First off, I owe a debt of gratitude to anyone who got through that last post in one sitting. For those who were unable to read more than a paragraph at a time (or simply signed off after the first three sentences), I hope your difficulty was an issue of content rather than style or form. But whatever the reason, the effort is noted and much appreciated.
In other news, I’m a bit taken back by the number of page views I've received since Saturday. Despite only sending e-mail updates to an elite group of friends and supporters, this blog is getting hits from sources that I can't account for. Some are obviously from people who stumbled upon it accidentally (about 10% only stay on the page for 10-15 seconds), but many others are sticking around for over an hour. I figure there are two possible explanations. Either these "unknowns" actually care about where the story is headed, or they are masochists who can't wait for another round of punishment. I prefer to operate under the former pretense; at least until I have reason to believe otherwise.
Not surprisingly, the feedback I've received on the last chapter has been minimal. While the first three posts were met with considerable enthusiasm, very few readers have offered anything in the way of reaction or criticism. In all honesty, this worried me at first. But a quick consultation with a close friend (and fellow writer) pointed out that the content is entirely too heavy to expect this sort of validation. This seemed a reasonable enough explanation, so I let it go and moved on. But once I gave it more thought, I understood the full extent of it.
I once took a creative writing class in high school, under the tutelage of an instructor who has proven to be rather influential. But at the time, I was annoyed by her nagging insistence that our raw compositional styles be honed to a certain point of focus and precision. This involved following rules, and most of us resented the notion that art should be held to any such standard. But once we were all functioning on the same technical level, we got to the good stuff. Our assigned compositions could exhibit whichever type of content or narrative style we saw fit. However, this came with one caveat: in addition to upholding a sense of aesthetic, we were expected to write for a wider audience. Impassioned diary entries and angry monologues wouldn’t cut it. After all, only our parents or a therapist would find anything of use in them.
It was explained to us that writing for a wider audience meant appealing to the human condition. In other words, readers should relate to a story's protagonist in a way that holds their interest from start to finish. This could be accomplished by adopting a number of guidelines, but one in particular was emphasized: the main character should be likable. He or she should be portrayed as someone who acts in ways that are rational, reasonable and well-intended. It was okay to deviate from time to time, but the overall picture should be favorable; one which allows readers to see part of themselves in the story.
So you can see where this is heading. The last post is certainly honest, and I'm sure there are readers who find it fascinating. After all, I am giving you a glimpse into the mind of someone who is bent on self-destruction. He seems perfectly willing to squander a loving family and a stable job, and doesn't seem especially worried that his wife and children will be negatively affected by his terrible judgment and crass immaturity. But I’m confident that remarkably few of these readers see any part of themselves in the protagonist. They find entertainment in my story the same way films like Trainspotting or Leaving Las Vegas appeal to normal, high-functioning people. It’s a train wreck in the making, and they can’t help but stand and stare.
But for others, there is a gut reaction of shock, disappointment or grudging pity. As such, whatever sympathy I generated through earlier posts has been effectively nullified. Sure, Karen's demanding nature, difficult childhood, and unresolved anger (primarily over the outcome of a previous marriage) were barriers to a healthy relationship. However, there was no mention of the wild cards I threw into the deck without her knowledge. ‘The Algebra of Need’ was intended to rectify the situation, as my account up to that point was negligent, and perhaps irresponsible.
I am seeing now that my desire for balance has resulted in some less than desirable consequences. I am no longer the "likable" guy who is documenting his experiences in a bad marriage. I have painted myself as a malignant cyst; one that Karen had to excise in order to save herself from being pulled into a void of despair and co-dependency.
This realization has prompted me to think back on why this blog exists, and whether it serves any real purpose. I’ve concluded that by inviting you to read my story, I’ve given you a front row seat that you never asked for. And in the process, I have created a situation where you feel obligated to provide feedback. This wasn’t an issue for the previous posts, but now you are confronted with one of greater heaviness and magnitude. In light of these circumstances, I would like to acknowledge that you really don’t owe me anything. Thus, my usual practice of notifying people of updates is hereby discontinued. Those who are still interested in reading subsequent posts can either follow the blog through a Google mail account, or do so anonymously.
Thanks again.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Algebra of Need
An intermittent shrill pierced the darkness, each repetition pulsing to the rhythm of a flashing red light. It had begun as a distant wail, fading in and out of the aether like an ephemeral host requesting my attention. But mere seconds of delay sent it into a cosmic overdrive, squawking like an enraged flock of geese through a stack of amplifiers...
I wearily opened my eyes. A searing bolt of pain ricocheted off the inside of my skull, attacking every nerve with a volley of spears and daggers. I blindly swung a hand toward the nightstand, hoping a single blow would silence that insufferable shriek. Instead, my effort was mocked by the unmistakable crack of bone against solid oak. Drops of blood began leaking onto the carpet as I hissed a stream of interfaith blasphemies. Despite wanting desperately to roll off the bed and smash that fucking alarm clock, I had to sit up slowly. Anything more vigorous would escalate my slight nausea to projectile vomiting.
It took the better part of a minute before I was upright. It would be longer before I could stand, so I impatiently leaned forward and yanked the cord from the wall. It then occurred to me that I had spent the past four months reminding myself of mornings like these. It was an attempt at aversion therapy, sort of like a reformed pedophile shocking himself on the genitals whenever he considers watching those old videos of the boys' swim team. In fact, a friend once jokingly compared my plight to that of Malcolm McDowell's character in A Clockwork Orange. Little did I know that the film's conclusion would one day become eerily prophetic.
I rose to my feet, and a familiar dizziness took hold. A heated belt of pressure tightened around my head and began squeezing at varying intervals. My 7:30 flight to Oklahoma City precluded the usual option of laying back down and calling in late, so I had to get moving. However, there was another matter that demanded more immediate consideration.
I started toward the dresser, and noticed an empty fifth of vodka on my computer desk. It stood in the company of eight to ten beer bottles, all depleted and littering the wooden surface like a choir of bacchanalian idols. Their quantity implied that I had hosted a party of four or five, but I didn't remember anyone stopping by. Then again, my hangover suggested that a herd of cattle could have stormed through the front door without any recollection on my part. My only clear memory was of standing on that porch, realizing that I had probably just interrupted Eric the Electrician as he fucked my wife against our bedroom wall.
I turned around and pulled out the top dresser drawer. A small avalanche of cylindrical vials rolled forth and rattled to a halt, their sheer volume causing several to spill onto the floor. It took only a brief survey to find the ingredients of my usual fix; a harrowing pharmacopoeia of mind-altering substances that were best suited for a hospice or trauma center. I found it amusing that their labels were printed in bold capital letters, seemingly admonishing those who would misuse them. It was as though the manufacturer really believed I would one day come to my senses and realize that I was juggling two Molotov cocktails and a pipe bomb.
OXYMORPHONE, EXTENDED RELEASE, 40 MG. ADMINISTER ONLY FOR SEVERE CHRONIC PAIN.
LORAZEPAM, 2 MG. DO NOT EXCEED THREE TABLETS IN ANY 24 HOUR PERIOD
METHYLPHENIDATE, 20 MG. TAKE ONE TABLET EVERY FOUR HOURS. DO NOT CRUSH OR CHEW. FOR ORAL USE ONLY.
After a brief assessment of my symptoms, I laid out the pills accordingly: two oxymorphone for pain (one for my head and one for my hand), two lorazepam to calm my nerves, and one methylphenidate to keep me from falling asleep on the road. I dry-swallowed the first four tablets, but stopped before taking the last. Orally ingesting methylphenidate typically meant waiting 30 to 45 minutes before it would start clearing the fog. I simply didn't have the time or patience to wait around that long. However, there was a tried and true way of bypassing the stomach and forcing it directly into the bloodstream. It was a practice known as "railing", and what it lacked in subtlety it made up for in efficiency.
