Martyr

I am not omnipotent.
But I expect myself to be, and I get angry when I am not.

I have been out of work for a month.
Every day, I check the news.
Did something happen?
Did it go badly?
Would it have, if I had been there?

I take responsibility for things I have no influence over.

Several months ago, 2 good men were injured on the job. These men work in a different division than I do, in a completely different geographical area.

In my twisted mind, I felt guilty.
Guilty that I hadn't been there.
Guilty that I hadn't prevented it.
Guilty that I hadn't been hurt, instead.

I don't even know these 2 men that well.
There was no logical reason why I would have been there.
Didn't stop my emotional reaction.

I know where it comes from. It is a habit I have developed over the years.
My guilt over May needed watering every now and then, so I would take responsibility for some other tragedy to nurture it.

Over time, it has become a reflex.

Train derailment? My fault. I should have been driving the train.
Building collapse? My fault. I should have been there assisting in rescue operations.
A young soldier dies in battle? Yes. My fault. I am too old and broken to be in his place.

I don't want this burden, anymore.
I try to reassure myself that there are some things that are out of my control.
As long as I actively remind myself of this, I am OK.
The second I stop, it comes creeping back in.

I don't want it.

Assumptions

I think I am a screw up.
At least, this is the assumption I have.
I assume that I have screwed something up, offended someone, made a mess of things.

I don't know why I do this, but it permeates every facet of my life.
At work, if I am called in to see the boss, I assume I am about to get an ass chewing.
I have never gotten one.
The closest I came was an unsubstantiated complaint, and it was laughed off by my higher-ups.
Every time I have been called before my superiors, it has been a positive thing. An award, a letter of recognition, an accolade.

But I always assume I am about to be reprimanded or worse.

In my personal life, I assume that I have wronged those I care about. We can part with pleasantries and a hug. If I do not hear from them in some unspecified period of time, I assume that I have offended them.
I replay everything in my head, trying to determine what it was that I said that made them angry.

Usually, they are just busy, caught up in their own lives. It didn't occur to them to call because there was no new piece of information to give me.

But that doesn't stop me from assuming the worst.

It is difficult for me to understand that I am an anomoly. Most people do not interact with other people the way I do. Everybody, deep down inside, thinks they are "normal".

So many people that have drifted in and out of my life were disposable and temporary.
My natural thought is that I am disposable and temporary in the lives of others.

I don't mind that, 99% of the time.
It is when I care about a person that it becomes difficult.
Not because I am disposable and temporary, but because I assume I am.
And I don't want to be.

The Rundown

Jobless, homeless, spouseless.
I left town, relocating north to lick my wounds and plan the next phase of my life.

I wasn't sleeping. I wasn't eating.

Honestly, I looked great. Since the ordeal had begun, I had lost close to 60 pounds.

I was wasting away.

I had handled my marriage with honor.

There is an old saying, "History is written by the winners".

I discovered a few weeks later that the winner was giving a different version of events to anyone that would listen.

As it turns out, public opinion was that I deserved everything that had befallen me, what with all my infidelities and drinking.

At least she didn't accuse me of beating her. I think even she knew that one wouldn't fly.

I didn't care. Other than a few individuals, I didn't care what people thought of me. I was no longer a part of their lives. If believing that I had been a cad and a lush throughout my marriage made it easier for them, so be it.

I called the few people that mattered and told them exactly what had transpired. They already knew. They still believed in me, as the man they had known. From the outside looking in, they had an idea of what the dynamic was.

The irony is that my shortcomings as a complete person tipped them off. My habit of staying home, not socializing, not meeting new people... it made it inconcievable to them that the things she said about me were true.

"I found it hard to believe that you were cheating on her in the livingroom" was how one friend put it.


I saw my wife for the last time at a mutual friend's wedding, about a year after the divorce.
I didn't feel anything. No anger, no remorse, no attraction...nothing.

Well, that isn't entirely true. I did feel a little amusement at how much weight she had gained. Every pound I had lost went to her, it would seem.

Aside from a quick nod from across the room, there was no contact between us.

I am OK with that.

Purr

I feel different.
I look in the mirror, and I recognize a glimmer of the man I used to be.

I changed Cd's in my player.
I am not in the mood for mournful songs. I am happy today.

Yeah. Happy.

On all fronts, I feel that I am getting better. Stronger.

I like the way this feels. I want to see where this leads.

I am not a fool.
I know that this feeling is temporary.
I will scratch at a seemingly minor wound.
I will discover that the injury has played a part in creating the cloud I live under.
Something forgotten.
Something transformative.
Something I willed myself to forget, lest it destroy me.

And it will occupy me until I truly confront and reconsile myself with it.

But for now, I am content.

Same Old Song

For me, music is in the same category as people and dogs.

I like, even love, specific people. As a whole, I dismiss the rest.
I don't like dogs, at all. Except certain ones. Amani. Kazi. Deacon. Panda. Ginger. Kita.
They all had (and have) a charm that trancends their "dogness", and causes warm feeling inside me. The rest could vanish, and I wouldn't care.

I know people that love music. Even the horrible, overproduced, generic crap. They just love it.

I don't.

Music has to speak to me. It has to say something I want to say, but cannot.
I can drive around with the same CD in the player for months at a time.

The music I favor is mournful. Pleading. Self loathing.

And yet, hopeful.
Hopeful in that, by saying these things out loud, they will release their hold on me.

I listen to Counting Crows more than any man should. Everything they have ever recorded, I know. Even the hidden tracks that come 9 minutes after the CD is over, I know by heart.

Adam gives voice to things I face. He is an insomniac. He has had his problems with drink. He has had affairs turn sour. He has been a coward, and he has been brave. He has allowed his sadness to define him, at times.

He turns these challenges into haunting words, beautiful words.
He references things of beauty, and contrasts them to the darkness inside him.

I wish I could express myself with such beauty and focus.
I sit at this keyboard and type what I am thinking.
The thoughts are jumbled and by the end, I am writing about something entirely different than what I originally wished to expell.

My original thoughts that prompted me to write survive to another day.

Misdirected

I had every right to be furious with Les.
And I was... sort of.

I couldn't muster what I thought was an appropriate level of rage for her.

I was relieved.
It was almost over.
I could go back to what I knew best.
I could go back to being alone.

I was angry, but I couldn't focus it on her.
So I focused it on him.

My philanthropic gesture of educating his fiance was a backhanded strike at him.

Take my wife?
Try this on for size, Asshole.
Try and hit back.
I dare you.
Give me an excuse to rip you apart.

I needed a villian, and he was the logical choice.

If I made Les the villian, I would have to examine my part in what had transpired more closely.
I was in no shape to do that.


Years later, I am beginning to see the picture more clearly.
The fact is, everything that happened was ultimately my doing.

If I had dealt with losing May when it happened, I wouldn't have let a large portion of myself die with her.

If I had believed myself still worthy of unconditional love, I would have taken comfort in my family, not bottle after bottle of Vodka.

If I had not blamed myself for May's death, I wouldn't have seen justice in Cheryl's betrayal.

If I had not isolated myself, I would have heard the warnings of those who still love me.

If I had loved myself, I would have demanded it from the woman I chose to marry.


All of this has been my doing.
I took the blame for something I had no hand in because I couldn't face it as it truly was.
That burden changed me.
And I caused everything since.

I am the villian of this story.

Full Disclosure

There is no telling what someone will value.
What they will focus on.

