The mask of innocence

The "Victim" dances with the "Judge" — Martin

I use the word "Victim" to describe the specific trap an Enneagram Type Two falls into while playing the role of "Helper", and I use the word "Judge" to describe the specific trap an Enneagram Type One falls into while playing the role of "Reformer".

These are unconscious roles we play, and yet we believe these roles to be who we are. We identify with them and they become our false identity. They become the story of who we think we are — a story that diverts our attention away from our ability to be attuned to our true selves.

Oxford Station Underground, London September 1978

I had been working as an au pair for an English family in Stamford Brook for a few months and was hoping to find a real job so I could have my own place to live. I was just coming back from New Bond Street where I had seen a few "APPLY WITHIN" signs on the windows of the fancy fashion shops that lined the street.

I was 18, I had finished my Baccalaureate in France, and it seemed like a good idea to go to England and get a solid basis for my English language skills before pursuing my studies. I was young, tall and slim, kind of cute yet very shy. I had suffered from acne during my teenage years and retained a withdrawn attitude.

Yet, despite my shyness, I had an obstinate streak that made me daring and gave me the ability to do the opposite of what my fears where telling me. That day I had been determined to find a job as a sales person. I had never worked in a clothing shop, but how difficult could it be to be kind and amenable to ladies trying on expensive clothes. My bravado paid off. I was offered a job at the Chanel retail shop in New Bond Street. I was delighted. I was going to have my own little place in which to live and be independent.

I had grown up in the French Alps and big cities and public transport were not my favourite places. When I got onto the Oxford Circus Station Platform, I knew I would need to ask for help in finding my way. I was looking at the people waiting for the next carriage when I saw a man so handsome that my heart skipped a beat.

My usual shyness stopped my initial impulse to ask him for directions. Hesitatingly, I approached him and, in my broken English, explained that I was unfamiliar with the London Metro and asked if he could confirm that the next train was indeed going to Stamford Brook.

He said that he was on his way back to Richmond and that we were on the same line and could thus catch the same train. He signalled me to board the train arriving at the platform. So busy was the station that he barely made it through the carriage doors. He muttered a French swear word as the doors almost closed in on him.

I was so surprised: he spoke French! How could a man with such an unusual physique speak French while also speaking f luent English? He looked like what I imagined people in Peru looked like: jet black hair, very straight and shiny; light-brown coloured skin; and beautiful features. I spoke to him in French, and he explained he was from the Seychelles, a little Indian Ocean island I had heard about. But I had no idea what people living in the Seychelles looked like. He introduced himself as Martin Luther.

Our relationship blossomed quickly and, before long, we were living together in Richmond. I had started working at Chanel and was enjoying living with this man who so attracted me. My parents were unaware of my new living arrangements. And while I had tried to hide my new life, one day in March 1979 my parents showed up in Richmond and quickly discovered what I had avoided telling them.

One look at my exotic boyfriend awoke their worst fears. They had no doubt envisioned my meeting a French or European man, one who would work nearby or at least in France or Switzerland. Instead, I introduced them to an islander from the Seychelles, who worked on merchant navy ships in the Indian Ocean.

They were not impressed and took matters into their own hands. A few days later, I was on my way home to Annecy in Haute Savoie, where I had grown up. My parents' fears about my relationship with that man were so strong they tried their best to keep us apart. They prevented me from receiving his calls and destroyed his letters.

My young, romantic heart was broken by their determination to prevent my budding relationship from f lourishing. What my parents did not understand is that their persistence to destroy this young love made my determination and desires to reunite with Martin even greater. A few months later, I was on a plane to the Seychelles.

Victoria, Mahe Island, Seychelles July 1979

Martin and I married in Victoria, the capital of the Seychelles, in the little house owned by my mother-in-law. Two officials from the town officialised our union. I really wanted to get married. I was so sure of my love for this man. Yet my heart was sad: my beloved parents were not there and it was not the wedding I had envisioned. The night before the marriage, I received a telegram from my parents mentioning my dad had had a heart attack. At the time, I did not really believe it. I thought it was just a tactic to get me to change my mind and prevent my marrying the man I loved.

A few days later, Martin and I embarked on the Lavanture. My now husband was a merchant navy officer and the cargo ship we embarked on was transporting raw sugar from Port Victoria to Europe. It was such an exciting adventure for me, but I felt my relationship with the man I so loved was already changing. The fun-loving and caring man I had learned to appreciate during our time in London was becoming controlling and unsympathetic to my feelings and concerns.