I walked to the kitchen to retrieve two metal spoons, placing the tablet between their bowls. A bit of pressing and grinding followed, which reduced the drug to a fine white powder. The next step was to empty the spoons onto the counter top, then strike them against its surface to dislodge any residue. A credit card was produced for the purpose of scraping the powder into a long white line, after which I rolled a dollar bill lengthwise until it resembled a small length of straw. Holding one its ends just above the powder, I aligned the opposing end with one nostril, plugged the other, and sharply inhaled.
I tilted my head back and waited for the pill's characteristic bitterness to start running down my throat. This usually meant that it would be mere seconds before I felt a drastic upturn in my energy level. But for now, I had this brief period of repose to think back on what horrific set of circumstances would compel a grown man to start snorting ADHD medication. In all honesty, I could think of none.
The first time was during the early months of 2007, when I had just returned from a grueling week of air quality testing in West Virginia. My co-workers had already left for the day, but I had to stay behind to finish my timesheet and expense report. The combination of work and travel had exhausted me, and I was glad to be back home. Karen had called moments earlier to announce that the color of our brand new kitchen floor didn't jive with the pastel hue of the walls. She had already bought paint and had started the edging. She knew I was tired, but would greatly appreciate it if I could stay up for a few hours and help her finish.
It bears noting that there was always a fundamental difference in how the two of us approached home improvement projects. In essence, Karen was a go-getter and I was not. For me, pulling up carpet from a single room or assembling a new office desk would typically take two days of sporadic effort. For Karen, this was inconceivable. She believed that anything less than a sustained, non-stop effort was needlessly frustrating. However, we eventually found that as long as I felt rested and mentally prepared (i.e. was given at least a day's notice), I could adapt to her more demanding methods.
The trouble started when any of these conditions wasn't met. If I was feeling irritable or fatigued, the simplest of projects would create a mercurial tension that simmered under a thin sheet of ice. Karen would find herself in a steep quagmire, as my capricious temper required little provocation before it would burst into a heated tirade. I would accuse her of being a fastidious malcontent, and dismiss her ambition as profound egoism. But minutes later, the smoke would clear and I would see the pernicious aftermath of my barbed invective. I would try to apologize, but the damage was done. The severity of these mood swings perplexed me, and I hated myself for being unable to palliate them. It would be six agonizing months before I understood their machinations, and found the means to address them. But unfortunately, it would be far too late to save my marriage.
I sat at my desk, dreading the next several hours. I missed Karen and the kids, but the evening wasn't going to end well. I was obviously tired, and hadn't planned to stay up past midnight painting the kitchen. My moods had become so erratic and unmanageable that I saw little chance for a normal, quiet evening at home. However, there was another possibility.
Weeks earlier, I had been diagnosed with Adult ADHD and placed on a low dose of stimulant medication. It was legitimately prescribed to increase my focus and memory, and seemed to work wonders. However, I had inadvertently discovered another of its benefits: increased energy. As an amphetamine derivative, methylphenidate tends to have a "speedy" effect that exaggerates the user's endurance and productive capacity. In turn, this leads to a sense of confidence and well-being. I had noticed some of these effects when I took it orally, but there was an issue of duration. After reaching a short-lived peak, the effects would rapidly dissipate. I would then experience a debilitating crash, which left me feeling drained, hopeless and irascible.
But I remembered friends in college getting scripts for ADHD drugs and claiming that while the crash is inevitable, it can be abated. The trick was to take a high oral dose, then "rail" a small one. Once the insufflated dose started to wear off, there would still be a strong enough plasma concentration (from the oral dose) to keep you "up" for a few more hours.
I pulled an amber vial from my pocket and studied it for a moment. I had seen for myself that the medication helped with concentration and allowed me to stay on task for longer periods of time. A higher energy level meant that I could help Karen with the painting and not worry about getting tired and combative after a few hours. By the time I crashed, it would be bedtime.
But what the fuck was I thinking? What good could come of such a juvenile experiment? Even if it worked tonight, what was I going to do if something similar came up tomorrow? Excuse myself to the bathroom so I could crush up another pill and suck it through my nose? This was fucking ludicrous. Was I really so morally bankrupt that I was considering the merits of such flagrant stupidity?
I walked into the warehouse, found my tool bag, and extracted a pair of pliers and a box cutter.
The first five milligrams stung my sinuses, but the discomfort subsided quickly. After waiting a few minutes, I was feeling little more than a slightly faster heart rate and mild headache. Was this all there was to it? I crushed another five milligrams and repeated the process. The only noticeable effect was a worse headache. This was just fucking grand. In addition to the mood swings, I now had a fierce pounding in my temples. It was going to be an evening to remember, but for all the wrong reasons.
Then it hit me.
I fell forward as a tidal wave of neurotransmitters washed over my brain, flooding every synapse with dopamine and adrenaline. My heart rate had jumped to triple digits, threatening to systematically rupture every vein and artery in my body. I tried moving to the concrete floor and sitting still, but the tremors shooting through my arms made it impossible. "This is it," I told myself. "You're going to die, you irredeemable piece of shit. Your heart is going to explode through your chest, and you're going to fucking die." My cellphone was still at my desk, so even calling for help wasn't an option. I had few choices but to wait this out and hope it didn't end with my co-workers coming in on Monday to find my putrid, maggot-riddled corpse.
The initial shock turned out to be mercifully brief. Before long, I was up and walking around the warehouse, trying to make sense of my reckless indiscretion. But before I could start castigating myself, a weird reversal of fate completely changed my tone. I was beginning to feel an acute sense of clarity, as if I had spent my entire life under a cloud of nihilism and delusion and was finally waking up to a life-affirming reality. I felt purposeful, excited, and teemed with confidence.
After hastily filling in the rest of my expense report and dropping it on the accountant's desk, I exited the building and walked toward my car with a brisk, unreasoned determination. The drive home seemed exhilarating as I weaved in and out of traffic, earning more than a few horn blasts and extended middle fingers. I was surely exceeding the speed limit by a good 15 or 20 miles per hour, but who was counting? I was above the rules and cherishing my newfound freedom.
I arrived home almost 15 minutes earlier than expected. The kids had seen me coming and enthusiastically ran up to the car just as I was pulling into the driveway. I stepped out and and hugged each of them as they asked how high I had to climb up the smokestack and what the mountains looked like from way up there. I did my best to answer their enthusiastic barrage of questions as I pulled my suitcase from the trunk and headed inside.
Karen was at the kitchen sink, rinsing paintbrushes under a stream of hot water. She turned her head to greet me.
"Hey, Baby. How was West Virginia?"
I grabbed her wrist, spun her around, and planted a deep kiss on her astonished lips. An adoring smile emerged as her senses reeled from my aggressive display of affection.
"Wow. What's that all about?"
"I guess I'm hopelessly in love with you. Now hand me a brush and let's do this."
I wearily opened my eyes. A searing bolt of pain ricocheted off the inside of my skull, attacking every nerve with a volley of spears and daggers. I blindly swung a hand toward the nightstand, hoping a single blow would silence that insufferable shriek. Instead, my effort was mocked by the unmistakable crack of bone against solid oak. Drops of blood began leaking onto the carpet as I hissed a stream of interfaith blasphemies. Despite wanting desperately to roll off the bed and smash that fucking alarm clock, I had to sit up slowly. Anything more vigorous would escalate my slight nausea to projectile vomiting.
