Sangre de Christo

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Just home from work and grocery shopping. I sit down to play a game of Spider Solitaire and feel like I need to write what is happening now…but it seems so mundane…but it isn’t. What seems mundane is that I have been feeling good…really good for a while now. I think it was the long hard look at my personal inventory…recognizing how long I’ve been angry and hurt and how I carry these two things around like my life depends on them. It has always been my anger that propels me into action. I’ve relied on it to get me through the hard times. It makes me feel powerful and right on the edge of losing control. The hurt is my self-fulfilling prophecy. I always know people will disappoint me. They can never live up to my expectations of perfect love, fantasy love like you see in movies between parent and child, husband and wife. When they begin to disappoint me I withdraw and sulk making myself so unattractive that they leave me…just as I knew they would. I am happy to know these things about myself. It helps me in stressful situations…like Sweet Pea’s wedding.

Falcon texted me the day before my flight. “For a good time call, F.” I didn’t want to call but I began to feel that familiar angst which has now become a round of questions. “Will I give in? Will I sleep with him one more time? Can I possibly resist him?” The reasons to resist are front and center: sex would be bad, emotional separation and confusion would be damaging, admitting to another person that I had done it would be painfully embarrassing. It has never worked. Even when it seemed to be working it was really just an over-stimulated memory of a string of intoxicated orgies. I can still reach back in my mind and create another familiar physical reaction. It starts in my gut and sends shivers all the way across my skin. I’m pulling into my driveway when my phone rings with his “troll coming out of the mountain” tune. I let it ring twice and then grab for it and flip it open just as he hangs up. I hit the recall button and he answers.

“Did you make a mistake?” I ask, hoping that he will remember the time he asked me the same thing; the first time I tried to leave him and I drunk dialed. He’d picked up the phone and asked, “did you make a mistake?” And I’d answered, “not yet”. I don’t think he remembered, at any rate he plowed right ahead and asked, “have you left work?”
“Yeah, I just pulled into my driveway.”
“Oh that explains. Did you get my text?” he asks.
I guess my driving home explained why I hadn’t texted him back immediately. I told him he must have a sensor that told him when I was leaving town and explained that I was flying to Albuquerque the next day. I can’t remember how it progressed to him asking me to meet him that night in Louisville. I told him I was going there the next day to fly out, but I had already made plans to visit some friends. I made it clear that it wasn't going to happen. He tried to tempt me by telling me how turned on he was and how good it would be. Then he said he must need closure or something because he couldn’t seem to be able to stop wanting to have sex with me. I told him I knew what he meant.

That night, before I went to bed I stood naked in front of my bedroom mirror. It’s surrounded by a wooden frame with in-laid shells and double doors. I closed the doors just enough to leave a sliver of mirror showing and took a picture with my cell phone. Then I opened the doors and took a picture of my naked torso in the mirror. I wanted to hold my arms up to make my breasts look higher, but in order to reach the shutter button, I had to turn the phone upside down, which made the picture upside down…even better. I sent the closed cupboard photo first with a message: closure. A few minutes later I sent the photo of the upside-down, bare-breasted woman with a camera in front of her face. He wrote back: nice closure sultry lighting hot

I’m not exactly sure what he means but I like the hot part. I send another picture of a political sign from one of his campaigns that says “Had Enough?” He sends back a picture of his belly. He’s wearing navy silk boxers and he has his hand just inside the waistband. In my draft folder I’ve found an old photo of me in black bra and panties. I insert a song so that when he hits open it will burst into halleluiah before he sees my photo. He sends back mmmmm. I send back mmmmm. He sends back Thanks have nice trip I have closure now F

So, I had a nice trip. When I told Indigo he wanted to meet me in Louisville, she’d asked, “What was he planning on doing? Fucking you in his car?” That may have been exactly what he planned. I tell her about the pictures. She looks at me hard and says “Well, at least you didn’t sleep with him. Don’t sleep with him.”

Sweet Pea meets me at the airport with her fiancé. She’s wearing a diamond ring and looking fifteen years younger than she did a year ago, and happier than I’ve ever seen her in her life. They take me for a drive through town. There are adobe houses everywhere. Everything is brown or terra cotta. Sweet Pea lives on a dirt road, next door to our brother Jack. They both live in nice big trailers with all the amenities. It’s a simple life, “an acquired taste” Sweet Pea keeps telling me. We sit out on her deck. The air temperature is perfect and the sky is filled with puffy white clouds against a clear blue. We’re up high and the air is thin. Every time a truck or car drives past a huge billow of dust drifts toward us. I am the first to arrive. Jack joins us for dinner with his wife and son. Sweet Pea’s oldest daughter arrives soon after and then her other two daughters and then three of her girlfriends with one of their husbands arrive in a motor-home. We go to bed that night expecting sister Pantherina to arrive in the middle of the night. She doesn’t get there until morning. She’s driven through the night from Phoenix to avoid the desert heat. Then Sweet Pea’s son arrives with his son and his father. When her fiancés daughters and children arrive the major players are assembled. The next day we work for a few hours, putting up a tent, laying a dance floor and hauling tables and chairs. Sweet Pea is a whirling dervish of information and tasks that must be seen to. Occasionally she remembers that she’s supposed to be having fun and then realizes that she really is and breaks into a big smile and hugs the nearest person.

I am quiet and introspective, trying to make sure I don’t say anything that I might have to apologize for. Jack’s son takes me and the girlfriend’s husband to Jack’s leather shop where he produces high-end horse tack. His shop is huge and almost immaculate. I take photographs while he shows the husband how all of the tools work. He suggests we all go to lunch and I hop in the truck with him so he doesn't have to drive by himself. I tell him again how much I admire him. He seems embarrassed and pleased. I have to keep reminding myself that Jack is my brother. But actually he isn’t. He was my step brother from the time I was four until I was thirteen. Later that day we’re sitting on the porch and I’m trying to explain to Sweet Pea’s girlfriends how many kids there actually are in our family and I mention halves, wholes and steps which makes everybody laugh and Jack says out loud to everyone, but he’s looking straight at me, “yeah I can remember being confused by that whole step thing cause I always sort of idolized you and wondered if there was anyway we could have…you know… like can step brothers and sisters .. you know.”
“Yes, they can Jack.” I say feeling the need to stop him. But I'm also feeling relieved that he had once experienced something like I’d been feeling since the last family reunion when I realized that not only was he one of the nicest men I’d ever met in my life, he actually said amazingly nice things about my porcelain skin and my beautiful voice. After the reunion I’d been so surprised by my feelings that I’d confessed them to our sister Pantherina. When she didn’t respond I asked her if she was horrified. She’d told me no but that she was pretty sure Jack would be.

So, it was a relief to know he would not be horrified if he knew, in fact he probably did know. I wished that Pantherina had heard him. I have no idea who did hear him but for the rest of the trip I tried to be near him without being obvious. Once when we were talking I noticed how beautifully blue his eyes were. When I was alone I would tell myself, “ this is sinful… he’s married. This is envy. You want what’s not yours.” The last night he took twenty-five of us out to dinner. Everyone ordered a Marguerita and when I ordered a Cosmo, he said, “Wow, you really are sophisticated, aren’t you.” I imagined that his wife would want to kill me.



Sunday, July 20, 2008

My latest depression has lasted for 16 days. It began on July 4th…right after the 10K. I came home and lay on the couch, waiting for my runner’s high. It never came. Instead I spent the day wondering if Falcon would remember that this was the anniversary of the first time we slept together. I remember thinking that morning that I had finally gotten something that I wanted more than anything in life…him. And not only had he met all my expectations but that I had experienced something I had never known before; absolute and utter bliss. I wonder now if that was just a result of how much and for how long I had desired him. I remember the next night we slept together, on July 5th. When I woke up he was sleeping with his arms raised above his head. He looked so beautiful, I told myself I was sleeping with an angel. I had put my nose next to his armpit and he smelled like cologne. That was the morning that he could not remember a few weeks later.

I tell myself, “I knew even way back then that this would end badly.” Yesterday, after my Al-Anon meeting a woman asked me if I wanted to go to Dunkin Donuts for coffee. I didn’t. I hate spending money on lousy coffee and I hate sitting in doughnut shops when I cannot possibly allow myself the calories. Like everything else in my life, my diet has hit the skids. I’m eating mostly bread and cheese and haven’t run in over a week. But, I agree to go anyway. I like this woman in a somewhat guarded way. She’s my age and single and lonely. I’m sitting there in the doughnut shop telling her about my most recent contact from Falcon and how it has once again left me feeling rejected and confused when I see Bella and her husband rolling the stroller in with the two babies. I jump up and hold the door for them announcing to my friend that this is my daughter and my grandbabies. The girls sit with me while Bella orders their milk and doughnuts. My friend remarks that Rosebud looks just like me. I look at Rosebud’s beautiful little face with her big brown eyes and her golden ringlets and think, “you’ve got to be joking”. But still, I’m happy to hear it. When the girls are finished and the baby has begun to throw herself on the floor because Bella won’t let her walk around with her milk, we all decide to say our goodbyes. On the way out the door, my friend turns to me and says, “you’ve got it all you know and I don’t ever want to hear you complain about being lonely again. I mean it. If you ever say that again, I’m gonna call you out in a meeting.” I smile and tell her, “you’re right.”

I go home and call Sweet Pea. She is just back from her honeymoon and still floating on cloud nine. I tell her that I’ve been moping about Falcon for weeks. I tell her about his phone call before my flight to Albuquerque and about him telling me that he needed closure, and about me sending him a cell phone picture of my breasts, and how he had written back: thanks, now I have closure. “Now what the fuck does that mean?” I ask her, knowing that she has no answer for me. I confess to her that I don’t know which of my fears is greater, my fear that he will never call again, or my fear that he will.

We talk for over an hour and afterwards I’m exhausted. I lie down and sleep for two hours. I don’t get up until three. The day is almost over and I’ve done nothing. And I’m going to do nothing. I play spider solitaire and water my plants and watch crap on television and at eleven I go back to bed. I think about all the Saturday nights we spent together, drinking and laughing and rolling around in bed and all those long sweet kisses. I’m looking into my bedroom mirror as I take off my bra and I want to take another picture of my breasts and send it to him. “You’re insane,” I tell myself.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Life goes on and still I am not in it. This reminds me of the year I spent sitting at my bay window on Fell Street, looking out at the Panhandle Park with its eucalyptus lined paths, wishing I could be one of the happy people walking hand-in-hand without a care in the world, while I tried to convince Bigboy to give it up take his nap.

Now Bigboy would probably give anything to be able to take a nap and I am one of those carefree people. But I am not happy. I suppose if I had to explain, I would say it’s because I’m alone. Although when I try to think about it I can not imagine myself with a man. I feel too weird, too isolated, too wedded to doing whatever the hell I want at any given moment. But, when I think of Falcon and how I would have given up all of that in a second just to have him near me, I should recognize that finding someone I loved would not be a negative.