I had received more news from my family. My father had not had a heart attack. After he had been admitted to hospital, the doctors discovered a cancerous tumour. This had mislead my parents into believing it had been a heart attack.

I was distraught. I needed to go and see my dad. Until meeting Martin, I had enjoyed a loving relationship with him. My youthful impulses and romantic desires for wanting to be with my husband had shaken up my world. Yet, despite my rebelliousness, I knew my parents could forgive me. My communication with them was telling me that having made my choice, they were going to respect my decision. All my dad wanted was to see me again and make sure I was okay. All I wanted, was to see him and make sure he was going to beat his cancer.

When I presented the situation to Martin, he opposed my reunion with my parents as much as they had once opposed my reunion with him. I was devastated. He told me that, if I went to visit them, he would consider our relationship and marriage as over. I was confused and hurt. I was young and all I knew then were my ideas about how to be a good wife, including doing what my husband wanted me to do. Yet, I was terribly torn. How could I choose between the love I had for my family and the love I had for my husband?

Weeks later and after much anguish, I met a good friend of my husband, during a stopover in Kenya. This man somehow recognised my despair and took it upon himself to challenge my husband's staunch position. He elicited my husband's belief of being a reasonable person; and after what was no doubt a skilful debate, Martin gave me his reluctant authorisation, but certainly not his blessing, to f ly back to France to see my parents.

When I returned from France, my husband's welcome was cold and distant. I did my best to be nice and pleasing. But I could tell that his resentment for having been rejected by my parents in the earlier part of our relationship and my recent visit to them had rekindled his anger. He had become serious and high-strung. I believed, as did he, I am sure, that his behaviour was a consequence of my family's earlier concerns for our relationship. I would cling to the hope that his resentment and anger would eventually subside.

After twelve months at sea, it was time to move to the next phase of our life together. My husband planned to get a degree in maritime law from the University of Bristol. But the student fees for non-European students had recently gone through the roof and he was unsure if he could afford to enrol.

After we disembarked from the Lavanture, we travelled to France to meet my parents, despite great resistance from my husband. My parents really wanted to show their support for our union. Being aware of our difficulties, my dad offered to use his connections to find out how my husband could quickly gain his French citizenship and afford the university fees as a European student.

A few months later, we were off to Bristol with my husband's brand new French passport. After a few weeks, my dad came to see us. He had decided to buy a little house for us not far from Bristol, so we did not have to worry about rent. It was yet another gesture to atone for his earlier refusal to accept my husband into the family.

Although my husband accepted my parents' efforts, he refrained from having any contact with them and remained withdrawn and standoffish. I was heartbroken, but adapted to this state of affairs to the best of my ability. After all, I had gone through a lot of trouble to be with him, so I had better make it work.

I loved Martin and thought that I could somehow transform his sour and resentful disposition through my good behaviour and efforts to please him. It had not worked too well until then, but I was hopeful. There was so much I admired in him: he was hard working and disciplined; he had an articulate opinion on everything and a clear sense of where he wanted to be in life; and all I wanted was to be supportive. I was convinced that, if I kept doing my best to please him, he would snap out of the bitterness he was feeling.

But pleasing him was an impossible task. He scrutinised everything I did, always searching for f laws. His preference was to point to my shortcomings when we had friends around. He would hone in on my latest mishaps, which could vary from letting me know that I was taking too long to drink my cup of coffee and was thus embarrassing his friends or I was cooking the meal I had prepared without love. I had become withdrawn and did not talk much in his presence. I felt so small and his comments hurt me profoundly. I was so confused. No matter how hard I tried, nothing was ever right or good enough for him; but I was convinced I just needed to try harder.

The Harmonic Being: understanding the perfection beyond the perceived imperfection

The young Melodie had no understanding that what people say in judgement or criticism does not define the person they criticise, but reveals the specific distortion and fears of their ego pattern. She believed that what other people said and thought about her was real. This could not have been further from the truth.

My dad's condition had been deteriorating; and one sad day in February 1982 I received a phone call from my mum: my father had died. I remember thinking: "This is the saddest day of my life." Despite my rebelliousness and intent on marrying the man of my choice, I had adored my dad. I had been fortunate to have had the most loving father–daughter relationship until my later teenage years; and my dad had been my hero.

