husbands and the husbands were submitted to Christ, the wives were under "God's umbrella of protection." What a strange concept, I thought. Could there be anything to this method? Probably not, I decided defensively. After all, I was interested in adding to my own power and prestige. And yet something new stirred inside my mind....

If all my efforts (sincere ones) had failed to produce any peace, was it even possible for me to find a valid place to invest my efforts? Judging from the RESULTS of my search, I wondered what parts of it might have been misdirected. Could God have been guiding any part of my life? Which portions?

Was it possible that power, position, and prestige really were Poverty P's? Was I on skid row emotionally, mentally, and intellectually when I felt the "P's" would make me happy?

Poverty is the state of being below comfortable living, as when one is sunk in depression and unhappiness. Was poverty really the lack of a Supreme Being living inside of me?

No! People admire cars, furs, and diamonds! That's for ME!

But, I first evaluated and listed the Poverty P's in my own life. What really made me happy?

ANALYSIS-ACTION

From my experience chasing power, position and prestige, I learned that it was possible to have all three, and still not be happy. Poverty, I found out, was anything that did not bring the happiness and satisfaction, the love, joy and peace that I would have so like to have had and felt.

But what are the poverty producers in your life?

•Is it watching soap operas and other T.V. shows?

•Is it making a beautiful dessert for the bridge club?

•Being president of clubs?

•Winning sales awards?

•Do the things you spend time and effort on take time away from your family?

•Do you have things scheduled each night that have nothing to do with your mate or children?

•Do seemingly “good” projects like counseling in church or serving on boards for juvenile delinquents rob your family of time that really belongs to them?

Use the following chart to write all your time use down. Evaluate what might be changed—even list new activities, ones centered around your family. You may get a surprise. You may find a new set of “P”s to replace the old ones. You may find the prestige of having your mate love and respect you, the kids proud they are yours. Power? What more power is there than to have fruitful control of your time!

(see chart below)

DAILY GOAL AND TIME USE ANALYSIS
GOAL TIME WASTED CHANGE BENEFITS
6 a.m.
7 a.m.
8 a.m.
9 a.m.
10 a.m.
11 a.m.
12 p.m.
1 p.m.
2 p.m.
3 p.m.
4 p.m.
5 p.m.
6 p.m.
7 p.m.
8 p.m.
9 p.m.
10 p.m.
11 p.m.

List some possible Poverty P’s in your life…

Write out your goals…

What could you change?

We had learned these techniques in a management class I had in college. I kept wondering: Was it worth it to me? Did it actually bring me happiness? Maybe I should just follow the crowd. It seemed all they talked about was what they’d bought new since the last time we’d seen them or what they planned to buy. Maybe possessions were the answer to my happiness!