I think I have forgotten how to flirt. I used to be known as a flirt. I’ve lost my confidence. It is safer to act like I don’t give a damn what you think of me, when in fact I would love to be admired…by almost anyone. It’s what I live for. Here alone, inside the safety of my walls, there is no one to admire or reject me.

Lately, I’ve come to realize how much I fear and loathe rejection. Perhaps that is why I’ve been in such a long and protracted funk. When Falcon was flying in and out of my life I could pretend that I was not alone. I could imagine myself as some rare and precious thing that he could not resist for more than a week or two.

The other day I thought about my addiction to him, about how I think of him every few hours through-out the day. Sometimes when the longing is so great that I want to pick up the phone and call him, I tell myself that I am not good for his recovery. I contribute to his alcoholism and I know I make him feel bad about himself. The thing he liked most about me in the beginning was how I made him feel good about himself. I wonder if that is my manipulation. I make men think they are wonderful, maybe I even believe they are, and then when they begin to feel comfortable around me I try to convince them what a disappointment they are. Who would want to live with that message? That’s the message I grew up with and the one I grew old with. The one that Woody gave me and the one I gave back to him.

Jasmine just called. She is on her way to a meeting. Her grandfather just died and she needs to go to his funeral. She tells me she is afraid she is going to drink. I tell her she is doing the right thing by going to a meeting. I tell her that when she feels like having a drink she can ask God to help her. I cannot believe that these words are coming out of my mouth.

On Tuesday night I went to see Steve Earle. I felt confident about walking to my seat by myself. Among the sea of grey heads I felt like a completely attractive, single, older woman who could have a date if she wanted to, but chose to experience this event alone.

Steve Earle’s new wife is on stage by herself. She is banging loudly on her guitar, some three-note run and singing the same inane words over and over in a low, gravely voice. She is thin and blonde, young and as Steve later refers to her, sparkley. The audience applauds wildly but I’m not impressed and feel relieved when she leaves the stage. The lights come up and people bolt from their seats to go buy beer and get rid of what they’ve already drunk. I see an old friend of Woody’s; he was once my friend, too. I would never have assumed that he liked Steve Earle and I want to say hello but I don’t feel like shouting. I figure I will catch his eye on the way back down the aisle. So I’m turned around in my seat when I spot Martin.

I’ve been watching Martin for almost two years. He is at almost every meeting I’ve ever been to. He was at the first meeting I ever went to. He was the only man there and I remember thinking this might be some place where I could meet a good man. After all weren’t Alanons known for loving too much? From time to time I try to imagine being with a man who loved me too much. But I always select men who don’t love me enough. My sponsor tells me that there is no such thing as a man who can love me enough; such is the nature of our addiction. Martin also has this problem, as I have learned by listening to him lament over the long-loss of his alcoholic wife.

I notice a woman walking beside him and wonder if this is the famous beauty that he cannot get over. But then I see her slide into a row of seats and he walks a few rows further down and sits down next to Pauline, my nemesis, the woman I’ve learned to hate while I’m trying to learn to love. Several months ago she asked me to be her sponsor. I hesitated to take on the task. I was only on my fourth step, writing down all the people I felt had harmed me. I had not yet gotten to the step where I had to write down all the people I had harmed. But my sponsor told me I could still help her and so I tried. But, I was clueless about how to do that. I started by telling her she needed to divorce her addict. He was living out of state and every time he would write or email she would call and we would have long conversations about what a manipulative jerk he was. We would also talk a lot about Falcon and how badly he was treating me. I think she must have enjoyed knowing that I was being treated even worse than she was. One time she suggested that she might want to call Martin for some advice. I cautioned her to examine her motives. I confessed to her that I had called him before because he was the only person I’d met at Alanon who simply could not stop obsessing over a relationship that was clearly over. I told her I felt attracted to him and that I wasn’t alone and asked her if she’d noticed how many women in the group circled around him at the end of meetings. She told me she’d think about it and it wasn’t long after that that she told me she didn’t think I was far enough along in my own recovery to help her and she was going to ask someone else to sponsor her. I was both relieved and resentful. How dare her question my recovery when she was so confused and unwilling to examine her own moral inventory? I tried not to have these feelings for her since I saw her at almost every meeting I went to and when I told my sponsor about them she suggested I write a fourth step about Pauline. When I did, I discovered, not surprisingly, that I was jealous of Pauline because men seemed to be more attracted to her than to me. I told myself I needed to take my ego out of the equation and concentrate on what was best for Pauline.

But being on a date with Martin and sitting in clear view of me, was just more than I was willing to experience on my date with myself at the Steve Earle concert. I wanted to be invisible. I was going to feel like a total loser as soon as they discovered I was here by myself, while they were here together. I decided to turn back around and keep looking for Woody’s friend. Maybe they would not recognize me from the back of my head. But when he walked by I still didn’t feel like shouting to him. Instead I turned and saw him sit down in his seat a few rows in front of me, right next to Woody!

“Oh my fucking God. I cannot believe this. This is going to be utterly humiliating. Why am I having to witness this?” These are the thoughts jumping around inside my head while I hope that they will stop fiddling around with the amps and mikes and turn off the house lights. “Stare straight ahead and Woody, and Pauline, and Martin will cease to exist” I instruct myself. I close my eyes and begin to pray, “God, please help me accept the things I cannot change.” I think about the Buddhist prayer, “I wish you happiness”. I ask myself if I cannot wish Pauline happiness and realize I can. It occurs to me that she has never done anything wrong to me except to reject me. I recognize what a capital crime that is in my rule book. I begin to rationalize my discomfort by telling myself, “but does she have to be happy with Martin? I want Martin. But does Martin want me? Clearly he does not. He is not on a date with me. Well, he’ll find out what a fucked up mess she is soon enough and then she’ll get what she deserves. Does Martin deserve that? Can’t you wish for Martin’s happiness? What is the difference between being happy for my sister and her wonderful new love and wishing for Pauline and Martin to have that happiness, too?” I begin to pray for their love to bring both of them happiness and feel instant relief. But, I never quite get over my ego and consider leaving in the dark several times before the encore. After the encore, when he sings one of my favorite songs, I’m glad I stayed. The second the lights come up I am turned away from their seats and exiting as quickly as possible, head high, shoulders back, chest up.

I saw Pauline at a meeting on Friday night and after the first quick nod and weak smile of acknowledgement, avoided making eye-contact with her. When she spoke I felt like she was so full of shit. She always speaks and when she does she is never honest about what is going on with her life. She doesn’t tell us how she keeps shooting herself in the foot trying to manipulate her addict. She doesn’t tell us how she falls into the trap of self-pity and anger. Instead she speaks in metaphors about golden strings connecting her to her higher power and lights shining through her into the darkness, like some enlightened saint that we should all now bow to. I tell myself that it is not necessary or possible to love everyone. Some people are full of shit and it’s OK to recognize that. Just do no harm and try not to talk like I have earned the serenity trophy.

String and Earthquake Wax

Saturday, November 11, 2006

My friends would not believe how quickly my happy, adolescent-like life becomes unbearable with something as simple as the heater making a strange new clicking noise. My world is held together with string and earthquake wax. I manage to quell the fear inside with massive doses of denial and prayer. When at last something resembling trouble comes my way, my stomach tightens and I prepare myself to curl up in a very small space and go to sleep.

I thought of Woody and how that unfamiliar click would have been his problem when we were married. He would have either dismissed it with a wave of his hand and a “silly woman” smirk, or his face would have turned hard as he contemplated the money or the effort that this new problem would extract from him.

Problems were not my department…unless they involved people. And then they were strictly mine. Even when Bigboy and Notdog were on their way to jail, he did not worry. I chained myself to their ankles ready to do their time. And so we managed to raise the children and keep them warm in this partnership of trials.

When I hear the furnace or the car begin to click, or a stream of water falling under the sink, my first thought is that I will not survive this new catastrophe. This will be the final blow that will place me in financial ruin. And then I think of calling Bigboy or Notdog. I hate asking them for help. I’ve always wanted to be the kind of parent that sent my children on cruises for graduation, who helped them purchase cars and their first homes. I wanted to be the parent that I wished I’d had. And then I get angry at Woody. I could have been that parent if he hadn’t quit. We hadn’t raised the children to take care of us and I can tell they are also disappointed by this new situation. I’m not disappointed that Woody is out of my life, but that there is no one to share these fears with.

Marigold called this morning. She is coming to spend the night. I think about calling Falcon to warn him that I will not be available to pick him up if he decides to go drinking at the bar down the road and then calls at closing time for a ride and a warm bed. Marigold will sleep on the futon in the spare room and I could close the door and lay quietly next to him. Just the heat from his body and the sound of his breathing makes me forget that life is anything but perfect.


Sunday, November 12, 2006

He did not call last night. I don’t know why but all day I wondered. After Marigold goes home I realize I’ve done nothing but talk about him for our whole visit. I wonder if he caught my cold after spending the night with me on Wednesday. At 5:30 I decide to be brave and call him. I’m trying to find just the right words that will convey my concern that he might have been sick but will not make it seem like I’m wondering why he didn’t call. When he answers I ask if he’s been sick and he says “no, just alcohol poisoning”. I try to answer as if there is nothing wrong with this…”Oh well, at least you can get over that quickly” I say as if I don’t have any concern about his drinking or about the fact that he has once again chosen alcohol instead of me. “Well, thanks for caring about me. I guess I’ll go back to my suffering” he says and then hangs up.

This is the man who tells me he doesn’t have a drinking problem. I don’t believe him. I don’t believe that forty three year old adults who regularly drink enough to give themselves hangovers and who can actually admit that they have alcohol poisoning can convince themselves that they don’t have a drinking problem. It makes me feel distant from him, like I’m standing outside a glass case looking at a beautiful statue that I can’t touch.

Monday, November 27, 2006
I’m going to have lunch with my sponsor today. I want to tell her about my progress. So, I will mention the new weight loss program and how I probably ate three thousand more calories than I was supposed to this week but I did write it all down … some of it in cute and forgiving little notations…”suicide by dessert” that reveal only part of the truth.

I will not tell her everything about Falcon. I can’t even remember everything that happened with him since I last met with her three weeks ago. I could tell her that like the weight management, I think I’m making progress. Last night, sitting on his couch watching Family Man, I decided not to have sex with him. He’d called me on the way home from his parents; asked if I’d like to come over and watch Sunday night TV. Told me he had food for me and then said it wouldn’t be overnight…just a bit of rolling around and boning. “Oh really?” I’d asked in a tone that I hoped would tell him “I don’t think so.” I’d meant about spending the night. I wondered how he planned on throwing me out. I was pretty interested in the boning part myself. “Have you eaten?” he asked and then offered, “I’ve got lots of food, turkey and ham”.

But it all felt off when I got there. We didn’t hug or kiss at the door. He’d asked about my Thanksgiving and when I said, “It was great. How was yours?” He’d lowered his head and grumbled “It was alright”. He said he’d already eaten then helped me put a sandwich together and fixed me an extra-weak bourbon. I wasn’t into it, any of it and he could tell.