I knew my part in all of this.
I knew Les' part.
I knew his part.

In my mind, the real victim was his fiance. She was blissfully unaware, planning her wedding to what she thought was a good man.

I knew her name. I knew what she looked like.
A little waiting and watching at his apartment led me back to her address.

I printed off all of the emails from Les' account.
I highlighted the dates.
I created a timeline.
I included a copy of my wife's cell phone usage.

And I wrote a letter to her, explaining why I was telling her all of this. I didn't want her to become trapped, as I had been.

All of this went into an envelope.

A weekend soccer tournament was being held in Charleston, 8 hours away by car.
My wife and her lover rode together. They were scheduled to be gone until Sunday evening.

Saturday morning, while their first scheduled game was being played, I hand delivered the packet to his fiance, at her front door. She would have a minimum of 9 hours to examine the evidence.

If she still chose to go through with her marriage, my hands were clean.

Revelation

Years of pretending to be normal makes it the status quo.

When she returned home, she had no idea that I knew.
When she saw me in the kitchen the next morning, she had no idea that anything had changed.
She had no idea what I was planning.

I was there, in the dark... waiting.
In the shadows.
Motionless.
Silent.

He left the apartment, taking his trash out.

I was less than a foot away.
He was oblivious to my presence.

I reached out from behind him...


And my mind became clear, again.

I didn't love my wife.
I didn't particularly like my wife.
I hated the life I shared with her.

The service this man had provided me outweighed any insult he had paid me.

I went home.

First Reaction

If he didn't have the same name as I guy I worked with, I might not have noticed.

We have instincts for a reason.
Gut reactions have saved my life since then.

A new character turned up in Les' stories about soccer. She went into great detail about how much she didn't like him, what an ass he was. She didn't do that with people that had actually wronged her. Each night, she returned home after soccer with another story about what a jerk Mike Baker was.

Each night she returned home a little later.

Suddenly, soccer was an every night of the week activity. Scheduled games. Practice. Pick up games.

I didn't really mind. I was pretty comfortable at home alone.

But it did cause an itch in the back of my mind... And I am a man that is inclined to scratch an itch.

She was an elected official in her league. This meant that she had files. I looked him up.
Name, address, phone number, social security number... photograph.

A trip to the soccer fields confirmed that there was no soccer game.
Her car parked outside his address confirmed that there was a game of another sort going on.
We had one computer, in my room.
A little guessing got me her email password.

And it was all there.

Initial flirtatous missives. Disparaging remarks about me. Insults to his fiance. Recaps of encounters together. Upcoming plans.

My reaction was one of anger and gratitude.
I was thankful that I now had an exit. My wife was having an affair. I could divorce her honorably.

My anger came from the insult. Not from her, but from him.
He had never met me. He knew nothing about me.
But he took every opportunity to insult and belittle me in his emails to my wife.

It was obvious that he didn't know me. If he had, he would have recognized that I am a potentially very dangerous person.

I am a gentle man.

I do not like violence.

That said...

I am exceptionally good at it.

Opening Salvo

We had been invited to an engagement party being thrown for a pair of Les' soccer friends.
I didn't know these people.
They were part of her life, territory I was persona non grata in.

The celebration included typical party games, including a variation on "The Newlywed Game".
Married couples were given questions separately, then had to compare their answers to those of their spouse.

I answered honestly.
Looking back, answering honestly was an act of passive agressive hostility.
At the time, I was just answering honestly.

"When was the last time you made whoopie?" (Bear in mind, these questions were culled directly from the TV game show)

Other couples gave answers ranging from that morning to 3 days ago.
Les said "not sure".

I answered honestly.
"5 months ago"

"What is your mate's pet peeve?"
I answered honestly.
"Me"

"How does your mate show affection?"
I answered honestly.
"She doesn't"

It was the beginning of the end.
With my answers, I started in motion events that would end my sham of a marriage.

Sometimes, the best thing for you is the hardest thing for you.

Solitary Confinement

I honestly hoped it would be different.

I won't go so far as to say I liked her.
I will allow that I didn't actively dislike her, in the beginning.
The absense of impulse to leave the room is not a reason to get married.

Our honeymoon was spent at a nice hotel by the ocean.
We did not engage in the activity that newlyweds are rumored to engage in on honeymoons, so we both came back with skin bronzed by the sun.

I would have bronzed skin for the entirety of my marriage.

My wife was not interested in physical contact with me.
Not just the act of making love. A simple, seemingly natural gesture, like holding hands in a theater, was brushed away with a harsh look.

After 6 months of wedded "bliss", Les declared that my considerable size was crowding her on the full sized matress we shared. At her direction, I moved into the spare room and slept on a futon.

I purchased a queen sized bed with money I had scraped together over several months. I set it up in the master bedroom while she was out. When she returned, I unveiled it to her, explaining that it would afford us both ample room to rest.

Shortly thereafter, she declared that my snoring was too much to bear, and I was evicted to the spare bedroom once again, this time on a full sized matress.

In time, I purchased a king sized bedding set, with extra pillows, so that I could sleep in a somewhat upright position. I had read that this minimized snoring.

After a respectful period of time, she simply stated that she didn't want me in the room.

I spoke to other married men and I discovered that I was not alone. What I was living was a typical marriage.

All the books, movies, sitcoms and poems... they were lies. Written by married people so miserable that they lash out by painting marriage as blissful, supportive, and nurturing... all to dupe unsuspecting fools into sharing their purgatory.

My sense of honor kept me incarcerated. I had made a commitment, and men keep their commitments.

By the grace of God, Les had never learned that lesson from her father.

Crumbs

If 5 different people see the same event, you will get 5 different interpretations as to what transpired.

If you were to ask 5 different people to describe me, you would get 5 different descriptions.

Not many people know me... the whole me.

I break off little bits and pieces for different people.

I am coming to realize that I am afraid of other people. I am afraid of letting them be close enough to me to hurt me.

What I thought was a position of strength has been, in actuality, a position of weakness.

The people I work with know an entirely different person than those I know socially.

One friend may know different aspects of my personality than others know.

In the military, this is called compartmentation.

One bit of information is useless on it's own. As part of a larger picture, the information takes on meaning and importance.

Some people know about May.
Others know about my divorce.
Some know about my family.
Others about my work.

No one person has enough information to put me at their mercy.

And I am coming to realize that on most levels, my associations are meaningless. Disposable. Temporary.

Now, I am faced with someone knowing more than I have told them.
She has listened.
She has guessed.
She has made logical assumptions.

And she has been right.
And she is still here.

It scares me.

Yet, I take comfort in it.

I want more of it, frightening as it is.

Recouperation

I can feel it.
I am getting better every day.
Scar tissue is breaking up, allowing healing to take place.
What was once painful is now a dull ache.

There are moments of pain, when I get overzealous in the process, and push too hard.
I have to reel myself back in to my comfort zone and dry the tears from my eyes.

I am speaking of my surgery.
My physical pain.

I have not had to reel myself back from my emotional process.
Not yet.
And I haven't dried my tears.
I choose to let them fade.

Finally, I am choosing to let them fade.

B_tter

I before E.

One letter makes a huge difference.

I am mired in the "I" variation.

Bitter.

I think people are essentially stupid, bad, not worthy of consideration.

I want to grow into the "E".

Better.

I want to be a better man.

1492

I am worried.

What if I change?
What if what I become is worse than what I am?

What if it is better?

What if I revert back to what I am?

What if?