It took the better part of a minute before I was upright. It would be longer before I could stand, so I impatiently leaned forward and yanked the cord from the wall. It then occurred to me that I had spent the past four months reminding myself of mornings like these. It was an attempt at aversion therapy, sort of like a reformed pedophile shocking himself on the genitals whenever he considers watching those old videos of the boys' swim team. In fact, a friend once jokingly compared my plight to that of Malcolm McDowell's character in A Clockwork Orange. Little did I know that the film's conclusion would one day become eerily prophetic.
I rose to my feet, and a familiar dizziness took hold. A heated belt of pressure tightened around my head and began squeezing at varying intervals. My 7:30 flight to Oklahoma City precluded the usual option of laying back down and calling in late, so I had to get moving. However, there was another matter that demanded more immediate consideration.
I started toward the dresser, and noticed an empty fifth of vodka on my computer desk. It stood in the company of eight to ten beer bottles, all depleted and littering the wooden surface like a choir of bacchanalian idols. Their quantity implied that I had hosted a party of four or five, but I didn't remember anyone stopping by. Then again, my hangover suggested that a herd of cattle could have stormed through the front door without any recollection on my part. My only clear memory was of standing on that porch, realizing that I had probably just interrupted Eric the Electrician as he fucked my wife against our bedroom wall.
I turned around and pulled out the top dresser drawer. A small avalanche of cylindrical vials rolled forth and rattled to a halt, their sheer volume causing several to spill onto the floor. It took only a brief survey to find the ingredients of my usual fix; a harrowing pharmacopoeia of mind-altering substances that were best suited for a hospice or trauma center. I found it amusing that their labels were printed in bold capital letters, seemingly admonishing those who would misuse them. It was as though the manufacturer really believed I would one day come to my senses and realize that I was juggling two Molotov cocktails and a pipe bomb.
OXYMORPHONE, EXTENDED RELEASE, 40 MG. ADMINISTER ONLY FOR SEVERE CHRONIC PAIN.
LORAZEPAM, 2 MG. DO NOT EXCEED THREE TABLETS IN ANY 24 HOUR PERIOD
METHYLPHENIDATE, 20 MG. TAKE ONE TABLET EVERY FOUR HOURS. DO NOT CRUSH OR CHEW. FOR ORAL USE ONLY.
After a brief assessment of my symptoms, I laid out the pills accordingly: two oxymorphone for pain (one for my head and one for my hand), two lorazepam to calm my nerves, and one methylphenidate to keep me from falling asleep on the road. I dry-swallowed the first four tablets, but stopped before taking the last. Orally ingesting methylphenidate typically meant waiting 30 to 45 minutes before it would start clearing the fog. I simply didn't have the time or patience to wait around that long. However, there was a tried and true way of bypassing the stomach and forcing it directly into the bloodstream. It was a practice known as "railing", and what it lacked in subtlety it made up for in efficiency.
I walked to the kitchen to retrieve two metal spoons, placing the tablet between their bowls. A bit of pressing and grinding followed, which reduced the drug to a fine white powder. The next step was to empty the spoons onto the counter top, then strike them against its surface to dislodge any residue. A credit card was produced for the purpose of scraping the powder into a long white line, after which I rolled a dollar bill lengthwise until it resembled a small length of straw. Holding one its ends just above the powder, I aligned the opposing end with one nostril, plugged the other, and sharply inhaled.
I tilted my head back and waited for the pill's characteristic bitterness to start running down my throat. This usually meant that it would be mere seconds before I felt a drastic upturn in my energy level. But for now, I had this brief period of repose to think back on what horrific set of circumstances would compel a grown man to start snorting ADHD medication. In all honesty, I could think of none.
The first time was during the early months of 2007, when I had just returned from a grueling week of air quality testing in West Virginia. My co-workers had already left for the day, but I had to stay behind to finish my timesheet and expense report. The combination of work and travel had exhausted me, and I was glad to be back home. Karen had called moments earlier to announce that the color of our brand new kitchen floor didn't jive with the pastel hue of the walls. She had already bought paint and had started the edging. She knew I was tired, but would greatly appreciate it if I could stay up for a few hours and help her finish.
It bears noting that there was always a fundamental difference in how the two of us approached home improvement projects. In essence, Karen was a go-getter and I was not. For me, pulling up carpet from a single room or assembling a new office desk would typically take two days of sporadic effort. For Karen, this was inconceivable. She believed that anything less than a sustained, non-stop effort was needlessly frustrating. However, we eventually found that as long as I felt rested and mentally prepared (i.e. was given at least a day's notice), I could adapt to her more demanding methods.
The trouble started when any of these conditions wasn't met. If I was feeling irritable or fatigued, the simplest of projects would create a mercurial tension that simmered under a thin sheet of ice. Karen would find herself in a steep quagmire, as my capricious temper required little provocation before it would burst into a heated tirade. I would accuse her of being a fastidious malcontent, and dismiss her ambition as profound egoism. But minutes later, the smoke would clear and I would see the pernicious aftermath of my barbed invective. I would try to apologize, but the damage was done. The severity of these mood swings perplexed me, and I hated myself for being unable to palliate them. It would be six agonizing months before I understood their machinations, and found the means to address them. But unfortunately, it would be far too late to save my marriage.
I sat at my desk, dreading the next several hours. I missed Karen and the kids, but the evening wasn't going to end well. I was obviously tired, and hadn't planned to stay up past midnight painting the kitchen. My moods had become so erratic and unmanageable that I saw little chance for a normal, quiet evening at home. However, there was another possibility.
Weeks earlier, I had been diagnosed with Adult ADHD and placed on a low dose of stimulant medication. It was legitimately prescribed to increase my focus and memory, and seemed to work wonders. However, I had inadvertently discovered another of its benefits: increased energy. As an amphetamine derivative, methylphenidate tends to have a "speedy" effect that exaggerates the user's endurance and productive capacity. In turn, this leads to a sense of confidence and well-being. I had noticed some of these effects when I took it orally, but there was an issue of duration. After reaching a short-lived peak, the effects would rapidly dissipate. I would then experience a debilitating crash, which left me feeling drained, hopeless and irascible.
But I remembered friends in college getting scripts for ADHD drugs and claiming that while the crash is inevitable, it can be abated. The trick was to take a high oral dose, then "rail" a small one. Once the insufflated dose started to wear off, there would still be a strong enough plasma concentration (from the oral dose) to keep you "up" for a few more hours.
I pulled an amber vial from my pocket and studied it for a moment. I had seen for myself that the medication helped with concentration and allowed me to stay on task for longer periods of time. A higher energy level meant that I could help Karen with the painting and not worry about getting tired and combative after a few hours. By the time I crashed, it would be bedtime.
But what the fuck was I thinking? What good could come of such a juvenile experiment? Even if it worked tonight, what was I going to do if something similar came up tomorrow? Excuse myself to the bathroom so I could crush up another pill and suck it through my nose? This was fucking ludicrous. Was I really so morally bankrupt that I was considering the merits of such flagrant stupidity?
I walked into the warehouse, found my tool bag, and extracted a pair of pliers and a box cutter.
The first five milligrams stung my sinuses, but the discomfort subsided quickly. After waiting a few minutes, I was feeling little more than a slightly faster heart rate and mild headache. Was this all there was to it? I crushed another five milligrams and repeated the process. The only noticeable effect was a worse headache. This was just fucking grand. In addition to the mood swings, I now had a fierce pounding in my temples. It was going to be an evening to remember, but for all the wrong reasons.