He told me to slide down on the floor and sit in front of him so he could massage my shoulders. It felt great. I rolled my head from side to side making sounds of relief and appreciation but when he quit I still felt like going home. After a few minutes I got back on the couch, far enough away from him that there would be no easy, accidental body contact. He finally stood up and walked towards the kitchen saying, “if you could spend the night do you think you could relax?” I turned around on the couch to face him. “It means I could have another drink and that would probably make me relax; why? Am I acting uptight?” I smiled, feeling like a child who had just gotten her way by pouting. It felt wrong.




Saturday, December 09, 2006

I’m sick again. I walked to work twice this week. It was frigid but invigorating. The heat went out in our office for a few days and I sat for hours in 60 degree temperatures trying to keep the draft off my bare ankles. By Wednesday I had a tight little cough getting stronger by the hour. Late on Thursday I got in to see my doctor. She wrote me a prescription for a z-pack and an inhaler and told me to eat chicken soup. Walking in and out of the clinic and the pharmacy and grocery was excruciating with the cold wind whipping every exposed or under-protected part of my body. After I got the groceries put away and started a pot of soup I was starting to feel cozy, looking forward to an evening on the couch. If I wasn’t better by morning I could call in sick. I wasn’t even worried about the email I sent to Falcon before I left work.

The faculty Christmas reception was going to be held at the Museum. I first heard about it months ago. I remember feeling a sense of excitement and dread. When I mentioned it to him he said he hadn’t heard about it but he didn’t look like he was any too happy about it. When my boss asked me to send someone on the party committee a photo of our new exhibition for the invitation, I mentioned it to him again. This time I asked if he was worried about it and tried to assure him that he need not worry, that we had lots of receptions in the Museum and I had nothing to do with them. I would be back in my office working. Chances were he would never see me. I imagined myself sitting in my office, sacrificing the pleasure of seeing him in my environment, feeling my heart racing at the thought of him just outside the door. He didn’t respond in any way that indicated whether he even intended to be there. I could easily imagine him avoiding the situation altogether. I was trying to down-play my involvement, hoping that would encourage him to attend.

A few weeks ago I asked him point blank if he was going. He told me he was looking forward to it and how he would be “working the crowd” the entire time.
“Maybe, I’ll go out and walk around and we can pretend that we don’t know each other.” I offered.
“Yeah, that would be fun.” He said.
“Maybe I’ll dress in something sexy and see if you can ignore me.” I told him laughing.
“Look, don’t try to knock me off my game. This is really an important event for me. I’m even thinking of taking the day off so I’ll be ready for this.” He said seriously.
“OK. I don’t want to knock you off your game and I’m glad you put it to me like that. Cause I can really understand how it would make you feel. You’re very good at explaining your feelings.” I said trying to calm him. “Meddling” he calls it. “Manipulating” the women at Al-anon call it.

Thursday, as I was trying to finish up my work before my doctor’s appointment, my boss sent me an email. It was a paper-trail of a long correspondence with the reception hostess who was concerned about being allowed to photograph near the art. At the top my boss asked if I would be available to photograph their event. “How fucking ironic” was my first thought, and then “there’s no way I can do this.”
“Hey Vivi can you photograph the faculty party next Tuesday?” I asked.
“What time is it?”
“I think it’s four to six.” I answered, realizing as soon as I saw her face pucker that she always went home at four-thirty.
“Can’t you do it?” she asked.
“Oh, you-know-who is going to be there and it’ll freak him out.”
“Why should it freak him out?”
“He’s afraid I’ll knock him off his game.”
“What’s his game? Pretending like he doesn’t know you?” she asked derisively.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I said, defeated as usual in my attempt to justify my strange relationship with him.
“OK. I’ll do it for you.” She said. It pissed me off that I would need to ask her for the favor. I decided to forward my bosses message to him with a note.
“Do you want me to assign this to someone else? I don’t want to “knock you off your game”. By the way, what is your game, pretending like you don’t know me?” I didn’t even sign it and felt instant regret the second I pushed the send button. I asked another co-worker if you could recall email and she told me she’d tried it but it had never worked for her. I found the instructions and asked for a recall. Then I asked her if I could send her a test email to see what happened. We laughed when we discovered that the email came through with a second email that said the sender wanted to recall it. “Jesus, why don’t I just totally make a fool of myself?” I told her.

Ordinarily I would have been obsessed with his answer but I was too focused on myself. Glad to be in out of the cold, looking forward to sipping the delicious smelling hot soup and watching my favorite night of television shows. I had already settled on the couch when he called.
“What are you doin?” he asked.
“I’m sick.” I told him. “I went to the doctor today and got some antibiotics and I’m making some soup.”
“I guessed you must have left work before you got my answer to your email.” He said.
“Yeah, what did you say? “
I wrote back “who are you?”
I didn’t answer. It really took a few minutes before I even got his clever allusion to pretending like he didn’t know me. I just recognized the brief and clandestine style of his communication.
“Do you want to come over and watch “Earl with me?” he asked and then added quickly. “You probably don’t want to go out tonight it’s so cold. But, my cousin is coming to stay with me for four days.”
“So, this is kind of a window?” I asked, uncertain about whether I liked being squeezed into his windows and reminded again that I would remain his little secret. But I agreed to go. I even offered to bring my soup.




Saturday, December 23, 2006

I dreamt last night that I heard the phone ring, Halleluiah. Even in my dream I recognized that it could not be him because I’d changed his ring tone. The last time I heard it ring Halleluiah and hung up feeling rejected and disappointed I decided to change his ring to Symphony #25 which sounds like trolls coming out of the mountain. So in my dream I decide that the Halleluiah must be Bella’s husband’s ring. There must be something wrong with Bella or one of the babies. I wake up confused. It’s 12:30. Perhaps Falcon did call and in my sleep I transposed the melody. This seems unlikely and so I stay beneath the covers trying to reenter the sweet release of sleep. Eventually I give in to the urge for water and peeing and feel weak at my inability to not check the phone. I tell myself that it is normal for me to feel like this after years of being awaken at closing time. This is just the Pavlovian response to receiving pleasure. No one has called. I go back to bed and try to remember how many years it’s been; three or four? It’s been three and a half since we first slept together on the fourth of July. I remember because he made such a big deal of acknowledging three years; calling me from the parade, suggesting we drive out to see the fireworks, standing beside me on a crowded street corner. It was intoxicating and filled with promise; fool, that I am. It’s been four years since he asked me to the Tom Petty concert, then forgot my name and didn’t know how to find me in the phone book. He waited six weeks to come to the Dance and apologize. He waited until May to ask me out again. His email came on my birthday. I was powerless to resist. I have always felt powerless to resist, weak and vulnerable, a slave to my passion. When I let myself give in, the pleasure is so exquisite I could drown in the silky sweetness of his body. Afterwards there is always the pain of rejection, always the long scolding that I enforce upon myself for allowing him to ignore me completely until the next time he wants to “bone” me.

The last time I saw him was Thursday morning. He was walking into his bathroom, naked and “bone-up”, despite the fact that he’d just come.“Nice profile” I told him knowing that he would catch the reference to last night’s conversation about the photo that Vivi had taken of him it at the reception. I was still angry with him about it when I sent one to Sweet Pea with a label that said I need a chin. Then I sent one to him… without the chin label. When I asked him if he liked it, he’d complained about his posture for so long that I finally grabbed his face and kissed him. “If you were any cuter I couldn’t stand it” I whispered into the side of his neck.

He spread a blanket on the living room floor and before I undressed I told him that the next time I had to sleep on his couch we were finished. He apologized half-heartedly and assured me that we’d go up to bed later. I came that night and he didn’t; both events equally rare.
“Merry Christmas” he kept whispering to me. I didn’t like it. I never like his references to boning me as some kind of gift. Wasn’t I supposed to be the gift? I’d gone into his bathroom that night and saw the book I’d given him months ago, The Four Agreements. It was in its usual place, clearly untouched for quite a while. I decided to pick it up and see if there was a message for me. I opened it to the second agreement. “Don’t take anything personally. If someone calls you fat. It’s not about you. It’s about them and their perception of the world.”
“Hey, I think I’m going to borrow this book back for awhile.” I told him when I came out of the bathroom.
“Yes, please” he said sounding like it would be a relief to have it out of his consciousness.
“Don’t take anything personally” I told myself last night when he didn’t call.



Friday, December 29, 2006

It’s almost 2007, another year of memories and minor triumphs and minor failures. I can remember years that were dreadful, painful, fabulous, fearful. I saw a mug today at the Coop that said: We don’t remember days, we remember moments… I tried to think of a day. It was my birthday, maybe I was twenty-one and already a mother. Peter Gilman picked me up on his motorcycle and drove me across the Golden Gate Bridge to Mt. Tamalpais. He was wearing a purple fringed-leather coat. I was wearing forest-green satin bell-bottoms. The air was warm and clear. I can still remember the color of the dirt when we left the highway and climbed up the scrubby path for a better view of the bay. We would not have made love. He was impotent; had always been for as long as we had dated. We had rolled around in each others’ arms kissing and cooing and telling each other lovely things, but he had never gotten an erection. He told, me it had happened once before with his last girlfriend. He took me to dinner at Zack’s in Sausalito. We could see out over the water and I remember looking across the table at his big beautiful smile and realizing that this might be the most perfect day of my life. It’s true that it’s the moments we remember, the color of the dirt, a face in the candlelight.

This has been an amazing Christmas. I’ve felt almost resentful about the people I love who find me so easy to ignore while I work to create something that will make them love me, make them realize my value, trying to prove to myself that I am both loveable and valuable, hanging on by a thread, trying hard not to give in to my loneliness, watching movie stars treat their women with the tender intimate love that I crave, telling myself I must find that before I die. And then it’s Christmas Day and suddenly my tiny house is filled with people who I love, who I have always and will always love and who, I know, feel and will always feel, the same about me. They stay for only a few hours and when they are gone my house is easy to restore to its pre-party state. I have an invitation to continue the evening at NotDog’s house. Monkey will be there and so will Woody. I don’t want to spend anymore time with Woody. He is easy to ignore in a house full of people but he stays behind after they’ve all gone and tells me that he is trying to put Trueman on the right road. He tells me that as the children’s parent he feels like he must teach them the lessons he’s learned in life. He complains that Trueman never spends any time with him because he has to rush home to his wife. I feel an urge to defend Trueman and suppress my desire to reveal my amazement that he feels worthy of judging Trueman’s life.
“ I think Trueman is doing just what he wants.” I tell him.
“Yeah, but he needs to think about his future. He could choose something that’s a bit more lucrative for the long-term than construction work. “
“Well, this is just a rumor and I’m not even sure where I heard this but I can totally believe it, that Trueman did exactly as you told him he should do by the time he was twenty-five and put his money away so that he would be a millionaire when he was forty and now he’s just sustaining himself so that he doesn’t have to dip into it and did you see those pictures of him on his honeymoon? They looked as happy as any couple I’ve ever seen.” I shake my head in amazed admiration of Trueman’s life and astonishment that Woody does not see this. Perhaps he does. At any rate he cannot think of a comeback and gathers up his gifts and leaves. I cannot hug him or feel any affection for him, but life and etiquette require that I “make nice” as Sweetpea instructs.
“Don’t do that again.” Falcon instructed when I told him that I’d invited Woody for Christmas.
“Why not?” I asked.
“He’s got his own place, let him do what he wants to do with the kids.”
Falcon doesn’t spend much time giving me instructions. In fact he seems only vaguely interested in most of my life. Even the exciting parts like going to Paris seem to annoy him. Which I find confusing. I text messaged him on Thursday afternoon to tell him that I’d had a “divine” evening with him. He texted back “Merry Xmas!” It bugged me that he thought my orgasm was a gift, and he didn’t even take the time to spell out Christ. Maybe he meant X as in ex and I was now his ex. I sent it all the way through my emotional word processor. Was this all I should expect for Christmas? Did this mean I wouldn’t be seeing him again before Christmas? I was preparing myself for the mystery of Where is Falcon at Christmas?. Would he swoop in on Christmas Eve on his way to church or, would he call me Christmas night or the morning after, or some combination of any of them? There was no discernable pattern for these past three Christmases except that he would call and he would not have a gift.