There was a time when "what if" didn't rule me.
I paid for it. I still pay for it.

I have controlled my environment so that the outcome was known from jump.
The outcome has been unsatisfying, but familiar.

Part of me is comforted by the familiar.
A growing part of me yearns for the mystery of what might be.

Am I strong enough to strike out from my comfortable prison?
Am I strong enough to fail?
Am I strong enough to succeed?

Can I set out, knowing that I might not return to everything I have known, for the chance of something better?

Promised Land

My life is all about comfort.
My bed is firm, with a soft pad. Soft, cool sheets. Lots of pillows.
My clothing is geared toward comfort, not style. Sweats and t-shirts. Sneakers.

I have been comfortable in my isolation.
It is familiar. Predictable. Comforting.

Why am I dredging up all of this old pain? It was neatly arranged on the shelves of my mind, out of sight, but there if I needed it.

There is something better.
A risk.

I don't like risk.
Risk is dangerous.
Risk can kill you.
Risk can do worse.

Yet, I am drawn to this risk... this opportunity.

If sorting through all of the old baggage is what it takes to prepare me for the risk, then that is what I will do. What I must do.

I am not comfortable.
I am hurting.
I am tearing open old scars so that they might heal better.

All for a risk.
For what might be.
For uncertainty.

Running Scared

"Some say a hero is born to be brave
Well, I'm here to tell you
A hero is a scared man who doesn't walk away"

In my world, the worst thing a man can be is a coward. The ability to act when the chips are down, when the consequences are all or nothing... it is everything.

I am not a coward.

Yes, I am.

When faced with bad people, I act. I do not hesitate. I do not let whatever fear I have deter me from the things I need to do to go home at night.

When faced with good people who wish to share my life, I hesitate. My fear keeps me alone.

If I allow myself to be vulnerable to them, they are in a position to further damage me. They have shown no inclination to hurt me, but it is not a chance I am willing to take.

And this makes me a coward.

I believe it makes me less of a man, as well.

Yes, I go home every night.
To what?
An empty bed.
A solitary morning.
Coffee for one.

What if I were able to invite someone in?
What if I had someone to go home to?
What if I awakened in the morning to find someone special beside me?

What if I didn't come home one night?
Would I put someone else through what I have endured?

Can I do that to someone else?

Kettle

Young love, cut short by an accident.

I could relate.

Our tragedies had a lot of similarities. Our reactions to them had a lot of similarities.

I could plainly see the missteps she was making. The people she allowed access to her life that, had she been whole, would never have made it up to the front door.

The faults we hate most in others are the ones we excuse in ourselves.

We were romantically involved for a short period, but neither of us was whole, neither of us healthy, so that facet of our entanglement didn't sustain for long.

But our friendship has. Each of us sees in the other qualities we valued and lost, so long ago.

I often act as the chorus in her Greek tragedy. I warn her of upcoming pitfalls when she begins a new relationship. I see where these men are lacking, and I let her know what to look for.

I do not extend her the same courtesy.

Old habits die hard. In many ways, I am half a friend.
In the 6 years I have known her, she has never met a woman I have been involved with.
When I discuss issues I face, I do so in vague terms.

I trust her, but I do not let her in too close. No dangerous details.

Maybe, by helping her navigate the minefield, I can find the way through myself... should I ever have the courage to attempt passage.

Fine Print

I have become the emotional equivalent of a popup ad.

I offer great things and, at face value, it looks like I can and will deliver.

I have a standard sales routine that sounds great.

Unless you read the fine print.

The fine print, which any good salesman glosses over, states that:

Product is sold "as is".
Warranty is expired.
Product is defective.
Contents have shifted in transit.
Product cannot be repaired by user.


Like so many cans of Ronco spray on hair before me, I have ended up in the trash can after the unwitting buyer has found out that I don't live up to advertised claims.

Let the buyer beware.
There's a sucker born every minute.

I realize that this has been my dating stategy. I go into every "relationship" knowing it is going to end the same way as the one before, so I put forth less and less effort each time.

Instead of evaluating each new relationship on it's own pros and cons, I simply assume that it is going to be more of the same, so I run the same program over and over.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different outcome.

Honestly, I haven't expected a different outcome in a very long time.

But what if I want a different outcome?

Is the force of habit too much to overcome? Has my mental state become so ingrained that I cannot change it?

Is my isolation so much a part of me that I have doomed myself to stay isolated?

I don't know.

Habits can be hard to break... but perhaps not impossible.

Blasphemy

I knew the feeling. I knew it well.
I recognized it from the shaking of my hands. The shallow breaths. The shuddering coils in my neck. The not quite tears in my eyes, which were narrowed and hard.

Rage.

My constant, if seldom seen, companion.

I am described by people I work with as funny. Calm. Cool under pressure. Stoic, at times.

If they could see me now. Alone, in my room, kneeling on the floor. Angry. Enraged.

Torn.

This is inappropriate. It is wrong. Unholy. Disrespectful.

She left me, without warning. She left me alone to face the rest of my life, a broken, hollow man.

How could she?
Didn't she know what would happen to me?
Couldn't she have seen it coming?
How could she do this to me?

It took me years to finally find something that would have been obvious to anyone, had I allowed them to truly know me.

I was angry at May for dying.
I was angry that she left.
I was angry that we never had the chance to live happily ever after.
I was angry that we never had the chance to possibly break up and go our separate ways.

She was dead. Under a tragic circumstance. I cannot be mad at her.

But I am.

Fear of Commitments

A great deal of what I know about being a man, I learned from my father. Some lessons were intentional, others weren't.

When I was a small boy, I was a cub scout. My troop met at my elementary school, led by my friend Rusty's mom. I enjoyed scouting. My older brothers had been scouts, so I wore a hand-me-down uniform shirt. Being a large family, we didn't buy each kid new stuff if suitable old stuff was laying around. I didn't have official uniform pants. I wore a pair of blue corduroy pants instead.

The troop put on a cake auction to raise money for something, I don't remember what. The idea was for each scout to bake a cake, then auction it off at a large meeting of scouts, their families, and friends.

With the help of my mother, I baked a chocolate cake with white frosting, "CUBS" spelled out across the cake in red cinnamon cake decoration. I was pretty proud of it.

The family loaded up into the VW bus to head to the bake sale. I forgot something, so I put the cake on the seat and ran back into the house to retrieve it. I returned to the car and, in my youthful excitement, forgot that the cake was sitting on the seat.

I sat on it.

My father is a good man. My father is an exceptional man. I am certain that this was a situation that he had never encountered before in his parenting career, and he handled it as best he could.

I didn't want to go through with the auction. My corduroy pants were covered in white icing. The cake was smashed. I was embarrassed. I was crying.

My father told me that I had made a commitment to the troop. Men see their commitments through. I would auction my cake, and that was final.

The tables were set up in a large semi-circle. Each scout, on his turn, carried their cake around the semi-circle, where the bidders would "ooh" and "ahhh", then make their bids.

I did as I was told. I walked that semi-circle with my crushed cake, icing stuck in the cords of my backside.

And I was laughed at. Not with. At. Loud, finger pointing, nudge the guy next to you, embarrassing laughter.
Little kids don't really know how to deal with that. Some adults don't either.

I officially stopped scouting shortly thereafter. I stopped going to the meetings immediately, instead hiding until the meetings were over, then going home.

I am a very funny guy. I do humorous things a lot. I make jokes constantly. If I make you laugh, I am happy about it. I am the stereotypical class clown.