Then it hit me.
I fell forward as a tidal wave of neurotransmitters washed over my brain, flooding every synapse with dopamine and adrenaline. My heart rate had jumped to triple digits, threatening to systematically rupture every vein and artery in my body. I tried moving to the concrete floor and sitting still, but the tremors shooting through my arms made it impossible. "This is it," I told myself. "You're going to die, you irredeemable piece of shit. Your heart is going to explode through your chest, and you're going to fucking die." My cellphone was still at my desk, so even calling for help wasn't an option. I had few choices but to wait this out and hope it didn't end with my co-workers coming in on Monday to find my putrid, maggot-riddled corpse.
The initial shock turned out to be mercifully brief. Before long, I was up and walking around the warehouse, trying to make sense of my reckless indiscretion. But before I could start castigating myself, a weird reversal of fate completely changed my tone. I was beginning to feel an acute sense of clarity, as if I had spent my entire life under a cloud of nihilism and delusion and was finally waking up to a life-affirming reality. I felt purposeful, excited, and teemed with confidence.
After hastily filling in the rest of my expense report and dropping it on the accountant's desk, I exited the building and walked toward my car with a brisk, unreasoned determination. The drive home seemed exhilarating as I weaved in and out of traffic, earning more than a few horn blasts and extended middle fingers. I was surely exceeding the speed limit by a good 15 or 20 miles per hour, but who was counting? I was above the rules and cherishing my newfound freedom.
I arrived home almost 15 minutes earlier than expected. The kids had seen me coming and enthusiastically ran up to the car just as I was pulling into the driveway. I stepped out and and hugged each of them as they asked how high I had to climb up the smokestack and what the mountains looked like from way up there. I did my best to answer their enthusiastic barrage of questions as I pulled my suitcase from the trunk and headed inside.
Karen was at the kitchen sink, rinsing paintbrushes under a stream of hot water. She turned her head to greet me.
"Hey, Baby. How was West Virginia?"
I grabbed her wrist, spun her around, and planted a deep kiss on her astonished lips. An adoring smile emerged as her senses reeled from my aggressive display of affection.
"Wow. What's that all about?"
"I guess I'm hopelessly in love with you. Now hand me a brush and let's do this."
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Highest Virtue
The last several days have presented a series of events that compelled me to reconsider the tone and direction of this blog. To summarize, feelings that I believed were reconciled (and buried accordingly) have been torn from my subconscious and dropped in front of me. Efforts to mitigate or simply avoid them have been predictably futile, making it clear that the story I've told thus far is a mere fragment of the whole.
I have spent considerable time operating under a guise of indifference, as though feigning apathy will somehow ease my guilt. Failing that, I've made a concerted effort to displace liability toward the story's antagonist. But now that I've allowed myself some time and distance, I am finally seeing these defense mechanisms for what they really are.
I am now confronted with a host of sobering realizations that must be addressed if there is to be closure. Part of that process must involve adding some balance to the story. For the record, I can still attest to its truth and accuracy. However, it is patently dishonest. By choosing to focus on Karen, I have omitted key details that factored considerably when she decided to cut her losses and walk away.
The next chapter will be posted before the end of the week. It has been the most difficult to write, because it forces me to acknowledge that once we exchanged vows, Karen was in over her head. This wasn't due to to any ignorance or denial on her part. Rather, it was my own denial of certain emotional frailties that had plagued me for years.
I have spent considerable time operating under a guise of indifference, as though feigning apathy will somehow ease my guilt. Failing that, I've made a concerted effort to displace liability toward the story's antagonist. But now that I've allowed myself some time and distance, I am finally seeing these defense mechanisms for what they really are.
I am now confronted with a host of sobering realizations that must be addressed if there is to be closure. Part of that process must involve adding some balance to the story. For the record, I can still attest to its truth and accuracy. However, it is patently dishonest. By choosing to focus on Karen, I have omitted key details that factored considerably when she decided to cut her losses and walk away.
The next chapter will be posted before the end of the week. It has been the most difficult to write, because it forces me to acknowledge that once we exchanged vows, Karen was in over her head. This wasn't due to to any ignorance or denial on her part. Rather, it was my own denial of certain emotional frailties that had plagued me for years.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Grandeur
Her lips would sometimes quiver
to the tune of a heretical chant
or obscure litany
Spoken in a dead language
She had seen the end of time
and kept her clocks synchronized
to TV news captions
And sundials in the yard
Her journals filled a bathtub
overflowing with Latin scripture
hieroglyphic footnotes
And arcane symbology
She passed the daylight hours
hidden from satellite scans
behind reinforced walls
And cinder block barricades
to the tune of a heretical chant
or obscure litany
Spoken in a dead language
She had seen the end of time
and kept her clocks synchronized
to TV news captions
And sundials in the yard
Her journals filled a bathtub
overflowing with Latin scripture
hieroglyphic footnotes
And arcane symbology
She passed the daylight hours
hidden from satellite scans
behind reinforced walls
And cinder block barricades
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Daybreak (at the Bottom of a Lake)
Interstate miles evaporated behind me as the ghostly glow of Raleigh's inner belt line approached in the distance. The house I had moved into three months earlier was on the east side of town, so I would normally wait five more exits before leaving the highway. But tonight was different. I was making a stop in the northwest suburbs, for reasons that wouldn't come clear until later in the trip. My tight grip on the steering wheel began to exert a numbing effect on my fingers as vague, ill-formed thoughts bounced around my brain like numbered balls in a lottery machine. I couldn't help but feel that the evening's outcome would be every bit as random, although an unreasoned surge of optimism had spurred me on since leaving Barnes & Noble. I now saw the book and my brief vision in the parking lot as harbingers; indications that change was near. This couldn't simply be a chance aligning of the stars. Fate was calling, and I was to be its envoy.
In retrospect, it was completely irrational. Karen's obstinacy was a matter of pride, and hoping to change her decision on any matter was like betting on a crippled race horse: pointless and needlessly painful. But at some point, I had decided that her inconsistency and contradictory behavior were an encrypted code of sorts. Maybe she was trying to tell me something that was too difficult to verbalize. Perhaps Karen's rigid will was bending under the weight of her emotions, but her certitude prohibited surrender.
Whatever the case. I had grown tired of waiting.
The drive was initially nerve-wracking, as the evening's possibilities loomed like faded spectres on an obscure landscape. But as the minutes dissipated, a sense of calm gradually worked its way through my veins. The opening strains of Trevor Rabin's "Can't Look Away" swelled through my car speakers as the evening's plan approached realization. I had already acknowledged that it was underhanded and a bit cagey, not to mention precarious. I had seen a side of Karen that was clingy and vulnerable, but she wasn't stupid. She possessed an aptitude for gauging people's intentions that bordered on the paranormal. Thus, I was going in at a disadvantage.
But against hope, I somehow maintained a cool optimism. I could still prevent Karen from making another costly decision, that being a full divorce. She had already sounded the knell, but I wouldn't acknowledge its finality. I continued to believe that this was all a reaction to the pain of feeling abandoned and betrayed. I certainly had my quirks, and some had damaged the marriage considerably. When verbal threats failed to register, Karen felt she had to up the ante. It seemed a reasonable conclusion, and I moved forward under that assumption.
As traffic slowed to a halt, I looked over to the passenger seat and began studying the cover of that crucial tome: 'Zoya's Story: An Afghan Woman's Struggle for Freedom'. Over the preceding months, I had occasionally bought books that appealed to Karen's interests. Since any attempt to call or e-mail her would likely be thwarted, I had resorted to simply leaving them in our mailbox. Admittedly, it was a peace offering of sorts; just another barren effort to ensure that the slender, tenuous threads between us would hold out for another day or two.