There really is no extra mystery about Christmas. He’s at home with his parents, or with other members of his seemingly huge, sprawling family. I get the feeling that there’s a side of his family that parties and a side that goes to Church and worries about his drinking. I think he tries to get along with both. But it’s taken a long time to figure this much out. Information comes from him in dribbles and slips. He doesn’t want me to know anything about his life and he doesn’t want anyone to know about me. At least once a week I tell myself that this is madness. This is unhealthy. This is self-inflicted mental torture. And then he calls and unless I’m absolutely pissed at him, I feel instantly happy. He texted me at 7:30 on Christmas night. Merry Xmas!
“Oh now that’s big of him.” I tell myself. “That’s really juicy. He doesn’t even have to type it in again, he can just hit resend.” I text back MERRY xmas! I don’t know why the phone is capitalizing MERRY and have to switch modes because the T9 doesn’t know the word xmas. I’m trying to mirror his lame behavior. I hit send and wonder if he will even respond. I don’t even care anymore. I’ve had an exhausting week, and a perfect day, and two mimosas, and I’ve got four movies to watch, and a week off work. The ringtone makes me jump. He’s sent another text. Alone? I like it that he’s unintrusive and doesn’t assume that I’m alone. This is a lesson that he has taught me. It’s been painful to learn that I have no control over his behavior. I guess since the very first time I kissed his neck, I knew that anything he gave me would be a gift. YES. I text back, wishing that it wasn’t in caps, not wanting him to think I was waiting for him. The phone rings again.
“Hey, Merry Christmas.” He says.
“Yeah, Merry Christmas. Where are you?” I ask.
“Just pullin up in my driveway with a load of presents and laundry, and a pie. You want to come over for some pie?” he laughs with a tone that lets me know pie could be a metaphor. And so I went to him, because he was tired and road weary and had to leave for work at 6:30 in the morning. I didn’t want any pie but I was happy when he looked at me and said “Man, I’m dying to rip your sweater open.” We watched TV and after a while he put his arm around my shoulder and pulled himself up next to me. When we went upstairs I liked the way he pushed me back on the bed. I remember thinking he is a gift I give to myself. In the morning before I left he handed me a plate with a piece of pie and picked up another one. We stood together in his kitchen eating our Christmas pie.

Sunday, January 07, 2007

It’s been a long hard week. I didn’t hear from Falcon until Thursday night, three days after New Years. I’d texted him a kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t hear back from him until noon the next day, back at ya. It was a response…that’s all I needed, some kind of contact to let me know that he was still thinking about me, still cared how I felt.

But the illusion just keeps getting harder to sustain. I tell myself that it’s his alcohol addiction that makes him behave so strangely. It feels like he’s using me for a place to jerk off, like a tissue. When he’s finished I get tossed into the wastebasket. I told myself that I wasn’t in the mood to see him but when he called, I answered and forced myself to act cheerful and happy to hear from him. He told me that he’d worked out the day before and was surprised at how sore he was. I told him I’d hurt myself Dancing in high-heels on New Year’s Eve. I wanted to give him an image of me having barrels of fun without him. It seemed important to let him know I didn’t need him to enjoy myself.
“Yeah, I was dancing a few nights ago and my partner went down in one of those squats close to the floor, so I had to follow and I got down there and had to use my hands to get back up.” He laughed.
“Thanks for that image.” I said, still trying to conceal my jealousy that he would be dancing with another woman, while I was out dancing with my girlfriends.
“Well, you’re the one that brought up hurting yourself dancing.” He said defensively.
“You’re right. I did.” I said with resignation. Whenever I tried to make him jealous he’d give it right back to me.
“What are you doin tonight?” he asked.
“Nothin. Watching TV. There’s new episodes of Earl and The Office.”
“Want some company?” he asked.
So, I’d agreed. I was glad that he was coming to my house and not asking me to come to his place where I felt like an intruder. Besides, I had to work late at an event the next night and all day Saturday. I needed to get some sleep.
“You’re not gonna be swiping at me, are you?” he asked.
“No, Falcon I’m not going to swipe at you. There’s nothing to swipe at you about.” I told him in a tone that was dead serious. After all, wasn’t this the deal? No promises, no expectations.

Sweetpea called before he got there and when I told her about his “no swiping” remark she said, “what an asshole. He’s already setting the rules. He doesn’t have to explain where he’s been or why he hasn’t called you.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I sighed. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hung up the phone feeling defeated and utterly confused. Was Sweetpea really genuinely concerned or was she trying to ruin this for me because she didn’t have any man in her life? It didn’t matter, what she said was true and I felt myself spiraling down into a deep funk. I wasn’t going to be able to pull this evening off in this mood. I put on my panpipe music and lit some candles, got down on my knees and took some deep breaths, praying for serenity. I threw the I Ching but had trouble concentrating. Had I counted the last throw correctly? Would it be significant if I wrote the lines down wrong? Opposition, changing to Decrease. Oh, god. What a prediction for the New Year. I was sure I’d made a mistake. I threw it again: Peace. I read all three of them and they all advised me to keep still. I could do that, I was a master at keeping still.

As soon as he walked in the door I could tell he felt unsure of himself. A few steps into the room he’d stopped and looked back over his shoulder at me. I put my arm around his waist and kissed him on the cheek. I wanted to reassure him that everything was OK. But it wasn’t and no matter how I tried I couldn’t get comfortable with him. Alcohol always makes me brave but I’d cautioned myself not to question him about why he’d ignored me so much throughout the holidays. I decided instead to ask him about Stacia. He’d told me before Thanksgiving that he was going to a funeral. “These things happen.” He’d said when I expressed sympathy. I knew better than to pry. He would tell me exactly what he wanted me to know. But afterwards it had occurred to me that it might be her funeral, even though she was living with her brother out of state now. Maybe she’d been sent home for burial. I knew he was still in touch with her. Would he be able to act as if didn’t bother him? Would it not bother him? Wouldn’t he be bereft and need me to comfort him? “How’s your friend doin?” I asked.
“Don’t ask me that.” He said lowering his head and then in a whisper he said, “she’s not doing well” and burst into tears. He leaned forward and turned his head away but continued to cry. I felt amazed at his reaction. I’d never seen him express this much emotion. He’d always seemed fairly resigned to her situation whenever I’d asked about her in the past. I put my hand on his back and made what I hoped were comforting sounds. I wanted to hold him but it felt too awkward and I wasn’t at all sure it would be welcome. And then he stopped. It was over as quickly as it had begun with no sign that it had ever happened. I knew that from then on, it would be another one of his absolutely taboo subjects.

He didn’t orgasm that night. I noted that this was the second time in a row this had happened and it worried me. But I tried to enjoy the result of his prolonged excitement, a long night of hugging. Usually I would feel happy after a night with him. But this time I felt depressed. There was no getting around it, this relationship was insane. Not only where things not getting better, they were deteriorating slowly like an abscessed tooth or like Stacia’s cancer.





Friday, January 12, 2007

Last night, for the second time in a row I dreamt about driving down the road in a blinding storm, unable to see where I was going. Quite the obvious metaphor. I have been telling myself all week that I must end this relationship with Falcon. Yesterday I had lunch with my sponsor. I told her that I couldn’t say that it was over, I couldn’t even say that I was going to end it, but I could say that I knew I needed to end it. She told me that was progress. I think the progress is that I don’t want to see him right now. But, I know that I’m not ready to end it when I see one of his short black hairs on my sink. It’s been there for a week and I can’t throw it away.

Sunday, January 14, 2007

He called last night at 11:24. I woke up when I heard the ring. I felt instant relief. He still wanted me…and it wasn’t even that late. I snuggled deeper into the covers and told myself he would call again, which he did, an hour and a half later. This time I heard the little tone that told me he’d left a message. “Hey call me”, he said with so much confidence in his voice…as if he knew that I would call back. I thought to myself that he must be drunk by now and needing a ride. “Too bad,” I thought to myself, “let him figure out how to get home, just like he’s been doing for years. He’ll manage.” Ten minutes later he called again and then quit. I remember thinking that I was glad the shoe was on the other foot, now. Let him wonder why I wasn’t answering. Was I out partying, or with someone else, or pissed at him, or just tired of his bullshit? I got up at four o’clock and saw that there was a text message that he’d sent at 11:00, before that first phone call. Awake? It pissed me off that he would even assume that I was asleep that early on a Saturday night.

So now it’s “game on.” What will his next move be and how will I react to it? It’s incorrect to say I have no idea. I have a few ideas. He will catch me when I am filled with resolve and I will ignore him or he will catch me when I’m weak and longing and I will answer. I will either act hurt and cold or I will act upon my desire to kiss him just one more time and pretend there is nothing wrong.


Monday, January 15, 2007

This morning is all pain and rain. There’s a march downtown for Martin Luther King Jr. Day but I can’t bring myself to go. Yesterday I expected Falcon to call. I assumed he might have today off and want to get in one more day of partying. I couldn’t get my energy up for anything. Didn’t get showered and dressed until nearly 4:00, then Pixie called and by the time I hung up it was getting dark and I figured I’d just stay in. I’m still fearful of the pain that I know is coming as soon as I tell him that I can’t do this anymore. I’d like to say that my resolve is growing stronger but it’s not. It’s just like everything else in my life; a giant tidal pool filled with things I could or should do, but the minute I try to grab hold of something it slips away and ceases to matter.