When I was in 10th grade, my old friend Rusty told this story to a group of guys, much to their amusement. He was messing with me, as teenage boys do. He didn't mean any harm.

I don't remember hitting Rusty, but I did. Several times.

I'm sorry Rusty.

Rage

I am an angry man.

I have a simmering disdain for people. I have, for a long time. Maybe it is a steady morning diet of Jerry Springer and Maury. Maybe it is a profession that puts me in contact with people when they are at their absolute worst.

These are contributing factors, but not the cause.

I dislike other people because I am not too crazy about myself, at times.
I cannot believe other people genuinely want to be near me, to love me, to be a part of my life... because there are large portions of time when I don't.

I see that I am closed off. I see that I am inconsiderate. I see that I am selfish. And I don't like it. Why would anybody else?

I knew that I was angry at Cheryl. That was a no-brainer. The fact that my anger was born while I was in an altered state (a drunk) made it easier for me to bottle it up and incorporate it into my personality than it was to deal with it.

I knew I was angry at Les. Again, obvious. I had so much going on at the time. I had lost my job, my house, my hometown... it was easier to assign all the hurt, anger, and blame over those things to Les. Instead of these things being separate problems, they became one big problem. It was so big, I didn't know where to begin working on it. Bottling it up and making it part of my personality seemed to take care of it before, so I did it again.

I honestly thought I was healthy. I thought I was well adjusted.

Someone "close" to me finally called me on my issues. I say "close" because a person can only get so close to me before I start shutting them out.
My initial response was, well, anger... and satisfaction. I was right. Letting people into your life only sets you up for being abandoned.

I sent out a matter of fact email to certain people, letting them know that the affair was over. I then sat down and prepared to forget about it and move on.

I didn't forget.
Things she had said to me resonated.
They echoed in my head.
I got defensive.
Angry.
It didn't stop.

After several days of reflecting on what she had said, I went to a bookstore. I went to the self help section, a place I had never been.
I was fine, after all.

I stood and looked at books for over an hour, unable to tell the gurus from the quacks. I picked out several books to purchase. It couldn't hurt me to read them.

One book deals with transference, bringing your past into the present, assigning past roles to new people.

A light went on in my head.
I realized that I had spent most of my adult life trying to cast new women into a role that couldn't be recast... shouldn't be recast.

I also realized that I was very, very angry at May for leaving.

That shook me to the core.

Hi Jacked

Needing something to do while I figured out my next career, I took a job waiting tables at a local restaurant. I had waited tables in college, and was pretty good at it. Besides, it got me out of the house for 6 hours at a time.

My first day, I saw her... from behind.

She was tall, amazonian, with long, long blonde hair.
I recognized her walk. It was the same confident, sensual walk I knew so many years ago.

I thought I was seeing a ghost.

As she turned around, my mind raced back to the delusions... could they have been real?

No.

May would have aged. This girl was still young, 19 years old.
She looked enough like May to make pursuing her my only option. My internal throttle was already locked. I had no choice.

As time would reveal, she had issues of her own that would make dating a man almost twice her age seem normal. I didn't care. I wasn't dating her.

I was dating May.

She wasn't May. She was her own young woman, with her own personality, her own problems, her own life.

Try as I might, I couldn't conform her into my version of what May had been. There was no way she could. No real, flesh and blood human woman could, even if she had wanted to.

The following year was wasted on drama, false expectations, and disappointments.
She was a good girl. Pretty, smart, caring, determined... and a little troubled.

Had I not been living out some fantasy, I might have seen her for what she was.

A good woman with some problems she would need to solve for herself.
Someone who might have come to love me, if I had allowed myself to see her for her.

Ultimately, she realized that I could not love her, because I had never bothered to know her.

She left.

I was bitter. Not for losing her, but for not getting it right my second time around.

She came into my life, then left.

And I was unchanged by the experience.

Breaking the Mold

He was my constant companion. He saw me safely through a lot of dispairing nights.

He died in his sleep, stretched out in a favorite patch of sunlight.

I was happy that he had spent his last day being loved.
I was happy that I had known him.
I knew that he had loved me.

And a 9 pound giant brought me to tears.
Not for him, but for me.
I would never again feel him walk across my chest in the darkness.
I would never again feel his weight on my shoulder as I walked though the house.

In time, a buff colored tiger joined the household.
I tried to settle him on my chest as I laid in bed. He jumped off, preferring to sleep close by.
I tried to perch him on my shoulder as I walked. He would have none of that, preferring to walk behind me, batting at my feet.

He is different from my old friend in so many ways.
But I love him.

I tried to fit him into the mold of my old friend, but he wouldn't conform. He is his own cat, and deserves to be treated as such. He demands to be loved on his merits, not as a tribute to a fallen companion.

I recognize this.

Yet I have tried and failed to fit women who deserved to be loved on their own merits into the mold of a fallen companion.

I have assigned traits of women who had betrayed me to women who never displayed them.

They would have none of it, and I couldn't understand why.

I am beginning to understand.

Not Worth It

I remember one Christmas, when I was an early teen. We generally had Christmas morning at home, then lunch at Grandma's. As a kid, Grandma's was the mother lode. Full outfits from Gayfer's department store, a couple of toys, maybe a book or 2.

I sat and watched as my siblings opened present after present from under the tree. I received one, an embroidered western shirt, several sizes too small.

I had put a lot of thought into my gift for my grandmother.
I mowed her lawn every weekend. She would putter in the yard as I mowed, pulling clover and weeds.
I had gone to several stores, purchasing hand gardening tools, gloves, and a little mat for her knees.
I thought she would like that.

She got an ugly, embroidered cowboy shirt for me, which was too small for my younger brother.

You get what you deserve.

I have spent most of my adult life feeling like I didn't deserve love, friendship, or compassion.
I certainly haven't done much to foster those feelings in others.
To put it bluntly, I am a selfish jerk.

Offhand, I think of myself as a pretty giving person. I think I am willing to sacrifice for others.

And this is true... for strangers.

I would think nothing of taking a bullet for somebody else. I wouldn't hesitate to run into a burning building to rescue someone I had never met. I helped 2 different people I had just met move, my first week in my new town.

If you are someone that wants to get close to me, though...

It is all about my comfort. It is all about my convenience. How will this impact me?

I am suspicious of motive when someone expresses a desire to be part of my life. There are times I don't want to be part of my life; why would they? The times I have let people into my life haven't just ended badly, they were disasters.

May died. Cheryl cleaned me out. Les cheated on me and took my house.

The relationships I was only a part time participant in ended somewhat painlessly... for me. I don't know how they ended for the other half. I was too selfish to find out.

I sabotage new friendships so that when they end, I will still be OK.

You cannot miss what you never had.

So why do I feel like I do?

Three Strikes

My marriage was over. All that remained was a judge to sign off on it.
I was still living with Les, who was continuing her new relationship with a guy who was engaged to marry someone else.
Water seeks it's own level, I guess.

I walked into my office and found the contents of my cubicle in a box. I had been laid off.

Perfect. Juuuuuuust perfect.

No job, no wife, no long term housing situation.

I did have an excellent severance package, though.

My brother extended an invitation to come north to visit, while I pondered my next move. It seemed like a good idea.

I have been here ever since.

Institutionalized

It seemed like the thing to do.
I was at a point in my life where this is what you are supposed to do.