But in the end, the books were a prop. I was trying (in vain) to let Karen know that I was thinking about her. I wanted to acknowledge her pain and show her that I still cared. Where words had fallen flat, action would surely prevail. The entire gesture was obviously flawed and ill-conceived, but I thought restoring our marriage was simply a matter of persistence. She could only resist for so long until I wore her down, although I would never admit that my reasoning was so dense and simple-minded. More astute methods had fallen flat, and I was determined to make this attempt succeed.
Traffic gradually resumed its normal pace as I began scanning signs for the appropriate exit. Number "293-A" had a special significance, as I clearly remembered driving past it on our first date. We had eaten dinner at a Mexican cafe just off UNC's campus, and my ego and hormones had distracted me from anything but Karen's aesthetic perfection. She sat in the passenger seat, musing about some topic I had lost track of thirty minutes ago. I was simply in disbelief that someone who resembled a younger Tina Fey had started the evening by taking my hand and telling me that I was more handsome than my picture implied.
I had expected Karen to be attractive, but was flabbergasted when she initially approached me outside the restaurant. I had seen a rather stunning brunette park her Saturn a few moments earlier, and noted some similarities in her shoulder-length hair and wire-rim glasses. But I figured she had to be meeting with some other guy. This couldn't be the same woman who accepted my invitation for a date with such enthusiasm. That just wasn't in the cards.
But then she exited her car and assumed a brisk pace toward me as her high-heeled boots clicked excitedly on the pavement.
"Chris?"
I tried to say something, but my vocal chords froze.
"I'm so sorry I'm late. My ex waited until 5 to get the kids, so I literally had to fly out the door".
My throat finally opened and attempted a meaningful exchange.
"Oh, uh...that's totally okay. I didn't think you would stand me up."
She laughed, and we embraced. Her lightly perfumed neck gave off a bewitching scent that made my heart pound like Buddy Rich on his best night. I would have been content to just hold her for that first hour, but there was conversation to be had and a meal to be eaten.
Throughout the evening, Karen never failed to intrigue me. Her stories, her witty anecdotes...even watching her spread salsa on a tortilla had me transfixed. At the date's conclusion, I looked at myself in the rear view mirror and acknowledged the inevitable. I was in love, and there was no turning back. One day, I would make Karen my wife. No matter what it took.
I eased onto the exit ramp as Cary Parkway unfolded in front of me. This part of the trip would take a mere ten minutes, so I took a quick inventory and conceived a plan for my approach. As noted, I usually left the books in our mailbox. What would distinguish this effort was the method of delivery. I would give Karen the book in person, thereby forcing her to acknowledge me. She would resent me for it, but it would likely become an opportunity for dialogue. I would apologize and ask if we could talk for a moment. She would acquiesce (albeit grudgingly) and lead me to the living room couch. As the conversation progressed, she would finally see what she was leaving behind: a husband who adored her. One who would stop at nothing to have her back. One who loved her in ways he had never loved another.
Time got away from me and I almost missed the turn onto Kildaire Farm. I thought of stopping off at a gas station to pick up some mouthwash and aftershave, but discarded the idea as a waste of time. I was focused on the task at hand, and couldn't tolerate distractions. It would only be a quarter of a mile before I hit Helmsdale Drive, and I had yet to sufficiently prepare. Simply put, this had to played off in a way that wouldn't reveal my motives. I had to give the appearance of acceptance, as though I knew our marriage was over and really just needed to talk. Otherwise, she would never open the door.
Of course, I had neglected to address Karen's keen perception, which would surely call me out like a sniper waving a flood light. However, I had convinced myself that she would forgo the usual scrutiny in favor of trust and faith. In the end, I still thought she wanted our marriage as much as I did. She simply refused to acknowledge it. She didn't think of herself as someone who was weak and co-dependent, and wanted to avoid giving that impression to me or anyone else. She had been walked on before. There wouldn't be a second time.
I came upon our two-level house and found the driveway empty. Karen was parked in the garage, my headlights roving over her green Mazda as I pulled closer and came to a halt. After cutting the engine and grabbing the book, I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. I was feeling more confident now, but for reasons I still can't justify. Amidst all of this plotting and planning, the elements of clarity and logic had somehow eluded me. And sadly, I was in too deep to realize it.
I stepped out of the car and proceeded toward the house. The walk to the front door took longer than usual, as I was taking slow, measured steps to avoid looking stressed or harried. After ascending the brick steps that led to our porch, I noticed that the bedroom light was on. The muffled drone of a newscast played in the background, which meant Karen had finished her evening clean-up ritual and was laying in bed.
I took one more deep breath, then reached forward and rang the bell.
The passing seconds felt like hours. I didn't hear her fumbling with the dead bolt, or even coming down the steps. It was odd, as the doorbell was certainly loud enough to be heard from upstairs.
I reached up and rang the bell a second time.
Again, no response.
I opened the screen door and knocked lightly.
Nothing.
I began rapping a little harder, hoping the dog wouldn't start barking and awaken the kids. Still no answer. But as I started to turn in defeat, a noise cut through the silence and stopped me dead in my tracks. The stairs were creaking as Karen's bare feet pattered against them. I spun around and took a deep breath as the dead bolt retracted and the door swung open.
Considering the time, I was surprised to see Karen standing there in a form-fitting red shirt and dress slacks. It looked as though she had just returned from a party, dressed in a way that was guaranteed to attract attention. I looked up at her and smiled.
"Hi. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
I certainly didn't expect her to throw her arms around me, but Karen's response was one I hadn't anticipated. She seemed...nervous.
"Um...can't we do this d-during d-daylight hours?"
Since childhood, Karen had battled a distinctive speech impediment that tended to worsen under strain. She stammered, and our first several phone conversations were difficult as a result. Certain letters and syllables gave her more trouble than others, and I didn't know if I should try finishing her sentences for her or just shut up and let the stuttering run its course. Things got smoother once she explained the problem, and I came to embrace it as a unique facet of her persona. But tonight, it was to reveal something far more insidious.
"Well...I guess so, but why can't we talk tonight?"
"B-because this isn't fair."
Obviously, something wasn't right. While normally meticulous about her appearance, her hair and make-up seemed disheveled and haphazardly applied. A tiny clump of eyeliner hung from one of her lashes, and her lipstick was obviously smeared.
"Is everything okay?"
She went silent for a few awkward seconds before answering.
"Yes. B-but this isn't fair. You can't just c-come to the house without at least c-calling first."
Now I was getting suspicious. She was hiding something, and doing a poor job of it.
"You look scared. I'm not a threat to you. I just came to talk and give you something."
As I finished my sentence, I saw a man's tennis shoe on the stairs behind her. Tilting my head a little up and to the right, I was astonished to meet the eyes of an older man. Ashen-haired and roughly ten years our senior, he seemed a little dressed-down for the occasion. A gray sweatshirt clung to his muscular frame and faded jeans hung from his waist. A neatly trimmed mustache accented his upper lip, which held a contemptuous sneer.
I felt a leaden hammer plow through my stomach. My head spun madly as I staggered backward and almost fell off the porch. Fighting back tears of rage, I found the strength to look up and challenge her.
"How could you do this to me? We're still married, for fuck's sake."
"You need to leave now. This isn't fair."
Her calm exterior was clearly masking panic. I could have exploited it, but a stark vulnerability came over me and I began to plead.