Wednesday, January 17, 2007

He called Monday afternoon. I was just leaving the store after buying a new pair of running shoes. I’d spent the day wondering if he was at work. I’d even looked on the internet to see if the Clinic was open but couldn’t find any information. I’d thought about driving by his parking lot when I got finished with my workout and was on my way to the gym when the phone rang. I didn’t answer and he didn’t leave a message. I realized I had no idea what to say to him. I was afraid to tell him I was finished because I might change my mind. And, afraid to confront him about his selfish behavior because he might suggest we end it. He called again just before my Alanon meeting. I didn’t answer but he left a message “hey, call me”.

At the meeting we went around in a circle. When it was my turn I told the group that I was trying to end my relationship with my alcoholic. It was hard to look at anyone, mostly I stared at the floor as I explained my reluctance to speak in the group because unlike so many of them, my problems seemed so trivial and easy to solve. Anytime I wanted to I could simply walk away. But it wasn’t that easy for me. I was addicted to him and his bad treatment. I spoke to my sponsor after the meeting and told her that he’d been calling. “It’s nice isn’t it, when you get some control?” she asked. I had to admit it felt good.

Friday, January 19, 2007

I’m going to get a root canal. I should be more upset than I am. It seems somehow appropriate that this would happen now. It’s been two weeks since I saw him. I wake up every morning and check my phone to see if he’s sent a message. I feel both disappointment and relief when I see that he hasn’t. Vivi told me yesterday that there’s a hump I have to get over and once I get to the top it’ll be easy. I know she is right. Actually I’m amazed at how good I do feel. Maybe the Serenity prayer is working for me.

Yesterday my phone rang at work. It was Blake. He was in the lobby of the Art Center waiting to help unload a truck filled with stage props. He had a half hour to kill and was just calling to say hello. I went downstairs and let him in to the Museum. It was good to see him and I wondered about the timing. Just as I decide to end it with Falcon, Blake shows up. I had to end our visit quickly when I got called to go into a meeting. I told him to come see me some time. He said he’d just installed a hot tub and maybe I’d like to come over some evening and have a soak and share a bottle of wine. I told him I’d love to.

The root canal turned out to be grueling. For two hours I laid in the chair breathing laughing gas with tears rolling down my cheek. I was not in pain, I just felt defeated. I came home and went for a walk. I called Indigo and told her I was going to go get my prescription for Percoset filled. “I’m not really in that much pain but the last time I turned down narcotics Pantherina scolded me and said that I should always get the drugs.”
“Lily, take the damn drugs. That’s what they’re for.”
“Hey thanks Nurse Indigo. I think I will.” I told her. I also told her I had broken up with Falcon. “I’m really glad to hear that Lily. You can do way better than that.”
“Yeah, well I wish that were so. It doesn’t seem to be.” I said, slipping back into my defeat. “You know it’s hard being alone, Indigo.”
“Yeah, I know it is, she said empathetically…and I knew that the loneliness she had endured had lasted about two weeks and during that time, which she referred to as “the night of darkness” she had cried so hard a blood vessel had broken in one of her eyes. So, I told her that I’d actually been alone for ten years...and that these past four with Falcon had been a foolish attempt to convince myself I wasn’t.
I’d spent the weekend on the couch, watching movies, fully dosed with narcotics. The next Friday I went out for Happy Hour with two girls from work. I didn’t know when I ordered a bourbon that they would bring me two. On the drive home I realized that bourbon was a trigger, that this lovely buzzy feeling was all mixed up with being with him. The next morning I started my 10K training. That night I decided that I felt strong enough to tell him that I was breaking up with him. I convinced myself that I deserved to have this closure. To prove how rational and strong I was, I would sleep on it. Of course, I went to bed with my typical Friday night prayer, “Dear God, Please let Falcon call me. Please, let me feel happy to hear the phone ringing Halleluiah at one in the morning. I’ll get up and get dressed and drive over to Bogarts to get him. When he gets in the car he’ll smile that beautiful smile and lean over for a kiss and the party will begin.” But he hadn’t and as soon as I got up I text messaged him: Sorry I couldn’t answer your calls. I wasn’t sure if I could resist you. I love you with all my heart but I just can’t do this anymore.
I remember how good it felt to put the phone down and walk into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. I actually thought “now, it’s over.” But within an hour I heard the message signal and had run to the phone. “Thank you. I understand. The friendship the benefits a powerful combination. What’s not to love? Sorry for pain. I miss the rub n bumps. Take care. F. I loved it. Loved that he’d apologized, love that he missed the sex, loved that he’d admitted there was nothing not to love. But, couldn’t believe he thought we had a friendship. What kind of friend won’t introduce you to his friends? It was still over. I’d run three miles that day and then gone shopping. I fixed myself dinner and was just sitting down to eat when he texted me again. “Rub for the road?” I felt like I had to reply, so I called.
“What road would that be? The one to ruination?” I asked when he answered his phone. He’d laughed and we’d chatted. I even managed to tell him I’d better not when he asked if I wanted to come over. I even managed to hang up the phone believing it, for about five minutes. Then I’d called him back.
“Do you still want me to come over?” I asked, because I knew that he could have also changed his mind in that amount of time.
“Yes, he said.” He’d texted me one more time: “Need drink.”
He answered the door with a log in his hand. He was building a fire and had turned back to his task while I took off my coat. Then he’d come over to me and kissed me and hugged me as if he’d just realized that he may have slighted me. That was kind of the tone for the night, him being conciliatory, me trying to forgive him for slighting me. Several times during the evening we’d laughed about how we were looking forward to having make-up sex. I heard my phone ring once. I knew from the ring that it was one of my girlfriends, probably Jasmine. I’d gone upstairs to take a shower and was checking her message when I decided to use my camera phone to take a picture of myself in his bathroom mirror. It took me along time to figure out just how to hold the camera so that my breasts didn’t look to saggy. I tried to lift my arms but then I couldn’t see the screen, and I didn’t want to get the flash or the camera in the picture. I decided to hold the camera sideways. There was crap all over his counter and my purse was sitting in the way, but I decided it could all be part of the art and snapped it. I didn’t have my glasses on and I was drunk or I probably wouldn’t have sent it to him. I thought it would be sexy. He’d be sitting downstairs and hear it arrive and when he saw me naked he’d come up and join me in the shower. But he hadn’t. In fact when I got downstairs I could tell he had no idea I’d sent it. So, I told him. When he opened the picture he’d jumped back and yelped… not exactly the reaction I was looking for. But I guess I was too drunk to even feel insulted. Besides he’d managed to put all my fears to rest when he pulled me down on the floor and took my pants off. He was sweet when I left the next morning and told me he was gonna need some more pictures. When he went into the bathroom I opened his phone and tried to figure out where his picture files were but I couldn’t even find his menu. I deleted it from my phone and wished that I hadn’t sent it. I remember telling Magnolia later in the week that one should never send naked pictures of oneself over the internet and especially not when one was sixty. She laughed, as I’d hoped she would. I told Pixie about our evening together. “So did you guys talk about anything. Did you work anything out?” She’d asked. I told her that we hadn’t really talked about anything specific how we both had just teased each other about how much fun break-up sex and make-up sex was. “Well, which was it, cause you know they’re two entirely different things…” she said. I laughed and told her I was pretty sure it was make up sex. But he didn’t call that weekend. Sunday was Super-bowl Sunday. I’d watched the last Super-Bowl with him. I remember thinking how everything, even watching football was fun with him. I thought maybe he was planning to call me. Maybe I could just give him a nudge; another Sunday morning message, since the last one had worked so well. And so I wrote “So, was that make up-sex, or break-up sex?” Again, he’d written back within the hour, “more pictures” I thought it was a strange reply but I decided to indulge him…but no more naked pictures of me. I’d send him some art. I knew right where to find some in all the statues and paintings I’d photographed in Paris. I chose a plump and sexy sculpture of Venus and sent it through the phone. I waited an hour, but no reply. I sent another, a Matisse oil painting of a young concubine. I waited another hour, no reply. I thought about the naked picture of me that Marigold took when we were staying in Mrs. Plum’s Bal Harbor condo. She had a sunken bath surrounded with mirrored tiles. We took turns photographing each other so we could bring pictures home to our husbands. I remember searching for mine after Woody left and when I found it, feeling disappointed that he hadn’t bothered to take it. I’d kept it inside a pocket on the bathroom cabinet. I told myself it was my inspiration to keep thin and anyone who was digging around that closely in my cabinet could just go ahead and get a good look, besides, I looked good. I was thirty-eight years old. I laid the pictures down on the kitchen table and made sure the angle and the crop was a perfect fit. You could still tell it was me. I wondered if Falcon had ever looked at it. Probably. I didn’t want to send it right away. I figured if he had planned on watching the game with me, he would have replied by now. He must have already planned to be with his friends. His pile of friends that he eludes to that I’ve never met, nor whose names I’ve ever heard. I guess that makes them my imaginary friends. I would send the picture during the half time. I had to actually stay tuned to the stupid game, which I didn’t enjoy and viewed as an assignment in my mission to make him want me. Prince was the half-time entertainment and he was so ambiguously gay as he pranced around the stage in a boa with beautiful girls trying to touch him that I didn’t want Falcon to see my picture during that. I waited till ten o’clock when the game was over and it would be too late for him to invite me over… or maybe it wouldn’t be. He replied immediately. It took me forever to figure out how to open a multi-media reply and when I did it was just text. “Now that’s a picture.”

I’ve not heard a word from him since. But one day I saw him on campus. Vivi had asked if I wanted to go sign a staff petition for retirement benefits. I wondered if I might see him there. I was only mildly surprised to see the back of his head.
“Oh god, he’s here. I’d recognize that bald spot anywhere” I said to Vivi and then immediately tripped.
“Well, don’t fall down over it.” She said grabbing my arm. She’d marched ahead of me to the petition table. He was standing with a group of men but we looked straight into each other’s eyes. Actually I looked straight at him but he kept his head turned to the side and just stared at me with one eyeball… It felt weird and unfriendly and almost hostile. There was nothing welcoming or loving in that eye. I turned towards the table and saw him walking away from my peripheral vision. I felt like I had just fallen into a black hole. Jasmine was coming to meet me for lunch and as soon as I got in her car I said,
“Oh my god. I just saw him. It was awful. I feel sick”.
“You need a drink.” She said. “I’m gonna buy you a drink for lunch”.
“No, I need a cigarette.” I told her.
“I’ll buy you some cigarettes then. You can have whatever you want.” She said.
She’d talked me through it. I got through it, and the weekend and the next and the next and now five weeks have passed and I tell myself it’s over. But because I have been learning about alcoholics and because I have been learning that I have that same kind of addictive, obsessive behavior, I am not entirely sure I will not experience a moment of absolute weakness where I will cave under my craving and reach for the phone the way he must reach for that glass.


Sunday, February 18, 2007
“The pictures. Pretending you didn’t know me in public. What a way to end it badly. It must suck to be you.” I want to text this to him but recognize that it is just another way to provoke him. Maybe he will feel guilty and reply.