In my younger years I had been the apple of his eye and had given him no reason to change his mind. I had loved him deeply and had done everything I could to make him happy and proud, until I discovered a different kind of love. I did not have enough maturity to fully appreciate how lucky I had been to experience such a happy childhood; but that day of February 1982 was, and remains, the saddest day of my life.

Annecy, France June 1983

After completing his degree in maritime law, my husband received an offer with the International Maritime Organisation in Geneva. What an ironic twist of fate. My parents had been so worried that I would move away to the Seychelles or some faraway place, and here I was back home in beautiful Haute Savoie so my husband could take up his new job at the IMO.

We stayed in the family home not only because it was close to Geneva but also because my mum had contracted cancer, and I hoped my presence by her side could help. It was a large house, nicely located near the lake. I also had found work in Geneva. I was so worried for my mum. I had been with her when she was doing her tests and had been told that the breast cancer she had developed after my dad's death was spreading to her lungs.

It was a horrible situation: we all lived at home, my brother, my husband and me, and my mum's condition was deteriorating by the day. I was doing my best to cope, and was not yet aware that her condition was taking a turn for the worse. My husband, although living under the same roof as my mum, did not talk to her. His resentfulness had not improved. I knew he was still upset and angry; yet I so wished he had been able to forgive my parents and become more supportive, especially in view of my mum's dire health condition.

My husband and I were practising Protestants at the time; but despite the many mentions of forgiveness in the scriptures, there were no signs of a change of heart in him, despite the obvious contradictions between his religious beliefs and his actions. We were all sad about it at home. But my mum was busy coping with her cancer and I was busy coping with my job in Geneva and with the tense relationships between my husband, my mum and my brother.

One weekend my mum's cancer pain became so acute that my brother and I rushed her to hospital. Martin refused to come with us. I did not realise he had "better" plans that day. At the hospital the doctors told us my mum had only a few weeks left to live. It was a shock. I knew she was sick; but, somehow, I had focused on her getting better and was avoiding the reality that she was dying. I was just not ready for what the doctor told us that day. I went home in tears hoping to find some comfort in my husband's arms. He was not there and I could not find him anywhere.

Later that afternoon, a colleague from work called on the home phone. She was looking for Martin who had agreed to meet her and other friends in a restaurant in Geneva. For the first time I was not just sad but angry. His resentment for a situation that had happened almost four years ago was no excuse for such a lack of compassion with what was happening in my family. Why was my husband partying while my mother was dying and I so needed his help and support?

When he came home that night, I threatened to break up the relationship if he continued to be so insensitive. I do not think he became more sensitive, but he kept a low profile for a while. I was in such emotional turmoil, my ability to think clearly was low. I was just barely coping. In June 1984 my mum died while I was holding her hand at the hospital in Annecy.

Those were truly dark years for me. I did not yet know that our loved ones go back to the Source from which we come and are not far away. All I knew then is that people who die disappeared out of our physical reality forever, and I was not coping very well with that reality.

After those events, I had seriously thought about leaving my husband. I did not have to convince my parents I had made the right choice of partner, because they were not there anymore. But I was grieving their loss and kept hanging on to the belief that a husband is supposed to be your friend and the man who brings you love and support. Reality had not confirmed those beliefs, but I was blinded by my hopeful desires that such reality could still come about. After all, the two people at the source of his resentment had died, and I hoped his resentment would die also.

Victoria, Mahe Island, Seychelles May 1985

I was going to meet my adopted son. I was so excited. It had taken me months of hard work to gather all the documents necessary for the adoption; but finally I was ready. I had always thought that having one's own children was great; but there were many children who were already born and needed a home to call their own. It was love at first sight when I saw him. He was four months old and I had been thinking about him every day since his birth in November 1984.

Annecy, France May 1986

My second case of "love at first sight" was the arrival of my beautiful baby girl. What a magical moment when, at last, you get to meet these little gifts from above, as I called my children.

Annecy, France October 1987

My third case of "love at first sight" was the arrival of my youngest son. What a joyful moment to be able to welcome another gift from on high — a real blessing indeed.

Brisbane, Australia January 1988

At the end of the year after the birth of our youngest son, we took a holiday that should have been wonderful but, in reality, confirmed my profound unhappiness. We stopped in the Seychelles to spend time with my mother-in-law and then continued to Australia. My husband had many relatives in Brisbane and I really enjoyed these extended family get-togethers. We had first visited Australia in December 1985 after adopting our son and were considering moving there. I loved that beautiful country. I had been married for nine years and we now had three beautiful children.