Looking back, I cannot believe I didn't run away as far and as fast as I could.
But, I didn't.

My office had a weekly ritual called "Den Mother". One of the more social types organized an outing of the younger, unmarried people to a local restaurant or bar, then a movie. She was our Den Mother.
It was a good substitute for a social life for me. I knew these people. I didn't have to meet new ones. And we could talk about work, so I didn't have to share anything personal.

Les had attended a voicemail class I had put together at work. She worked in one of our retail locations. We had never met. She was a college graduate, and thought I was funny.

She actually understood that the entire class was a thinly veiled insult to the phone monkeys. Pretty much an hour of telling them how stupid and lazy they were.

She got it.

That should have been a red flag to me. She was as angry and closed off as I was.
In a few years, I would understand why. She also had a secret, one that she would toy at confronting, only to shove back down.

At the time, I saw a kindred spirit.

An invitation was extended to the weekly "Den Mother" activity.

Months later, things seemed to be going well between us. She had her own life, her own friends, her own interests. This didn't infringe too heavily on my own hermit activities, so I didn't mind having her in my life.

I was in my late 20's. I had a good job. I had a girlfriend that I seemed to like.

We got married.

I remember looking at the wedding photos about a year into it, after it was already going sour. The people in the foreground of the pictures were smiling.
The people in the background weren't.
Some actually had bugged out eyes, downwardly cast.
Their expressions and postures said what I was now thinking...
"I can't believe they got married!"

I was in a separate bedroom after 6 months of marriage. Our marriage was more of a distant roommate situation. There was no fighting. No strife. No drama. No sex. No love.
We did things together. We'd go to dinner or to a movie. We'd update each other on our day.
It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't what I had always thought marriage was.

We lived separate lives, but shared a house.

I never strayed. I had opportunities, but I had made a commitment. I honored it. I was unloved at home, but I was married. I knew enough to not go there.

She didn't.

To her credit, she was a terrible liar. And when confronted, she admitted it.

We agreed to divorce. Again, no fighting, no drama, no strife.

We drove to the courthouse, filled out the necessary forms, then went and ate lunch together.

I had yet another validation of why I didn't let people into my life. They weren't worth the effort.

All I lost was a house.

My wife hadn't been important enough to break my heart.

But then, can you break what was never given to begin with?

Will Hunting

I stood in front of my mirror.
I looked myself in the eye.
I said it out loud for the first time... ever.

"It wasn't your fault."
yes, it was
"It wasn't your fault."
yes, it was
"It wasn't your fault."
i wasn't there
"It wasn't your fault."
i should have been there
"It wasn't your fault."
i killed her
"It wasn't YOUR fault."
i should have been driving
"It wasn't YOUR fault."
i could have saved her
"It WASN'T your fault."
i could have
"It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't your fault."

I couldn't breathe. I didn't recognize my own reddened, contorted face in the mirror.
Fifteen years worth of tears I had hidden behind a brave face. I offered up every argument, every justification as to why I was responsible. They don't make sense anymore.

As I write this, my eyes are dry.

It wasn't my fault.

Awake

I am an insomniac.

When I am in times of turmoil, I cannot sleep.

When things are normal, I sleep pretty well.

But if there is something on my mind, I just cannot find a moment's rest.

It was at it's worst just after my divorce. I would routinely stay awake for 3 days, sleep for an hour or 2, then be awake for another 3 days.

I had a lot on my plate. I had been divorced, laid off, and relocated to a new city, all in the space of a week.

I wanted to sleep. God, did I want to sleep. I just couldn't.

One of my brothers hibernates when he is depressed or facing some great problem. I envy him. He gets a respite from the thoughts crashing around in his head. He just sleeps until the problem goes away or resolves itself.

I get no such break. I am consumed by my thoughts.

I am not sleeping very well right now. I have purposely opened up all of the steamer trunks I have been hauling around, trying to sort through the baggage. I want to see what I need, and what can be discarded.

And that takes thought.

Which takes away my sleep.

My hope is that by separating the wheat from the chaff, my sleepless nights will be spent solving whatever problems are facing me in the here and now, not rehashing past failures.

I am hoping that I can see my past for what it is, not for what I have percieved it to be.

Fear of Freedom

I was comfortable.
I wasn't happy, but I wasn't overtaken with sadness, either. I just... was.

My experiences had put me in a bad place, but it was a place that I had made a fragile peace with. I was depressed, but it was a low grade, simmering depression.

Nothing I couldn't handle.
As long as I controlled my environment.

I expected the worst. From people, from life, from everything.
So I withdrew from it.

My best friend had graduated and moved away. Aside from occasional weekend trips to the beach with him, I was alone, most of the time.

I was still living in the 100.00 a month basement apartment. Why move? It was just me, and I wasn't planning on having guests.

My life consisted of waking up, going to the gym, going to work, going to bed.

This is all I knew for years, and it has been a comfortable place for me to return after aborted forays into the world of "normal" people.

People bother me. I honestly have forgotten how to interact with them in a positive way.
The idea of simply walking up to a stranger and making small talk is as foreign to me as flying a plane. I see other people do it, but have no idea how they do it.

I have spent so long turned inward that moments of outward projection cause me great discomfort.

I can fake it for short periods, but the environment is so strange to me that it isn't long before I retreat back into the familiar confines of my own space.

My logical mind recognizes that it is unnatural to be so alone.

My emotional mind tries very hard to slap my logical mind back into submission.

And it usually does.

A Guilded Cage

I had been moving along on cruise control for a couple of years.

No huge drama in my life. No ups, no downs. Just a long stretch of highway.

Outwardly, things were progressing nicely. I was no longer sabotaging my entire life, so I was getting ahead. I was no longer working menial jobs that I didn't care if I kept or not.

I had been hired on at a telecommunications company. I was a "First Line Customer Service Representative", which is a fancy way of saying that I was a phone monkey... the first guy that answers the phone when you call in with a problem.

I viewed this as my first "real" job... I had to wear a tie!
I B.S.'d my way through the interview. I said that I was computer literate, and asked enough of the correct questions to find out what kind of computers they used (Windows).

I went to Sears, sat down at a demo computer they had set up, and taught myself enough to look like I had seen this before.

Since I was now being paid more than I had ever made in my life from just one job, I figured it would be a good idea to know a lot about what I was supposed to be doing. If it was in the office, I read it. Tech manuals, billing manuals, brochures, instruction manuals for the voice mail system... if it had words, I read it.

Overkill.

If you have ever called into a telecommunications company, you know that the first 3 people you talk to are lucky to be able to find their mouths with both hands and a map. They are functionally retarded. They are only vaguely aware of where they are, and have no clue what it is that the company that pays them actually does.

This was the case in my office and, in very short order, I was the guy people came to for answers. I got frustrated by the fact that the same people came to me with the same questions, but still recognized that it was better than what the rest of the monkeys were doing: making up answers.

Yes, it is true. If the first person you talk to at a telecommunications company gives you an actual answer, chances are excellent that they simply made it up off the top of their head.

Inside 6 months of stepping in the door, I was promoted to the Technical Support Team. Bear in mind, this is a publicly traded company. I had NO formal training whatsoever. And I was a Technician!

I took it upon myself to create classes for the phone monkeys, and the people they randomly blind transferred calls to when they had been on the phone too long.

One of these classes was "Voice Mail and You: An Interactive Journey of Discovery". It was a basic troubleshooting class for our voicemail system.