Wednesday, March 07, 2007

I’ve broken it…he’s broken it…it’s broken and I don’t think he wants to fix it. I don’t think he wants me, or ever wanted me expect for an hour or two. This is hard to tell myself. What a long strange trip it’s been with him. My sponsor asked me to write down ways that I had tried to control my obsession: by indulging, accepting, denying, promising, compromising, pretending, fantasizing, praying, magic, logic.

All the King’s Horses and all the King’s Men could never put Humptey together again. He is broken. Why else would he have wanted me? Bigboy had shaken his head when I told him I was seeing someone who was only 4 years older than him.
“Mom, don’t take this the wrong way. I think you’re a really nice looking woman and all, but I have to tell you that there is no way in the world I would go for a woman your age. There’s something the matter with this dude”. The next time I mentioned him he told me again,
“Mom, this guy is up to something. You’re his other girlfriend. If he just wanted to try it out he’d have moved on already but he’s been hangin around for a while now. The way he treats you is just like men treat they’re other girlfriends. You don’t need to settle for that, Mom.”
“I know it sounds like it, but I’m fairly certain he isn’t sleeping with anyone else.” I’d tried to defend him, to defend myself for being in a relationship with him.
“Even if he isn’t, he still isn’t treating you right. How come he’s never met any of your family?”
“Because, he knows how you feel about him.”
“ Listen, I want to see you happy. I don’t want to have to watch you sitting there on your birthday like you’re about to cry.”
“That was because Bella wouldn’t let me hold RoseBud.” I said remembering that horrible evening.
“Mom, anyone who knows you even a little bit knows how much your Birthday means to you.” I didn’t even try to deny that and avoided speaking about him to Bigboy again.
The first time I tried to end it with Falcon, I’d met Victor and had let him move in. He was here every night. At first it felt wonderful to have someone to cook dinner with and play with in the evenings and sleep with at night. He’d drive me to work every morning and pick me up every night. But after a few weeks I noticed that he never said complementary things to me anymore the way he had in the beginning. Now all he did was correct me. He was starting to drive me crazy and he was always broke and worrying about money and borrowing from his friends and spending what he borrowed foolishly. He started drinking early in the day and was still at it by the time I was ready for bed. He started staying up after I went to bed and several nights he got angry and unreasonable in a way that felt threatening. I remember waking up one Saturday morning and deciding Victor had to go. I’d gone out to the garage to see Bigboy who had dropped by to pick up some tools. When I told him I needed to get rid of Victor, he’d agreed and told me he hadn’t liked Victor’s vibe from the beginning. He gave me some good advice about ending it quickly and thoroughly and then added,
“I don’t like this guy Victor and I’m glad you’re getting rid of him but that other guy you had. Mom, if you go back to him I’m gonna lose all my respect for you. That guy treated you like shit!” I remember changing the subject quickly back to Victor because in fact Falcon had been back in touch in the most amazing way; emails asking me to lunch, telling me he was very sorry for many things. I was apprehensive about how I would get rid of Victor without him becoming unpleasant, but I was quite interested in going to lunch with Falcon.




5/13/2007
It’s Mothers’ Day. This used to mean something to me. I remember the year Bigboy was nineteen. He took me to breakfast in his new car, a bronze Honda Prelude. He wore a tie and opened the door for me. I felt like I had at last received the gift I’d been waiting all my life for… to have raised a son who loved me like he obviously did. I remember walking into Alfalfa’s with all the other mothers who were being taken to breakfast and feeling so proud of my handsome son.

That was twenty years ago and this morning no one is taking me to breakfast. Bella just left me a message withdrawing her invitation for me to come for brunch, Rosebud’s sick. The End. Have a happy Mother’s Day. I call her back to at least sympathize with her disappointing Mothers’ Day. But, she doesn’t answer. I call Bigboy and ask if he’s still planning on coming over to clear his stuff out of my garage. This was supposed to be my Mothers’ Day gift from the boys.
“Have you arranged all this with Truman and Notdog?” he asks.
“No. I was hoping you’d take care of all that since it’s supposed to be my Mother’s Day present.” He laughs like this is some sort of big joke for me to expect him to be in charge of this.
“Well, I guess I’ll call Bella and see if Jack is going to help. Rosebud’s sick.” He tells me.
“Forget that. I just called she’s not answering the phone. I tell him.
“Oh, she’ll answer for me.” He says, laughing again like this is some big joke that Bella doesn’t answer the phone when I call.
“Yeah. You know I’ve been wondering, do you suppose when I’m seventy-five she’ll answer my phone calls. I mean what if I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?” I try to say this like I’m joking but I’m really not.
“Oh, don’t worry Mom. We’re gonna get you one of those medical alert bracelets.” He says laughing again.
“Yeah, well sometimes I wonder what she’d do if I was calling to tell her I have cancer and she doesn’t return my phone call for a week.”
“Oh, now don’t go trying to lay guilt on her.” He says defensively… as if the possibility of me having cancer was as remote as a tsunami.
“So are you coming over, cause if you’re not I’m totally fucked.” I tell him.
“Why are you fucked?” he asks.
“Because my renter is moving in on Tuesday.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’ll come over during the baby’s naptime. It won’t take me that long to get my stuff out” he says.
“All right. I’ll see you later then.” I tell him. I hang up the phone and tell myself, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, it doesn’t do any good.”

Friday, May 18, 2007

Falcon called last night at 5:00 just as I was heading out the door for a run. He hung up before I could get to the phone. I was ready to call him back when I heard the message tone. “Hey you” he said. I liked the way it sounded…intimate…special. He asked me to call him back at 6:00 and then told me it was Thursday…like maybe I only check my messages every few days and wouldn’t know. It took me forever to get out of the house and the run was hard. I hate crossing the big road at rush hour…waiting five minutes for the light to change and then dashing across the street to keep from getting hit by cars from every direction. Constantly telling myself not to worry about what I look like. It didn’t feel like I’d just run 6 miles 10 days ago. It felt like I hadn’t run in months. When I got home he’d left another message…another Hey You…and another request to call him. I did…at once. I was still breathing hard. He said he was about to go exercise, too. I don’t think I even waited for him to invite me, I think I invited myself.

Sunday, June 24, 2007
I’m in so much pain this morning I don’t think I can stand it. I keep thinking of ways to escape…a cigarette…some pot…prayer? It comes out of nowhere. Sitting in the theater last night with Mr. Blue, watching all the actors making love, I began to think about Falcon. I was grateful that Mr. Blue kept himself away from me. I didn’t want any accidental body contact taking place between us. I was grateful that he kept quiet and let me escape in the bigger-than-life fantasy. I may have been able to forget about him altogether were it not for the continuous sniffing and snorting that kept coming from him. I couldn’t tell what was causing it; allergies, swollen adenoids, an old injury from a broken nose? It didn’t matter. I knew that I could not be happy lying naked beside him while he produced those bizarre snorts. Instead I remembered that this was the same theatre where I had my first, and only, date with Falcon. I remembered how different it felt to sit next to him, wanting to touch him, not caring at all about the movie, trying not to think about how badly I wanted the impossible to happen. I start to fantasize about driving over to his apartment, waiting in my car for him to come home from another Saturday night of drinking. I imagine his surprise when he answers his phone and I tell him that I’m sitting outside in the parking lot. I imagine that he would want me to come in.

After the movie we walk down the street to a Tai restaurant. We sit at a table out on the sidewalk. I tell him this is the first time I’ve ever eaten on Main Street. It doesn’t feel at all like Paris. There are fire-trucks roaring down the street and drunk-bumpkin gawkers. Mr. Blue has impeccable manners and is intelligent and interesting. He tells me about his friends who invite him to visit every summer on Martha’s Vineyard. I listen half-heartedly. I don’t imagine myself bicycling around the island with him. I am wondering what time Falcon will most likely come home. Will he be too drunk to make love, will he be alone? Mr. Blue asks me when I’m leaving on my vacation and offers me a ride to the airport. I tell him maybe, because in fact I’ve been wondering myself how I’m going to get there without having to pay cab fare. He walks me to my car and I tell him that I’ll call him when I get back from California. “You can send me a post-card.” he suggests sweetly. He’s leaning on my open door and I’m trying to figure out how to close it. “Oh, I’m no good at post cards.” I admit honestly. “I buy them and then can never find time to write or I can’t find stamps. I just end up with piles of postcards.”
“Maybe you can find one with a picture of the Golden-gate bridge…or I know how about a cable-car?” he says with a wry smile so that I will understand he’s joking. I think about the pile of post-cards I still have with the wild-rose covered barn and the word CALIFORNIA at the top. And then I remember the last cards I bought. I also had scorned the Eiffel Tower images with PARIS across the picture. But then I found one; a 1930’s photo of the tower’s construction. Workmen having their lunch break perched on steel girders. I remember the morning I sat in the café painstakingly going through my phrasebook, taking notes:
“Est-ce que je peux niassloir ici? Can I sit here?
Je ne suis pas di ici. I am a stranger here.
J’aime bien flaner. I like just walking around.
Comment vas tu? How are you?
Merveileux. Marvelous.
Il vous faudra attendre encore un pue. You’ll have to wait a little longer yet.
Le tien. Yours.”
I remember finding it weeks later on his living room floor. I knew he wouldn’t know what I’d written. I was no longer sure what it said but I was happy that I’d sent it. I held it out to him with a huge smile on my face. He’d reached out and grabbed it from my hand and tossed it back on the floor with a huge smile on his face. I never knew what these gestures were supposed to mean. In the four years since we began this dance, I’d become addicted to the swirling merry-do-round of seduction and rejection that he insisted upon.
“Well, will we talk again before you leave?” Mister Blues asks.
I’m grateful that he seems to be winding it up and not caring how I will tell him “no”, later. I still feel a sense of guilt that I don’t want him. Is it because he wants me? Isn’t he what I’ve always wanted; someone sophisticated? Falcon listens to country music stations, Mister Blues listens to classical. Mister Blues drives a navy blue compact sports vehicle, Falcon drives a neon-blue long-bed, covered camper. Mister Blues likes to bike, Falcon likes NASCAR. Falcon’s skin is like silk, Mister Blues is spotted with barnacles.
“Good-night” I call back pulling out of my parking space. It’s only ten-thirty. Falcon won’t even be ready to go out yet. I’ll have to wait for hours. I drive home wondering why I don’t just tell Mister Blues right now that I’m not interested. Well, he hasn’t asked for physical contact yet. Perhaps he will stay satisfied with my delightful chatter for a few more dates. It’s nice not to be alone on a Saturday evening. I switch on the television and Alejandro Escavedo is singing on Austin City Limits. Two years ago he’d sung at the Dame and afterwards I’d gone home and drunk-dialed Falcon. Alejandro always made me think of Falcon. It was Falcon that made me love Alejandro, or maybe it was the other way around. But, it was Falcon who pulled me off the couch and held my hips swaying to I want to dance with you Rosalie. I wonder if I should call my sponsor. She’s probably already be in bed. And besides, that would be giving her control. She would tell me not to and then if I did it I’d have to confess. Well, wouldn’t I have to confess anyway? Wasn’t that how this was supposed to work, I was supposed to be honest with her? Wasn’t I supposed to be trying to end this addiction? Wasn’t I supposed to be able to deny myself the sweetest love I’ve ever known so I could stop feeling the pain he’d inflict every time he rejected me? I didn’t call. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was tired. I’d been up since seven that morning. I’d gone for a four-mile run. I was completely sober, he’d be completely drunk. He might be happy to hear from me and he might not. He might be angry and sulky, he might be sexually dysfunctional. No matter what, he would not pull me up off the couch to dance with him while Alejandro sang I love you Rosalie, te amo, Rosalie.