"This couldn't be happening. Please tell me this isn't happening, Karen. It's all a big misunderstanding, right? Please?"
It was pathetic. I felt completely helpless as pangs of rejection and betrayal shot through my brain. A wave of nausea came over me and I fancied the idea of vomiting all over her freshly-cleaned carpet. But there was no point. It was over, and nothing I could do would change it.
After giving myself a second to muster an ounce of composure, I reached forward and handed her the book.
"Here."
She started to thank me as I turned around and walked to the car. I hastily turned my key in the ignition and threw it into reverse. Rubber squealed against asphalt as I flew out of the driveway and onto the street. I turned left and made it to the next block before erupting into sobs of hatred, pain, and anger. I started thinking back to those last few moments on the porch, and regretted not charging into the house and beating that thieving son of a bitch into unconsciousness. The legal ramifications were far from my mind, and I was too distraught to entertain reason.
But even worse, Karen had won again. I was the one leaving under a storm cloud of defeat and humiliation. For her, nothing had changed...and I hated her for it.
In retrospect, it was completely irrational. Karen's obstinacy was a matter of pride, and hoping to change her decision on any matter was like betting on a crippled race horse: pointless and needlessly painful. But at some point, I had decided that her inconsistency and contradictory behavior were an encrypted code of sorts. Maybe she was trying to tell me something that was too difficult to verbalize. Perhaps Karen's rigid will was bending under the weight of her emotions, but her certitude prohibited surrender.
Whatever the case. I had grown tired of waiting.
The drive was initially nerve-wracking, as the evening's possibilities loomed like faded spectres on an obscure landscape. But as the minutes dissipated, a sense of calm gradually worked its way through my veins. The opening strains of Trevor Rabin's "Can't Look Away" swelled through my car speakers as the evening's plan approached realization. I had already acknowledged that it was underhanded and a bit cagey, not to mention precarious. I had seen a side of Karen that was clingy and vulnerable, but she wasn't stupid. She possessed an aptitude for gauging people's intentions that bordered on the paranormal. Thus, I was going in at a disadvantage.
But against hope, I somehow maintained a cool optimism. I could still prevent Karen from making another costly decision, that being a full divorce. She had already sounded the knell, but I wouldn't acknowledge its finality. I continued to believe that this was all a reaction to the pain of feeling abandoned and betrayed. I certainly had my quirks, and some had damaged the marriage considerably. When verbal threats failed to register, Karen felt she had to up the ante. It seemed a reasonable conclusion, and I moved forward under that assumption.
As traffic slowed to a halt, I looked over to the passenger seat and began studying the cover of that crucial tome: 'Zoya's Story: An Afghan Woman's Struggle for Freedom'. Over the preceding months, I had occasionally bought books that appealed to Karen's interests. Since any attempt to call or e-mail her would likely be thwarted, I had resorted to simply leaving them in our mailbox. Admittedly, it was a peace offering of sorts; just another barren effort to ensure that the slender, tenuous threads between us would hold out for another day or two.
But in the end, the books were a prop. I was trying (in vain) to let Karen know that I was thinking about her. I wanted to acknowledge her pain and show her that I still cared. Where words had fallen flat, action would surely prevail. The entire gesture was obviously flawed and ill-conceived, but I thought restoring our marriage was simply a matter of persistence. She could only resist for so long until I wore her down, although I would never admit that my reasoning was so dense and simple-minded. More astute methods had fallen flat, and I was determined to make this attempt succeed.
Traffic gradually resumed its normal pace as I began scanning signs for the appropriate exit. Number "293-A" had a special significance, as I clearly remembered driving past it on our first date. We had eaten dinner at a Mexican cafe just off UNC's campus, and my ego and hormones had distracted me from anything but Karen's aesthetic perfection. She sat in the passenger seat, musing about some topic I had lost track of thirty minutes ago. I was simply in disbelief that someone who resembled a younger Tina Fey had started the evening by taking my hand and telling me that I was more handsome than my picture implied.
I had expected Karen to be attractive, but was flabbergasted when she initially approached me outside the restaurant. I had seen a rather stunning brunette park her Saturn a few moments earlier, and noted some similarities in her shoulder-length hair and wire-rim glasses. But I figured she had to be meeting with some other guy. This couldn't be the same woman who accepted my invitation for a date with such enthusiasm. That just wasn't in the cards.
But then she exited her car and assumed a brisk pace toward me as her high-heeled boots clicked excitedly on the pavement.
"Chris?"
I tried to say something, but my vocal chords froze.
"I'm so sorry I'm late. My ex waited until 5 to get the kids, so I literally had to fly out the door".
My throat finally opened and attempted a meaningful exchange.
"Oh, uh...that's totally okay. I didn't think you would stand me up."
She laughed, and we embraced. Her lightly perfumed neck gave off a bewitching scent that made my heart pound like Buddy Rich on his best night. I would have been content to just hold her for that first hour, but there was conversation to be had and a meal to be eaten.
Throughout the evening, Karen never failed to intrigue me. Her stories, her witty anecdotes...even watching her spread salsa on a tortilla had me transfixed. At the date's conclusion, I looked at myself in the rear view mirror and acknowledged the inevitable. I was in love, and there was no turning back. One day, I would make Karen my wife. No matter what it took.
I eased onto the exit ramp as Cary Parkway unfolded in front of me. This part of the trip would take a mere ten minutes, so I took a quick inventory and conceived a plan for my approach. As noted, I usually left the books in our mailbox. What would distinguish this effort was the method of delivery. I would give Karen the book in person, thereby forcing her to acknowledge me. She would resent me for it, but it would likely become an opportunity for dialogue. I would apologize and ask if we could talk for a moment. She would acquiesce (albeit grudgingly) and lead me to the living room couch. As the conversation progressed, she would finally see what she was leaving behind: a husband who adored her. One who would stop at nothing to have her back. One who loved her in ways he had never loved another.
Time got away from me and I almost missed the turn onto Kildaire Farm. I thought of stopping off at a gas station to pick up some mouthwash and aftershave, but discarded the idea as a waste of time. I was focused on the task at hand, and couldn't tolerate distractions. It would only be a quarter of a mile before I hit Helmsdale Drive, and I had yet to sufficiently prepare. Simply put, this had to played off in a way that wouldn't reveal my motives. I had to give the appearance of acceptance, as though I knew our marriage was over and really just needed to talk. Otherwise, she would never open the door.
Of course, I had neglected to address Karen's keen perception, which would surely call me out like a sniper waving a flood light. However, I had convinced myself that she would forgo the usual scrutiny in favor of trust and faith. In the end, I still thought she wanted our marriage as much as I did. She simply refused to acknowledge it. She didn't think of herself as someone who was weak and co-dependent, and wanted to avoid giving that impression to me or anyone else. She had been walked on before. There wouldn't be a second time.
I came upon our two-level house and found the driveway empty. Karen was parked in the garage, my headlights roving over her green Mazda as I pulled closer and came to a halt. After cutting the engine and grabbing the book, I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. I was feeling more confident now, but for reasons I still can't justify. Amidst all of this plotting and planning, the elements of clarity and logic had somehow eluded me. And sadly, I was in too deep to realize it.
I stepped out of the car and proceeded toward the house. The walk to the front door took longer than usual, as I was taking slow, measured steps to avoid looking stressed or harried. After ascending the brick steps that led to our porch, I noticed that the bedroom light was on. The muffled drone of a newscast played in the background, which meant Karen had finished her evening clean-up ritual and was laying in bed.
I took one more deep breath, then reached forward and rang the bell.