Sigh... If I had been content to know nothing and collect a paycheck, 2 things would have happened.
1) I would probably still be working there.
2) I wouldn't have gotten married.

Table For One

I suppose that I had just had enough.

In my mind, every time I allowed someone into my life, they took every opportunity to trash it.

This is not a fair assessment... I know.

Tamara had been a very positive relationship, but that was a happy memory. I wasn't doing a lot of dwelling on happy memories.

May had been a wonderful experience, but I was allowing a split second at the end to define the entireity.

Cheryl never would have happened, had I not been actively trying to make a wreck of myself.

I can look back on it now and finally begin to see things as they really were. At the time, I got more and more bitter.

I might not like me, but at least I know I will be there in the morning.

So, I closed up shop.

I still dated casually, but the whole Shawn episode had been a waste of time, so I didn't even bother with looking for a "girlfriend".

I thought I was pretty happy.

The absence of external stimulus does not equal happiness.

To somebody that has forgotten what happiness feels like, it is easy to confuse the two.

Past Imperfect Perfection

This is the first time that I have actually sat down and given a lot of these things real thought.

I was so focused on just getting through to tomorrow that I never looked back and gave any real thought to yesterday. I have been working off instinct for so long, I never gave myself the luxury of retrospection. I just moved forward, collecting grudges and getting angrier.

Everybody that reaches my age has one or two old flames stuck back in the closet. "The one that got away" is a cliche for a reason.

As I sit and think back on the various relationships and romantic entanglements I have had over the years, I am discovering something.

I remember most vividly why they are "ex" girlfriends. There was a series of events that led to the demise of those relationships. In time, you can look back and begrudgingly admit that there were some positive things about them, but, for the most part, you remember your exes for their faults.

At least, I am finding this to be true in my case.

With one glaring exception.

May.

I can close my eyes and remember every pore on her face. I can remember exactly how I held my arm to perfectly support her as she leaned against me.

She has ceased to be a real human being to me. She has transformed into a flawless angel on earth, through the lens of my memory.

But the more I sit and ponder this, the more things I actually remember.

She smoked.

I had completely forgotten that she smoked. Not a lot. Occasional smoker, generally when there were adult beverages being consumed.

Angels don't smoke. Human beings with flaws and imperfections smoke.

I remember vividly that Cheryl smoked clove cigarettes when she had a few cocktails. Why did I not remember May doing it?

Closure.

Usually, there is a series of tragedies that lead to the end of a relationship. People drift apart, they yell at each other, they say things that cannot be unsaid. By the time it is over, one or both parties are relieved that it has finally ended.

They have closure.

I never got that. We didn't have a chance to drift apart. We didn't have a chance to say terrible things to each other.

It was just....

BANG!

You're on your own, Kid.

Maybe what I am finally looking for is closure.

I have long since stopped seeing her in my dreams on a regular basis. I think that, next time, she and I will have a long talk about letting go.

The Birth of Solitarius

My self imposed emotional exile had become habit.

To the outside world, I was the same old guy I had always been.

Inside, I was closed off and distrustful.

Nothing and nobody got close to me.

I was good for going to movies with. I was good for a couple beers.

I was good to talk to about YOUR problems.

Friendship involves a give and take. You give support, you take comfort. You trust your friends, they trust you.

I was half a friend. I could listen to other people's problems and offer compassion.

I didn't feel I was worthy of it in return.

So, I was alone, in a crowd of people.

People that moved in and out of my life like extras on a movie screen. I was a one man show, using other people to move the plot along.

I suppose I got this way as a defense. I had suffered a life-changing catastrophy in the loss of May. Cheryl had kicked me when I was still down.

Nothing good comes from letting other people in. The only person I can count on is me. Everybody else is just strangers.

This, I believe, is when I started not liking other people, just as a rule of thumb.

Films About Ghosts

"I guess you left me
With some feathers in my hand.
Did it make it any easier
To leave me where I stand?
I guess there might not be too many
Who will stand beside me now.
Where'd you come from? Where'm I going?
Why'd you leave me so I'm only good for
Waiting... for you.
All my sins.
I swore that I would pay for them
If I could come back
To you.
All my innocence is wasted on
The Dead and dreaming"

"I woke up in mid-afternoon
Because that's when it all hurts the most.
I dream I never know anyone at the party
But I'm always the host.
If dreams are like movies
Then memories are films about ghosts.
You can never escape, you can only move south
Down the coast"

"I remember me.
Or, all the little things that make up
A memory.
Like, she said, she loved to watch me sleep
Like, she said, it's the breathing...
In and out and in and out
Have you seen "me" lately?"

"You know that I don't like you
But you want to be my friend.
There are bodies on my ceiling
And they're fluttering their wings
It's OK. I'm angry
And you'll never understand.
When you dream of Michaelangelo
They hang above your head"

I don't know Adam Duritz.
He seems to know me.
He writes things I felt.
He says the things I wish I could say.

A Protective Pretzel

As I look back at that period, I realize that I was still in a place where I actually liked people.

Through my twisted logic, my relationship style wasn't just protecting me, it was protecting them.

I had caused May's death.

Keeping everybody at arm's length protected them from me.

If they weren't reliant upon me for anything of substance, any oversight or lapse in vigilance on my part would have no consequence.

It is amazing what a man can believe, when he has lost his belief in himself.

I tried hard not to actively think of her. If I did, my eyes would well up in tears and I would have to excuse myself. Then I would have to concoct a plausible story as to why I had suddenly rushed off to the bathroom.

I developed a habit of dating her exact opposite. Short women, dark hair, dark eyes... Asian women, for the most part.

It cut down on inadvertant confusion. It made it easier to not say her name in the throes of laughter... or passion.

None of this was deliberate. Hindsight is 20/20. I look back on it now and it is obvious. Every woman I had any manner of relationship with was nothing like May.

They didn't look like her, they didn't act like her.

And it was easy for me to not care when they left.

And they all did.

Autopilot

After Shawn, I thought I had discovered the wheel.

I had discovered a way to have relationships that were an accessory, but not an important component, to my life.

I dated a lot.

None of them even dented my hard candy shell.

The moment I grew even a little tired of them, I just stopped calling.

They didn't seem to mind.

It was perfect.

It was like having a bowl of peanuts on the table. If I wanted some, I took them. If not, I ignored them... until I wanted some.

A girl named Ellen summed it up, saying that I was "a mile wide and an inch deep". I was a lot of fun to be around, and I looked like a friendly, outgoing guy... but there was nothing past the surface.

Not for them.

There was a lot going on under the surface, but all I let anybody see was the swan, effortlessly gliding across the lake.

There were women I had entire relationships with that had never been to my home. Never met my friends. Didn't know anything about me.

It was empty. It was lonely.

But if they left, I wouldn't care.

And that was what was most important.

Madness

My name is the one I was born with. My face is the one I have naturally aged into.

However, the nature of my military service occasionally put me in proximity to men who lived in the shadows.

In the weeks immediately following the accident, my small exposure to that world was enough to send me into bouts of delusion.
There were moments where I didn't believe she was dead. She had seen something. She was being hidden. And once the issue had been resolved, she would come out of hiding.

I would be driving down the street and see a blonde woman in a car traveling in the opposite direction. I would whip my car around and follow, thinking it was her.

I would recognize her walk in the corner of my eye. More than once, I left my car running in the middle of the street, as I ran into a business to find her.