Thursday, July 12, 2007
I saw Iris today and in spite of myself I still loved her. I was walking home from work when I heard a car honk. She leaned toward the window and smiled. She looked good, long hair, thinner face, reminded me of her young self and how much fun we used to have. I smiled and waved as she drove off. When I saw her stop at the intersection I thought about running up beside her car and telling her I still loved her. But just as I got near the traffic moved and she had to go with it. I wanted to call Pixie and tell her of my revelation but it was already 11:30 in Scotland. I wasn’t surprised to see her walking up my steps, but I have to admit that I was delighted. It was just like old times. I hugged her and invited her in for a bourbon. We talked of most of our life’s big events that have happened in the last two years, which was the last time we felt like talking.


Thursday, July 19, 2007
I guess I’m not surprised that I still want him so much…that I still think about him so many times every day…all through the night. I wonder what he is doing and if he is with some other woman. Does he ever think of me? Will he ever miss me? Not like I miss him. I’m quite sure of that.

Friday, July 20, 2007
Trying not to suffer…hate that feeling. Saw some pictures of myself yesterday taken with my workmates. Thought I looked so fat I tried to photoshop myself. Absolutely hate that feeling. Haven’t felt that way in a long time. Actually said to myself…”no wonder he lost interest in you.” It seems to me that it’s all about beauty…even for me… I just like the good-looking men; won’t even look at the fat men…or I look and think “ugh, pregnant men.”

I’ve been smoking way too much and worrying about it. Last night I dreamt a horrible dream. I was on my front porch with my brother Frank when some strange kids came up and accosted us. We ended up running to a park at the end of the street… There were a lot of buildings there…a bar and a post office. The postmistress said she would call the police for us but then started crying. She explained that she’d had a horrible day; an entire family that she knew had been killed. She seemed to insinuate that our little problem with an intruder was really no emergency. Some woman with a baby started to smoke and I took her baby out of her arms so the smoke wouldn’t bother her. When I handed the baby back to her, I lit my own cigarette and started to cough. I looked down and realized I’d lit a butterfinger candy wrapper. It was covered with burn holes. I woke up with my throat burning.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007
I keep counting the days…fifty…as if there is some magic number that will make it stop hurting. I cried in bed last night, certain that I will never make love again. This morning I read the Just For Today prayer and recite that just for today I will be happy. I can’t imagine how to feel like that.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007
I’ve stopped counting the days…just the months. The last time I made love to him was June 5th…It’s been a little over two months. This is not unprecedented in our relationship. We’ve gone through these long break-ups before. One of us always gives in. I don’t want that to happen this time. I still want him but I don’t want what he’s prepared to offer me. I want him whole and healed. Strange, because through-out our relationship I knew the only reason I had him at all was because he was broken. I want to cry all day long but I’m afraid to go that place…I’ll drown.

Friday, August 10, 2007
I’m waiting for Marigold and her sisters to come pick me up. We’re driving to the beach in Hilton Head. I should be ecstatic…I’m not. I’m on the verge of crying but it’s a weird, deep sadness that I’ve been hiding for weeks. I’m afraid if I start I won’t be able to stop. I’m afraid that my sadness is obvious and I won’t be fun on the trip. I try to remember the words to the Just For Today prayer. There’s a part in there about not showing anybody that your feelings are hurt… I ache…it’s not hard to hurt my feelings right now…just about anything will do it and I’m tired of being strong, and loving and forgiving. I want to rant and rave…I want sex. I want to make-out with Falcon… I want Falcon to knock on my door with his suitcase in his hand and say to me. “Lily, my love. You’re all I’ll ever need in this lifetime. I’m here to stay and I’ll never go away. I’ll never be cross or petty and I will always, always want you.” That’s what I want, God…That, or something very, very similar. Perhaps a different man altogether.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference… I’m wallowing in self-pity. I came home last night and was too tired to do anything…just sat on the couch feeling sorry for myself…didn’t exercise. I woke up this morning feeling the same way I feel every morning…I want him. I want him. I want him. When I read my Al-anon book it talks about having sympathy and understanding for the alcoholic spouse…and I have to remind myself that I am not his spouse. I do not have a partnership with an alcoholic. I had a sexual arrangement with an alcoholic which was destroying my soul. I pretended like I was cool with the arrangement and he pretended like he thought I was loveable.

On my walk to work I started thinking about how to trust God. Maybe I could just stop worrying about being alone and just trust that the right man will find me. It made me feel good…like I really was loveable. On the way home I thought about Falcon and wondered if I would ever see him again. I told myself that I would see him when God was ready for me to see him. I came home and changed my clothes determined to get a bit more exercise. I could at least walk for another thirty minutes. But as I headed out across the highway I broke into a run. It was excruciatingly hard at first but after a while I forgot about how hard it was and congratulated myself that I wasn’t feeling the need to stop at all… I ran all the way up to the arboretum and then once around the track. On the way back home Sweet Pea called. I was walking down my street and almost in front of my house when I saw his truck. He drove past really slow and looked straight at me. It was like a dream sequence. I said to Sweet Pea, “I can’t believe that Falcon is driving right past me.” I pointed at him and he waved…a quick nervous little wave and then continued to drive slowly to the end of my street and turn the corner. I expected him to turn around. I expected him to call. He didn’t do either but I still felt gratified. There was no reason on earth for him to be driving past my house except to check up on me. I’m pretty sure he didn’t expect to actually get caught. I know all of this because of all the times I’ve imagined driving by his house and didn’t because of how awful I’d feel if he saw me. It makes me feel good that he still wants me. It makes me feel good that he’s either not with someone else or if he is, she isn’t holding his interest…he’s still thinking about me.

Friday, August 31, 2007
I think the pain may be subsiding but I’m afraid to even hope for that. There are moments when the depression astounds me. Why is it still here? Why now? I know that seeing him and talking to him brought all of those doubtful feelings to the surface. Did I do the right thing by breaking up? Did I do it in the right way? Was there a less painful way I could have done it? Should I have done it sooner? Should I have never started sleeping with him? Should I have told him to hit the road the very first time he misbehaved? And the biggest question of all…will I ever have him, or someone that I love as much as him again?

Thursday, September 06, 2007
Some days are horrible. I wake up feeling depressed. Sometimes I shake it and sometimes it lasts all day. I found a picture of him this weekend. It was a campaign poster that I’d taped to my bathroom wall. One of the last times we were together we took a shower and while I was out of the room he’d taken it down. I remember coming back into the bathroom and discovering it was missing. I’d scolded him for taking it and assumed it was gone forever. But this weekend while cleaning my cabinets I discovered that he’d simply hidden it deep in the back of one of the shelves. I wondered why. Had he really wanted me to keep it…just not in plain view? It doesn’t matter. I hung it back up on the wall and his smiling face surprised me every time I walked into the room. Sometimes I stop and kiss his mouth. It makes me feel happy, although I can’t say why and I wonder if this is an emotionally healthy thing for me to do.

Most days are like today, Magnolia is coming to visit from Louisville. There’s an art exhibition opening tonight. I’ve been to way too many of these to feel even the least bit excited. It just means a really long day at work.




Saturday, September 22, 2007

I’m going to Venice to pick up the Denis. Several of my co-workers are ready to scratch my eyes out. I don’t know why my boss chose me, maybe because I’m nice to her. I have to pack today. A friend told me the streets are always filled with water. I have no rubber boots. I’m spending money at an alarming rate. My house is infested with fleas and I have invested in a new vacuum cleaner and lots of flea bombs which I will try to set off before I leave. I have a new grand-son… he was born two nights ago. I feel embarrassed that I write this after all the other things I mention. It is because he is so well cared for and as I sit here this morning trying to mentally list all of the things I must do…packing and ridding the house of fleas seem to consume all of my thoughts. He is tiny and perfect. Grandchildren are so amazing. They are as much a gift as my own children and they require nothing from me. While their parents struggle to keep them safe and fed, I go about my selfish life, making sure I have a stylish coat to wear in Venice, just incase I meet the man of my dreams while traveling.

I still check my phone every morning to see if he’s left a message. It has been almost five months now and I’m still struggling with the loss. I keep telling myself that there is absolutely no way our relationship could ever satisfy me…unless and until he had a spiritual healing. One of the wise women in my group says there are four alternatives for an alcoholic: Death, Insanity, Jail, or Spiritual Healing. I pray for his Spiritual Healing. I pray that someday he will recognize how lovely the time we spent together was…perhaps he recognizes that already. Perhaps he, like me, checks his phone to see if I’ve left him a message. I will probably never know. He will probably disappear from my life and leave only his beautiful and painful memory. Meanwhile I pray for my Spiritual Healing.

Monday, October 08, 2007
One day, you can just look at a picture and boom…you’re not angry at him anymore. I want him to be happy. It wasn’t the first time I saw it. I’d seen it a few days earlier, on a website for local singles, there he was, same handsome good looks only now he’s standing like James Dean holding out his cup of beer, bleary eyed and smirking, flanked by two slightly stringy women, who I’m sure think he is a dream-boat.