The passing seconds felt like hours. I didn't hear her fumbling with the dead bolt, or even coming down the steps. It was odd, as the doorbell was certainly loud enough to be heard from upstairs.
I reached up and rang the bell a second time.
Again, no response.
I opened the screen door and knocked lightly.
Nothing.
I began rapping a little harder, hoping the dog wouldn't start barking and awaken the kids. Still no answer. But as I started to turn in defeat, a noise cut through the silence and stopped me dead in my tracks. The stairs were creaking as Karen's bare feet pattered against them. I spun around and took a deep breath as the dead bolt retracted and the door swung open.
Considering the time, I was surprised to see Karen standing there in a form-fitting red shirt and dress slacks. It looked as though she had just returned from a party, dressed in a way that was guaranteed to attract attention. I looked up at her and smiled.
"Hi. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
I certainly didn't expect her to throw her arms around me, but Karen's response was one I hadn't anticipated. She seemed...nervous.
"Um...can't we do this d-during d-daylight hours?"
Since childhood, Karen had battled a distinctive speech impediment that tended to worsen under strain. She stammered, and our first several phone conversations were difficult as a result. Certain letters and syllables gave her more trouble than others, and I didn't know if I should try finishing her sentences for her or just shut up and let the stuttering run its course. Things got smoother once she explained the problem, and I came to embrace it as a unique facet of her persona. But tonight, it was to reveal something far more insidious.
"Well...I guess so, but why can't we talk tonight?"
"B-because this isn't fair."
Obviously, something wasn't right. While normally meticulous about her appearance, her hair and make-up seemed disheveled and haphazardly applied. A tiny clump of eyeliner hung from one of her lashes, and her lipstick was obviously smeared.
"Is everything okay?"
She went silent for a few awkward seconds before answering.
"Yes. B-but this isn't fair. You can't just c-come to the house without at least c-calling first."
Now I was getting suspicious. She was hiding something, and doing a poor job of it.
"You look scared. I'm not a threat to you. I just came to talk and give you something."
As I finished my sentence, I saw a man's tennis shoe on the stairs behind her. Tilting my head a little up and to the right, I was astonished to meet the eyes of an older man. Ashen-haired and roughly ten years our senior, he seemed a little dressed-down for the occasion. A gray sweatshirt clung to his muscular frame and faded jeans hung from his waist. A neatly trimmed mustache accented his upper lip, which held a contemptuous sneer.
I felt a leaden hammer plow through my stomach. My head spun madly as I staggered backward and almost fell off the porch. Fighting back tears of rage, I found the strength to look up and challenge her.
"How could you do this to me? We're still married, for fuck's sake."
"You need to leave now. This isn't fair."
Her calm exterior was clearly masking panic. I could have exploited it, but a stark vulnerability came over me and I began to plead.
"This couldn't be happening. Please tell me this isn't happening, Karen. It's all a big misunderstanding, right? Please?"
It was pathetic. I felt completely helpless as pangs of rejection and betrayal shot through my brain. A wave of nausea came over me and I fancied the idea of vomiting all over her freshly-cleaned carpet. But there was no point. It was over, and nothing I could do would change it.
After giving myself a second to muster an ounce of composure, I reached forward and handed her the book.
"Here."
She started to thank me as I turned around and walked to the car. I hastily turned my key in the ignition and threw it into reverse. Rubber squealed against asphalt as I flew out of the driveway and onto the street. I turned left and made it to the next block before erupting into sobs of hatred, pain, and anger. I started thinking back to those last few moments on the porch, and regretted not charging into the house and beating that thieving son of a bitch into unconsciousness. The legal ramifications were far from my mind, and I was too distraught to entertain reason.
But even worse, Karen had won again. I was the one leaving under a storm cloud of defeat and humiliation. For her, nothing had changed...and I hated her for it.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Twilight of the Idles
I spent much of Saturday and Sunday trying to focus on the week ahead of me. I was scheduled for a business trip to Oklahoma City on Monday morning, and found some solace in preparing for the change in climate. Despite its relative latitude, the forecast was calling for temperatures in the upper 40s for most of the week. The coat that Karen had given me last Winter proved to be hot and cumbersome in anything less that blizzard conditions, so I set out to find something lighter.
It was late Sunday afternoon before I found a jacket that suited me. There were few things I resented more than packing into the late hours of the evening, so I hastily made my purchase and stepped outside the mall into a heavy drizzle. I had taken about three steps toward the parking lot when a little red raincoat jumped out of nowhere, landing both of his feet in a puddle directly to my right. I tried stepping back, but it was too late. A thin geyser of rainwater shot up to ankle-height before descending onto the cuff of my pants. As I looked down in bewilderment, a toddler's wondrous smile emerged from underneath the red hood.
For a precious second, his wide blue eyes locked onto mine. Bright images of rainy Spring mornings flew by at a dizzying pace. Three children of different ages stood in our driveway, jumping into puddles and splashing each other as joyous shouts echoed down the street. We sat on the porch, laughing and taking pictures as the youngest tried to generate a splash big enough to soak both of his sisters at once. I put my arm around her shoulders and turned to study her expression. It spoke of a rare contentment; one which I hoped was a sign of renewal...
"Joshua! Shame on you!"
Shaken from my diversion, I looked up to see a young mother pull her child from the point of impact. She seemed both embarrassed and surprised by his adept puddle-jumping skills.
"Sir, I am so sorry."
I didn't mean to be flippant, but couldn't stop myself from laughing.
"It's okay. Don't worry about it."
"But the hems of your pants...they're soaked!"
"Really, it's not a problem."
"Nonsense. Let me get you a towel from the car."
There was an amusing quaintness in her speech and mannerisms that seemed charming and anachronistic. I followed her back through the parking lot as Joshua (whose hand was now tightly secured to avoid another incident) persisted in trying to hit every puddle along the way. For the first time in several weeks, I felt myself smile.
We soon arrived at a blue SUV, which was promptly unlocked and stripped of a thin white towel.
"I keep them for when we travel with the dogs, but don't worry. This one hasn't been used."
Humored by her reassurance, I graciously accepted the towel.
"Thanks for this. How should I return it?"
She seemed amused by my query.
"It's a beach towel. Keep it, throw it away...it doesn't matter."
I thanked her again and headed toward Barnes & Noble, which housed the nearest restroom. Along the way, I thought of Joshua and his mother, envying the apparent normalcy of their lives. Even during the best of times, my life with Karen was never typical or easy. She often seemed undecided about the merits of a "traditional" marriage over a contemporary one, but couldn't settle on a balance between the two. She simultaneously embraced the role of staunch feminist alongside a more subdued identity; a modern day "damsel in distress" of sorts. Our first conversation was over the phone, and I remember being intrigued by her confidence. I didn't understand why someone who was so independent would need a husband in the first place. Maybe a few sporadic relationships here and there, but certainly not a marriage.
Over time, I began to sense a paradox. It took awhile for the facts to align, but Karen's insecurities gradually came clear as the manifestation of two opposing personalities: the downtrodden single mother with a strong inferiority complex, and the self-assured intellectual with a sharp demeanor that bled arrogance. As we stumbled through the early stages of our relationship, I remember being caught off guard by her ability to cycle rapidly from one extreme to the other. Over the course of many conversations, she would regal me with stories of her Southern Baptist upbringing and how it ostensibly promoted her culture and character. But invariably, a particular question or comment would prompt recollections of some long-forgotten trauma, thereby derailing the conversation into a shallow abyss of indignation and self-pity. The ensuing moments appeared cathartic, as she would seemingly relive each transgression with a level of detail that was eerily vivid. In hindsight, the red strobe lights flickering through my head should have been enough to produce a migraine. But at some point, I had subconsciously learned to ignore them.
