Friday, November 6, 2015

"Her" - Part Three

Welcome back to the drama.  Grab your Snuggie and your favorite beverage or herbal relaxant and gather around the campfire...it's time to wrap this story up.

Writing this turned out to be surprisingly more difficult than I anticipated, so I took a 30-day break to meditate on my ideas and intentions before continuing.

I may have talked it over with my shrink therapist.


Brock T. Sampson

When last we left our curious couple we were just old enough to start really doing permanent damage to our lives while simultaneously having no fucking clue what in the hell we were doing.

We were both so clueless.  A good example of the classic mistake that highly-intelligent people are often guilty of:  Always thinking we were the smartest people in the room.

Hubris is a bitch.  Write that shit down.

Looking back twenty years later, I really do prefer to remember the good times, of which there were a great many.  But the level of destructive power that it took to destroy something so holy left a tattoo on my soul.  This isn't unique; I think most people can identify with an overwhelming sense of grief that never completely goes away.

I can only hope that - personality disorder or not - they find a better way to cope than a bottle of Jaimeson's, a random warm body and enough pot to forgot it all the next day.  

It's really not as glamorous as it sounds.

The schism played out over a few weeks in early 1997, during which we decided to sit and have a serious discussion; a final effort to reconcile and save our relationship.

She was still waiting tables at Denny's, so I met her near the end of her shift.  I walked in and grabbed a seat at the counter…

…with three of my friends.  Stoned out of our goddamn minds.

She was completely unfazed and simply asked: "You guys are high as fuck aren't you?"  Which of course we denied while laughing hysterically - confirming her suspicions.

In that cosmic millisecond - that heartbeat of time - I knew.

I always know.

As I began to realize the magnitude of the moment, she looked me in the eyes for what seemed like forever.  I waited for anger.  Disgust.  Contempt.  Anything but the cold blank stare that was as clear as the message to follow:

"Okay then."

"Okay then."  Those two words formed an echo that I can still hear when it's really quiet.

So this is what I want you; dear reader, to understand going into this next part.  We loved each other a great deal and had a capacity for perseverance that was only rivaled by the venom you are about read about.


A Choir of Angels

As we had met in a combat oriented sport, possessed alpha personalities and weren't old enough to drink, things went from bad to completely off the fucking rails in a nanosecond.  Whenever we met, we fought.  Money owed, property to be returned…culminating in our final fight:

Sex.

We had never had full sex, having agreed to wait until we were married.  Being Catholic, her virginity was extremely important to her.  Or so I thought.

I was temporarily living with my sister at the time, having just reunited after a childhood of being "holiday siblings".  Her absolutely hated Susan for reasons I still don't completely understand.  One particular night I had the place to myself and "Her" used the opportunity to come over and drop off some of my things.

"Her" pulled up into the driveway, leaving the car running as she walked up to the garage where I was waiting.  My cigarette smoke made intricate swirls in the light of her headlights reminding me of the Fibonacci Sequence.

I don't recall how it started.  There was a Him.  There apparently had been for a few weeks.  All I remember are those fucking words.  It didn't make sense...


Why does she keep mumbling "Fuck it", like she's trying to psych herself up?

(All it takes is one bad day...)

Wait.  Did she just say...?

(To reduce the sanest to lunacy...)

Those fucking words.  No.  Oh God Please No.

(That's how far the world is from where I am...)

"It wasn't like a choir of angels or anything..."

(Everything changed...)


I couldn't speak.  Those words just kept swirling around my head.

I hated her for making me hate her in that moment.  Hate was the only thing keeping me standing.  I breathed hate.  I became hate.

Up until that point I had idolized her.  But now I was breaking apart from a cruelty that I could hardly imagine existed - not to mention endure - and had enough undiagnosed mental health issues that nobody could have predicted what would happen next - or how lasting of an effect this would have on my life.


"4 Days Later"

I'm sitting on a bed in an unfamiliar messy room.  I've been drinking copious amounts of tequila to get up the courage to use the Sig-Sauer P223 I have stashed in my leather - in a way that it was definitely not designed for.

The problem here is...it's not my bed I'm sitting on.  Nor is it my bedroom.  Hell, it isn't even my fucking house.

My sister's friend Francis - who was known for an unusually strong set of personal ethics and extreme kindness - had decided I shouldn't drink alone.  More accurately he probably didn't think I should kill myself, so he sat for hours listening to me rant about how this was a fuckup so big even God was going to be impressed.  He never tried to stop me when I flat out stated my intent to take my own life.  He knew better.  Instead he just kept talking.

That was the first time Francis saved my life.  It would not be the last.

The next day I met with my friend Bosco praying he'd have a solution.  Bosco knows people.  Bosco is a problem solver.  Simply put: Bosco does not fuck around.  Bosco had also known Her and I better than anyone.

Bosco also told me that there was an easy and fast way to get past the pain: Hate her.  He advised me to: "Remember every single negative thing about her" followed with: "It doesn't have to even be real, as long as you believe it is.  Demonize her.  Hate her."

I love Bosco, but he's no mental health expert and abso-fucking-lutely should not be permitted to give relationship advice.

Of course, I did exactly what he told me.  For the next two years.

I contacted a friend in her cities PD and asked him to meet me in uniform with a cruiser at her house with the goal of humiliating her family while I collected my belongings.  Not that I needed to, what with the six zombie-looking-stoner-cum-drug-dealers carrying everything so I didn't have to enter the house.

Soon after, my friends and I began…harassing Her.  Not physically or anything, more mentally and emotionally.  I'll simply say this until I research the statute of limitations in that area: I've used those Words as an excuse to become a monster to Her and almost every woman I've dated since.

I've never raised a hand to a woman, don't get me wrong.  But I was once told by an ex that she'd rather be subjected to a physical beating than to have to ever hear my venomous words ever again.


"My words are weapons." - Marshall Mathers


Damn.  I'm relieved to be wrapping this up.  I keep in distant contact with her siblings and have had the privilege of finding out that Her went on to have a damn good life…married to the guy mentioned in this story.  Fuck, who wouldn't root for her?

I will likely never know all the details of what happened to her after we stopped talking.  A family member told me that she went to therapy to help work through it.  Whatever happened I'm truly happy that she was able to heal.  It only took me: two decades, an embarrassing number of meaningless partners, some overnighters in jail for barfights, a few failed bands, an assault charge with my favorite shotgun that led to Active Duty in the Army - all wrapped up nice and tight with a bow that says "HOMELESS" before it occurred to me that I had problems I couldn't fix on my own.

For the record, I wouldn't change a fucking thing.  There are two beautiful young ladies in this world that wouldn't be here if my path were any different.  Today I continue to get to know myself better and better because my path has led me to amazing friends, colleagues and head-shrinks psychotherapists that enrich my life - while reuniting paths I separated with long ago.

I'm grateful for the hard lessons and ego smashing that my path has challenged me with.
I'm grateful for every single mistake I've made, because nobody learns from perfect.
Most of all, I'm grateful for every single moment that I was privileged to share with Her.



Until that day,

Me

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