Thursday, October 11, 2007
This morning I have a large lump in my throat. I want sex and I want to see Falcon. Yesterday was Cupcake’s first birthday party. Woody was there. I surprised myself by greeting him with a big smile. Maybe it was relief that his new woman was not there. I found out from Bigboy that one of the women in the photo is buying him a workshop. He tells me that he is buying a new shop and I say, “Yes, I know.” I want him to think I already know everything about his life and am totally disinterested in hearing more. Most of my loved ones are crammed into Bella’s tiny kitchen so there is a lot to distract myself with.
I had shown Woody’s picture with his girlfriend to two of my girlfriends. One said, “Oh and are you not at least a hundred times prettier than her? Yes!” The other one said I was a million times prettier. So, I was feeling pretty cute. I still want him to desire me; so that I can reject him. He calls out from across the kitchen. “So, I hear you went to Italy.”
That’s good. I can see the jealousy in his face…he is trying to smile but he can’t.
“Yes, I went to Venice. It was awesome.” I tell him casually and softening somewhat; wondering if I should tell him that the sight of so many beautiful Italian men made me dream of him twice while I was there? I decide to say, “You would love it, Woody. There’s so much beautiful art. In fact, I found an artist with the same last name as yours. “Really? “ he says moving close to me as if he’s ready to have a conversation. “I met a guy a few weeks ago here in Lexington with my last name. He was just traveling through. We went out to dinner a couple of times and I told him all about where my family was from.” He pauses, waiting for my reply to this interesting event. I stare at him with a blank face. I am truly amazed that he is finished hearing my story of Italy and is waiting for me to engage him in his.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

I dodged a bullet last night…my Higher Power intervened. Falcon has been calling me. Monday night I walked home in a driving rain. I was soaking wet by the time I got home and had just changed into some cozy flannel pajamas when I noticed the text message waiting on my phone. I react the same way I have been for the past six months, telling myself “It’s just some advertisement from A.T.&T. It’s not him.” But it was. He wrote “your dealer is weak”. It took me a minute to understand that he was referring to my description of him as an addiction. He’s so clever; always knows just how much to say and how to cloak it in mystery. Impulsively I write back “me too.” I send the message and walk away from the phone determined to go about my evening. Except for the smoking and my bad diet and spotty exercise routine, I have become satisfied with the quiet, calm of my life. Work is frantic and home is serene. Fifteen minutes later I hear the text message chime.
“Sleep on it has to be a special one time fix see how it feels if you are cool ask off wed morning you might be up late.” I put the phone down again and turn on the television. I don’t know how I feel about all this and I’ve come to realize that if I wait awhile it will all become clear. I think about calling my sponsor but I don’t want to hear what I know she will tell me. I call Jasmine instead. I also know what she will tell me but she will soften it with empathy and love. The phone rings. It’s him. For a second I consider not answering then push the accept key. “Hey, I’m sorry I called” he says. “You are?” I ask wondering why and how he manages to distance himself even while he’s reaching out for me. “Yeah, I just spent an hour, lusting. I guess I shouldn’t be doing this” he says sounding like he’s totally prepared for the rejection that I’m about to deliver. “I’m going to sleep on it” I tell him. “OK, I’ll call you tomorrow, or I’ll probably text you” he says laughing at the “maybe” that I’ve just given him. I tell him goodbye and call Jasmine. We spend a long time examining his word choices and she lets me tell her how obviously selfish his motives and his plans are.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Ever since Sunday morning I have kept a dialogue going with myself. Every few hours I repeat that it really doesn’t hurt as bad this time. After all I knew it would be like this. Even when he held me in his arms last Saturday and finally declared that he loved me, I knew nothing would change. I knew that even if he called this weekend it would be late, he would be drunk. Even it was early he would want to get drunk. He would not want to go out to dinner, or a movie, or suggest we meet some of his friends, or some of mine. This is not the relationship he wants with me. Maybe he doesn’t want this with anyone. I remind myself that these things do not matter anymore. His motivations, his demons are his, not mine. I cannot know what he’s suffering and I can’t fix him. I have to concentrate on myself. Sunday night I went to choir practice with a large group of people who are in AA. Two men came up to me during the break and introduced themselves. I tell myself that this is where I belong. We are going caroling at Veterans’ hospitals and homeless shelters, a few times a week until Christmas. I am grateful to have a purpose.

Monday, December 31, 2007

Christmas 2007: Things I Did

Sang Christmas carols at alcoholic treatment centers
Sister Katy came for a 10 day visit
Spent $70 on a fingernail polishing kit
Received a gift of my first pair of gold earrings
Went to the Muhammad Ali Museum
Enjoyed watching a boxing match
Thrilled my grandbaby Ava with a beautifully illustrated book
Ate Christmas dinner in a Chinese Restaurant
Spent Christmas night in a Karaoke bar
Lost my lover


I tell him everything I’ve done since I last saw him, in rapid fire tempo. He tells me nothing. Every time he offers, I want him.


Saturday, February 02, 2008

I feel immobilized by depression. I have no idea where it has come from this time. There is nothing different about this morning, except that the sun is shining and it’s warmer than it has been for weeks. I went to my Alanon meeting this morning and met with my sponsor. I should be happy, but I’m in agony. I could blame it on Falcon…I could always blame it on him. He broke up with me on the last day of the year, told me I was going to be his New Year’s resolution, told me he was going to ignore my text messages and my phone calls. And he has. I tried three times to tempt him and then I realized he wasn’t going to respond and I quit. I’ve gone back and forth between feeling like it was a blessing to finally be finished with this sordid ugly affair, to wanting him so bad I didn’t think I could stand it for one more minute. They tell us at Alanon to make it through twenty-four hours. I tell myself, fifteen more minutes. I hate myself for being miserable. I tell myself I have nothing to be miserable about, and then I tell myself I have nothing to look forward to in life. It’s all downhill from here and looking back there was nothing that fantastic about the entire ride. I do not feel grateful for any of it. I don’t really want it to be over, I just wish it was more fun. It’s not fun, it’s not easy. Sweetpea just called. I started crying as soon as I picked up the phone. Just the fact that she cares makes it easier. She encouraged me to go out for a walk, so I will. I take my cell phone with me and call Jasmine. She is struggling, too, trying hard to believe that a higher power can restore her to sanity, not believing it for one minute. I tell her I’ve been crying all morning. “What are you crying about?” she asks. “I don’t know.” I tell her. “Is it about asshole?” she asks. “Yeah, I guess it is.” I admit although I don’t want to. “Well, you know this is going to hurt, don’t you? I mean you just have to face it. This is going to be painful.” For some reason I find this comforting.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Well, he’s made contact again. This time by email. When his name popped up on my computer screen my heartbeat sped up. His message is short. “Nice photo you sent last month. Still traveling, vacationing???” He was referring to the picture I’d sent him of me holding one-year old Monkey. I’d found it in a folder of family photos and sent it to Monkey on her birthday. I looked beautiful, young and thin with long hair tumbling down my back. I’d written “I love you, always have, always will” to her. And then impulsively I’d sent it to him with a note. “ I know I’m not supposed to contact you but I can’t help myself. I just want you to have a picture of me that you can show to your friends to let them know who you’ve been sleeping with for the past five years. You don’t have to tell them that this was taken twenty-five years ago. Twenty-five years ago you would have been nineteen. I think you still would have wanted me.” I’d written “OK” in the subject line. I’d meant it as a surrender as in: OK; I quit; I accept that it’s over. And as the days and weeks rolled by without hearing from him I’d been learning to live with the reality. I had even begun to stop checking my phone as soon as I got out of bed on Saturday and Sunday mornings. But reading this new email I wonder if he’s been staring at my picture and wanting me.

For an instant I think about deleting his message. But then I think about the conversation we had at my last Alanon meeting about using the silent treatment as a weapon and how cruel that is and I tell myself…”detach with love”. I can do that. I write back that mostly I’ve just been working then add that I’d been to a fundraiser for WUKY that was at Bogart’s and that it was nostalgic to be in his old stomping ground. Ten minutes later he writes back “Storm damage?” I assume he’s referring to the storm that hit two nights ago.
“No, I slept right through it. Is that a metaphor?”
He writes back, “Lightening struck so close that car alarms were going off all night,” completely ignoring my question.
“Yeah, I heard them, too” I write. “It just sounded like another night in the hood.” I’m wondering where this is going. He’s certainly not flirting. Is he just bored?
And then he strikes. “shall we try again in a few months…or…too soon?”
“Detach with love” I tell myself as I type, “Funny you should ask. It’s been really hard not having you in my life but I realize that something isn’t always better than nothing and I should never have accepted the deal you offered. I need to continue on my path to recovery. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be your friend. I’m just not going to use you to make myself feel better and I won’t let you use me…but like I said… I still want to be your friend and I still love you. Peace, Lily” I feel powerful pushing the send button. He’s asked and I’ve turned him down, now I’m in control. At five o’clock I shut down my computer; he hasn’t answered. The next morning I can hardly wait to open my mailbox. There’s no message. “Asshole” I tell myself. “He’s such a game player. He’s probably pissed now that he’s put himself out there and I’ve turned him down. He thinks he’s losing. My Alanon mind takes over, “Stop trying to figure out what he’s doing. That’s the kind of thinking that gets you in trouble. You can’t figure him out and you don’t need to. He’s not your problem.”

Saturday morning I go to my Alanon meeting. It’s my turn to lead and I tell the group about our email exchange and congratulate myself for turning him down. I’ve inspired some of the other members to talk about their toxic relationships with alcoholics but no one is congratulating me. One member tells me that whenever she feels the urge to have this kind of communication she calls her sponsor and reads it to her first. “You know this disease is cunning, baffling and powerful and I can twist things around to convince myself of anything” she warns. Another woman who’s been in the program for seventeen years says, “it’s no big deal to dump a drunk. There’s always another waiting for us.” “Oh God” I say to myself, “spare me.” I promise myself that the next time I hear from him I’ll call my sponsor before I answer. Yesterday he emails again.
“Are you sure you don’t want to use me? At least for maintenance and upkeep and sharing laughs. I understand the pros probably don’t outweigh the cons… but if the quality of the service is factored in…seems like I could fill in as a temp until a suitable, more reliable, full time person is hired. I know you have choices J”

My immediate response is, “what a soulless mother-fucker he is”. I forward the whole chain of messages to my sponsor and ask for her advice. She writes back that I should call her later, we need to talk about this. I spend the next few hours wondering what she will tell me. Cunning and baffling, I even consider that she might tell me to go ahead and use him to make myself feel better. But she tells me I’m flirting. She tells me he’s broken and he’s not going to help me find serenity and spiritual healing. “Can I just ignore him? You know when I’ve done that before he’s just found some other way to attack. He’ll call me at work where I don’t have caller ID or he’ll just show up on my porch or something.”
“Well, can you write him back and say, yes. I’m sure?” she asks. I don’t answer her for a few seconds. “I’m not sure. That’s the problem.”
“Why don’t you pray about this? Just get really quiet and ask your higher-power what the best thing for you is. Because I’m telling you Lily, this guy isn’t going to help you.”


Saturday, February 16, 2008

For some reason I’m craving pot today. Maybe because I can’t have him. I tell myself to get to the gym and then put some turkey bacon in the oven. I spent the morning with my sponsee. She is trying to break off an eight year marriage. At first she said it was because he was addicted to pot. But later she admitted that he was emotionally abusive to her, telling her she was a loser and her kid was such a loser he felt like smashing him in the face. She’s living alone in desperate straits, broke and in debt. She has just fallen on the ice and shattered her elbow and someone has smashed the rear window of her car. Her ex is calling and leaving messages that he loves her. I feel almost envious wishing that Falcon would leave me that kind of message. But I tell her that her ex is just being manipulative and trying to get her back. I ask her if she thinks he’s changed and if she jumped on a plane and flew to see him this afternoon how long would it take before he was behaving badly and she wanted to get away from him again. She answers that the good times would probably not last three days. I tell her that she needs to focus on getting herself healthy and stop wasting her energy trying to figure out what he’s up to. She agrees. It helps me to tell her these things. It’s like I’m telling myself what I need to do. Right now I need to go to the gym.