By the time of my arrival at Barnes & Noble, I was considerably aware of the cold dampness permeating my socks. After finding a bathroom and drying myself off, I checked my watch and saw that it was almost five o'clock. My new jacket was supposedly water-proof, so I hurriedly tossed the white towel into my bag and began traversing the stock green carpet toward the door. After successfully navigating around hordes of casual browsers and strolling families, I found myself within several strides of the exit. I could finally see an end to the weekend's trial when something appeared in my periphery, calling out like a flock of sirens through a dismal fog.
I came to a dead halt and turned to my left. The "new titles" rack stood in front of me, but only one of its twenty-odd selections had grabbed my attention. I anxiously plucked a non-descript paperback from the shelf, and began reading from the back of its pale brown jacket.
It appeared that fate had finally thrown me a bone.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
A Ghost of a Chance
Note: My original intention was to post the following narrative as a single blog entry. The realities of time and certain personal limitations have made it necessary for me to divide the story into separate parts. I am posting the first piece now, and will have the second posted shortly.
In an unexpected turn of events, this piece has taken on a life of its own. What began as a mere 550-word account of my troubled past has rapidly developed into a trilogy. At present, the story seems to be dictating my thoughts and effort, not the other way around.
I appreciate everyone's patience on this matter. I am flattered by the encourging e-mails that have come my way since posting the first entry, and sincerely hope everyone will find the ensuing text worthwhile.
It is said that there are three sides to every story: the teller's side, the opposing side, and the truth. The following account will likely seem partial or biased, but this is necessarily so. The details are culled from my subjective experience of a tumultuous event that was life-changing, for better or worse. I can't possibly speak for the other (opposing) parties, nor can I give a third-person account of what "really" happened.
With that in mind, please note that certain names have been changed to protect the guilty.
In contrast to previous months, October of 2007 seemed fairly innocuous. Karen and I had been legally separated since July, and I was trying (in vain) to interpret her ongoing litany of mixed messages and vague implications. Despite the resolute tone that marked every phone call, her disposition often changed the moment we were in close proximity. The resentment and general acrimony would dissipate, and we would find ourselves communicating again. Over the phone, Karen repeatedly assured me that our marriage was a dead issue. She wouldn't deny having delivered the coup-de-grace, but felt no responsibility for its dissolution. She refused my pleas for counseling or other forms of reconciliation because she "couldn't" be married to me; as if she didn't have a choice in the matter because some cosmic presence was pushing her away.
In person, I would see a dramatically different side of Karen's complex persona. She never failed to greet me with a tight embrace, and the level of affection would increase if we happened to be alone. Naturally, this was rather confusing and only compounded the emotional turmoil that characterized those early months of separation. I believed that through these one-on-one encounters, she was giving me a reason to hold on. Maybe she was confused about her own feelings and just needed time to sort them out. Surely a few months alone would give her enough perspective to realize that divorce was a rather extreme proposition. I refused to believe that she really wanted it; no more than I did, at least.
As the months passed, I began to see a side of Karen that was starkly unfamiliar. While always a bit dramatic, her personality took on a belligerent quality that seemed puerile and vindictive. One of her more insidious methods involved disregarding my attempts to contact her. I had witnessed Karen's tendency to brush off friends and family members who violated her abstract code of fairness or principle, but never imagined myself on the receiving end. Even carrying out the simplest of tasks (e.g. picking up personal effects from the house) became a debacle that would go on for several days. Typically, the sequence of events would begin with my initial phone call, which would be ignored.
Every time.
Attempts to contact her by e-mail would be similarly deflected. I wanted to believe that she was just overwhelmed by work-related stress or the difficulties of managing a household by herself. However, there was a convenient irony in Karen's tendency to leave multiple voice messages (usually 45 minutes apart) whenever she needed me to sign a check or remove my name from a joint account. I eventually came to realize that she saw very little of the world outside her own suffering and dissatisfaction, and truly felt entitled to some form of universal restitution.
It was 9:00 pm on a Friday when I received a rather unexpected (not to mention uncharacteristic) call from Karen. As promised, she had put our house on the market and was in the process of painting and having some electrical work done. She didn't want my help with any part of the process, and was quick to let me know that several friends and co-workers were lending a hand. Naturally, I had a few questions about how she planned to carry out such an ambitious plan without my assistance.
"So someone is taking care of the electrical work?"
"Yes."
"I thought we were hiring an electrician for that."
"Well...we don't have to."
"One of your co-workers is an electrician?"
"Um, no."
"So who is doing the work?"
A brief pause ensued.
"His, uh...his name is Eric. He's an electrician."
I was hearing Karen's tone gradually decline from indignant confidence to an awkward stammer. Out of necessity, I braced myself before proceeding with the next question.
"Is there something going on there?"
Anticipating another pregnant pause, I was taken back by an irritating giggle.
"Please! He's mama's age!"
I marveled at how the southern charm that once enamored me had become little more than a blank affectation. She went on to explain that Eric had been introduced to her by a co-worker. Given that she was struggling financially (as tends to happen when one eliminates a spouse's income from the monthly ledger), he was willing to donate his time and talent. She considered him a friend and supporter. In other words, he provided blind validation for those times when she needed to excoriate me.
"But there is something I should tell you."
Once again, I felt my stomach wind into a spring.
"I asked Eric to go through the house yesterday and remove all the knives."
A cyclonic blur of emotions came over me. She continued talking, but I couldn't focus beyond the images flashing in front of me. I heard running water and saw pink rivulets trailing from the bathtub to the white tile floor. I saw the steely glint of a paring knife on the kitchen counter and static puddles of crimson against a linoleum canvas. I heard her muffled gasps as I resignedly blotted the angry red gashes across her thighs with Q-tips and antiseptic solution.
"God, I...I'm really sorry to hear that. Are you okay?"
"I am now."
"It sure doesn't sound like it. You should probably see someone."
"I saw Dr. Gibson the other day. He gave me an antidepressant and a sedative. I'll be fine."
True to form, Karen had spent fifteen minutes with our family doctor and believed she was cured.
"You'll need more than that. Take it from someone who knows."
I was referring to my own penchant for self-destruction, which had a tendency to surface in turbulent times. Despite the difference in method (she turned to a knife, I turned to a bottle), I had always seen parallels in our respective coping mechanisms. But Karen would never acknowledge any such likeness, preferring to operate under the pretense that she was healthy and I was not.
With a petulant huff of exasperation, she proceeded.
"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a little busy at the moment. I'm having to sell a house by myself, you know."
I was all too familiar with this line of reasoning. She had abruptly kicked me out of our home and refused my help at every turn. Just the same, it was my fault that she couldn't keep the house and stood on the verge of bankruptcy. She "had" to do everything by herself because she "couldn't" accept my assistance. She had not made a choice in the matter, because there was no other option. Therefore, Karen bore no responsibility for the stress that had seriously diminished her quality of life.
Slighted by her insinuation, I tried (churlishly, I might add) to reason with her.
"And whose choice was that?"
A deafening pause ensued.
"You arrogant fucking prick."
Each word met my ears about a second apart, every syllable bursting with menace. I was admittedly shaken, but felt guilty for steering the conversation into such parlous territory. Taking a deep breath, I attempted to explain myself.
"I've tried to help you, but every time I reach out you push me away. I've given you everything you've asked for, and--"
"I'm done talking to you."
With a sharp click of the handset, the discussion had ended.
On Karen's terms.
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