Looking back, I realize that I was insane. The combination of grief and alcohol made fertile ground for unhealthy coping mechanisms.
Anything was better than the reality that I faced, so I constructed a fantasy that, while terrible, was better than what was true.

As I sit and write these blogs, details come back to me.

I had kind of forgotten about the delusions, the sightings.

I wonder how many frantic 911 calls my behavior inspired?

In time, the madness faded, until I no longer saw her in my waking hours.

I continued to see her in my dreams.

Cheryl once told me that I talked in my sleep, and I said wonderful things. Cheryl thought I was dreaming about her.

Maybe the realization that I wasn't was her motive for the way she left.

Eh, OK.

Folk Music Jam.

My buddy and I went out for a night of live music and a couple beers.
To say I had fallen off the wagon would imply that my problem had been anything other than self made.
I had decided that, since I hadn't missed it, I wasn't an alcoholic.
So I allowed myself light beer.
Never got drunk. Always kept it to a limit of 4.
It was a social thing.
I do that to this day. I rarely make it to 4 before I am ready to go home and get into bed.

Anyway, we went to the Folk Music Jam. Very crowded. Music was great.
My buddy introduced me to a girl named Shawn.

Tall. Really tall. Brown hair. Very pretty. Did I mention tall?
She was an MBA student. Had graduated with her Bachelor's, gone and worked a couple of years, then returned for her Master's.
Very smart, very sharp, very nice.

She asked me out. Really. I was shocked. It hadn't crossed my mind to go out with her.

We went to play miniature golf. It was fun. We kissed at the end of the night. That felt nice...but strange.

We went out several more times, and pretty soon, we were a couple.

She was a great girl.

And I couldn't have cared less.

She knew nothing about me that I didn't want her to know. I kept her at an arm's length.
I didn't let her get close to me. I wouldn't. I couldn't.

I knew how that song ends, and I wasn't dancing.

I liked Shawn. She was interesting. She was funny. She was smart. She was very pretty.

And I couldn't have cared less.

In the end, she graduated and got a job in Miami.

She left, and I couldn't have cared less.

I had found the pattern for my relationships with other people.

Just Me and the Cat

I was feeling pretty good.
Things seemed to be going my way.

I was back in the gym, looking like myself in the mirror.
My eyes were clear, my face not bloated.
I was getting ahead, financially.

I smiled.

Not like I used to. I used to smile a great big toothy smile.
My new smile was just an upturn at the corners of my mouth.

But it was a smile.

It was just me and the cat, making our way through life.
No dating. No relationships. 1 friend.

My best friend. From the comedy club. From the first night.

He was the only one who sort of saw what had happened to me.
I had shut him out during the darkest of times, but I had come out of them, and our friendship resumed like nothing had interrupted it.

He brought it up once, as we sat on the beach.

I guess the change in my eyes or the look on my face made him think better of a follow up question.

He has never mentioned it again, for fear that I would slide back into my hole, never to be seen again.

Outside Looking In

Alcoholics have a phrase, "A Moment of Clarity".

One morning, after working all night, I glanced at my wall.
There was a picture of me and my team, from my days in the Army.

I hadn't looked at it in a while, it was just part of the background.

I don't know why I looked at it, but I ended up staring at it.

The young man in the picture was lean. Strong. Clean cut. Smiling.

Where did he go?

I looked in the mirror. Chubby, bloated from alcohol. Long hair. Unshaven.

What would she think of me now?

The long hair and beard were a deliberate choice. I decided one night that I didn't want to look like the guy that had been flimflammed by Cheryl. It was an outward change, but at least I didn't have to look into the eyes of an idiot in the morning.

The hairy guy was a different guy.

I went to the barbershop that morning and got a haircut. I came home and shaved.

I threw away all my alcohol.

I didn't touch a drop for the next 6 months.

I lost weight, and began to actually feel better.

At the end of 6 months, I realized that I didn't miss booze. I wasn't an alcoholic. I had been a drunk.

At the end of 6 months, the debt was under control, only a third of it left. I consolidated it into a single loan, which freed up considerable disposable cash.

And I thought I was past all of it.

I was wrong.

A Ray of Light

Alone.
Despondent.
Unloved.

The hurt and anger I felt toward Cheryl was a welcome respite from the rage I had for myself.

Looking back, I think it was easier to blame myself, punish myself, hate myself, than it was to address what I was really feeling. Profound loss, with flashes of anger at May for leaving.

It was not until very recently that I discovered how angry I was at her. More on that later.

By then, I was living in a 100.00 a month basement apartment, working 2 jobs, paying down the debt run up by Cheryl. I was living on ramen noodles, tuna fish, and 1.00 toaster oven pizzas.

I was riding a bike, because I couldn't afford a car. Every dime I made, I put toward paying off my creditors... and alcohol.

One day, I saw an ad for kittens.

I borrowed a car and went to look at the kittens. They were all big, muscular cats, some black, some white, some mixed. They were in a big lump in a cardboard box.

In the corner of the box, I saw myself. Scared, small, unsure.

He had 7 toes, big bat ears, and a pointy nose. He was the runt of the litter, a mutant freak that nobody would want.

Just like me.

I took him home with me. He never grew above 9 pounds, but he was a giant in my eyes.

I could love him without reservation. He would never reject me, steal from me, or break my heart.

He didn't judge me, didn't blame me, and wanted to be close to me when I was at my worst.

He kept me going, when I did not want to continue.

I honestly believe that, if not for him, I might not be writing this today.
The burden was that heavy, and he lightened it.

Two Wrongs Make a Bigger Wrong

On one of the few occasions I did go out, I met up with a guy that worked at the gym.

He had a whole crew of people with him, one of whom was an aerobics instructor from the gym, named Cheryl.
Cheryl was an attractive girl, athletic body, kind of a Witchie-Poo facial structure. Larger than average nose and a pointy chin.

When I met her (back when I was in a happier place), I thought she was a mess.

She had grown up in central Florida, lower middle class in a hyper-wealthy world. Her dad had skipped out before she was born. She freely admitted to purposely dating above her station for the benefits of fancy dinners, nice gifts, all the things that come from dating guys with wealthy parents.
Once in college, she had to work for a living. She mainly dated frat guys that drove Daddy's car and lived on Daddy's dime.

I didn't think much of her when we first met. I thought she was kinda pathetic.

Now, I thought she was pretty together.

Compared to me, she was.

We started dating.

SHE got to meet the folks. SHE came to the family functions. SHE moved in with me.

She, not being a particularly good student, failed out of college.
I was just a hopeless drunk, and I also flunked out.

She had an opportunity to go to a radiology tech trade school in central Florida, where she could live with her mom.

I did what any broken, drunk, rudderless guy would have done in that situation.

I asked her to marry me.



She accepted, but she still left for trade school. Before she did, she suggested that I put her on my credit, since we were going to get married.

Not long after, she was gone, literally.
So was the ring.
So was 30K in credit.

There was no trade school in central Florida.

A little research showed that it was in Jacksonville. After I found that out, I didn't even bother going to find her.

No explanation was needed.

I deserved this.

Side Effects

It was about this time that I started withdrawing from "healthy" interactions with people.

As a kid and teenager, I was EXTREMELY social. I always had a bunch of friends, plans every weekend, active in school stuff.

Add into that a pretty healthy family life. No late night sneaky uncle drama, no sibling rivalry... we loved each other.

I don't know why I felt I couldn't talk to them about what was going on with me.

Shame? Guilt?

In my mind, I had just killed somebody. Who could love me after that?

