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.