I guess I faked it pretty well. Nobody knew the hell I was in. I suppose I seemed normal to those around me.

They knew of my frustration with the GI Bill, and my money problems, but I never let on to the larger issue.

To them, May was just a girl I had dated.

I never got around to introducing her to my family. I thought I had more time.

So, there I was, putting on a brave face for my family.

I stayed in a lot, just drinking and listening to depressing music. If I did go out, I got twisted off the axle drunk.

I lost touch with a lot of my friends.

I lost my job at the gym.

I didn't care.

The Mean Time

"If only.

If only I hadn't gotten the call from my Army buddies.
If only I had blown them off.
If only I had gone to the party.

If only.

I would have been driving.

I ALWAYS drove.

As smart, beautiful, wonderful as she was, she was a terrible driver. Scary, in fact.

She had been in numerous fender benders in her short driving career.

She just wasn't good at it.

I should have known. I should have been driving. I should have been there for her.

I was RESPONSIBLE for what had happened. I killed her, by my absence."

This is the soundtrack running over and over in my head. My only respite was when the alcohol sucked me into a drunken slumber.

I saw her there. Alive. Beautiful. Mine. Forever.

In the aftermath, I dropped out of college. I couldn't concentrate on school. Rather than flunk out, I withdrew. I would return when I had dealt with what I was mired in.

Several months later, I went back. I was still drinking most of the time, still running the soundtrack.
Disaster.

My hasty withdrawl from school had done something to my GI Bill. Some faceless drone in a cubicle had placed me into an ineligible file.

I had to pay my own way.

Kids do it every day. It is tough, but not impossible.

Unless you are a drunk, stuck in a bloody bog of sorrow that you cannot even begin to fathom.

If that is the case, you get another job... and begin dating someone as broken as you are.

The Fall

The following days are a blur.
I don't know precisely what I did in the days leading to the funeral.
I do know that I went to where it happened, trying to piece together how it happened.
The scuff marks , indicative of taking an unexpected curve too fast.
The shallow ditch, which flipped the car into the air.
The large, stately oak, scarred from the impact.
Her blood, still on the tree.
Her hair, imbedded in the bark.
Oh God.

I found out from my brother where the police impound yard was.
I had to see the car.
It had been a black Chevrolet Baretta. It wasn't recognizable as one, anymore.
So much blood.
I could smell her inside the car.
I knealt down next the crushed vehicle, sobbing.
I took the key out of the ignition, and put it in my pocket.

I do not remember much about the funeral. I remember that I placed a rose on the casket, along with the key. Other than that...nothing.

In the days and months that followed, I spent a great deal of time at her grave.

Most of that time, I was drunk.
In my sheltered life, nobody close to me had ever been taken.
I had seen death before.
Soldiers I served with had died, right next to me, on occasion.
Those deaths made sense. It was part of the deal. Soldiers die.

Beautiful, vibrant young women don't.
At least, they shouldn't.

I had never known the depth of emotion I was in.
I couldn't deal with it.
So I climbed inside a bottle to hide from what was glaringly apparent.

Her death was MY fault.

The Turning Point

Shortly after my return to my hometown, I got a job in a gym.
I needed something to occupy my time while I waited for my college career to begin.
I worked as a personal trainer/salesman. It was an easy job, that came with a free membership and lots and lots of spandex clad eye candy.

One day, a tall blonde walked through the door. She looked familiar... VERY familiar. As I approached her, she smiled at me (always a good sign).
When I got closer, I recognized her as the younger sister of a guy I had gone to school with. May. My years away had been good to her, to say the very least.

She looked like Christina Applegate, only tall and Amazonian, with long, long blonde hair. She had a deep, husky voice, like Lauren Hutton, making even a simple word like, "Hello", sound like a seduction.

She remembered me. More than I did her. We didn't run in the same crowd, so I was only a little aware of her in high school. She knew who my friends were, that I was a martial artist, and that I had gone away to serve in the Army.

By the time she left, I had forgotten to sell her a membership. She had forgotten to work out. And we had a date for that evening.

Oh, and what a date it was! We went to the local comedy club, where my best friend was a doorman. I have no idea who the act was, or what he talked about on stage.

At closing time, we went out to my car, where I kissed her for the first time. Soft. Natural.

Shortly thereafter, my friend came out and found us leaning against my car. We sat around drinking a few pilfered beers from the club, just talking. She remembered him from high school, as well. She was good about that...

As guys who have had a few beers are prone to do, my friend suddenly tackled me onto the hood of my car, in a playful, "glad you're back" kind of way. May jumped on top of us both and instructed my friend to keep me pinned down. She then kissed my forehead...HARD...for about a minute.

When she was done, he let me up. She said, "There. Now you're branded. You're mine forever."
A quick glance in the mirror revealed a hickey in the middle of my forehead.

The months that followed were wonderful. She came to the gym while I worked, we'd see each other after I got off, our days off spent just being around each other.

I had begun college at this point, taking a full load. I had the GI bill, so I didn't have to work so much. My time with May was virtually unaffected. And it kept getting better. She was right. I was hers forever.

She and I had planned to go to a party one evening.
On the day of the party, I got a phone call from a group of Army buddies that had come into town to check out the university campus. These were guys that I had gone through a lot with, and had not seen in over half a year.
May could see the conflict in my eyes and gave me an out on the party. "Go see your friends. You see me every day.".

I met up with the guys and had a good time, showing them the local bars and letting them check out the local female talent.

I got home late and went to bed.

When I woke up, I had a shower. I picked up the phone and dialed up my girl. Her father answered, which was a little odd. I cheerfully said "hello", and asked to speak to May.
He began to cry.

Dark night. Winding road. Do the math.

Crippled

I am crippled.
Some aspects are easy to see, others hidden. Some aspects are temporary, others seem to be permanent.
I am hoping to change that.
My temporary affliction is due to years of physical exertion. I am recovering from procedures intended to repair that damage, and my physical malady will cease to be an impact on my life.

I am a physical person, so this temporary downtime is frustrating. I am doing what I can to speed my recovery, so I can leave the house and resume my worklife.

My permanent affliction is an emotional one. Whether it is truly permanant remains to be seen. I do know that I have had it for most of my adult life. It deals with feeling. I feel badly.

No, that is not an example of poor grammar. By saying that I feel badly, I am stating that the mechanism which allows me to feel is broken.

It hasn't always been like that. A series of events, and my reactions to them, damaged my ability to truly interact with people. It started out in a very promising way, though...

My first "adult" relationship was a positive, healthy affair. We met over a shared love of fitness. She was a bodybuilder, as was I. I was in the service, she was a transplant to the town. She was biding her time, waiting for her purpose. I was finding out who I was going to be, as a man.

We cared about each other, without reservation. It was nice. Better than nice. It was love.
For the 2 years we were together, we were happy. No drama, no jealousy, no games. Just 2 young people, enjoying the gifts the other had to give.

My enlistment was coming to an end, and it had always been my plan to go to college. Tamara had discovered an interest in furthering her education as well, and had been accepted to the University of Michigan. Her family was there, and her family had become more important to her in the time we had been together. She stated that my connection to my family had rekindled her desire to be closer to her own.

In the second half of 1989, we kissed for the last time. She drove north, to Michigan, I drove south, to Florida.

We parted with no drama, no regrets. We were excited for each others new lives, despite their not being intertwined.

That chapter closed, never to be more than a happy memory.