Date night was Bob
personified… fun, exciting, impulsive, extravagant, and alive. But as the night wore on with different
locales and outfit changes– seriously, it was like a low-budget movie
production– his mood wound down, as well.
He became moody, irritable, and agitated. I could tell he was itching to argue about
something, anything… everything. Conversation
quickly left the meal, the movie, the little black dress with the criss cross
straps that had held him so enthralled at the start of the evening, and entered the
dark territory of his strangely held beliefs.
By midnight or so, he had settled comfortably into a
tirade of how a certain album’s song titles had dictated the course of his
life. He knew it sounded crazy, but it
was true. The message was meant for him
only. “I’m special. I lead a charmed life. I always have.”
I
tentatively offered that music is so popular because people can connect to
lyrics and find meaning that makes them feel like someone knows what they’ve been
through.
He shook his head. “Uh-huh.
Not like that. I’m talking, for
real, each one of these songs had led up to something significant happening to
me and it’s still happening. And the
thing is, I know how it’s all gonna end.
I’m gonna die a violent death.
You’ll cry for me, Nick. My mom,
my sisters, my brother… they’ll all be there.
They’ll put roses on my
coffin. There’s nothing I can do. It’s too late for me.” he shook his head sadly, resigned.
From there, he argued that the government was using
pharmaceutical companies to control the public, keeping them sick and
dependent. At this point, anything I
said was apt to be the wrong thing. But
my views on the value of talk therapy and proper psychotropics would not allow
me to remain silent. I had been doing a
lot of research because of Cory’s mental health concerns. I would do anything to keep her from
following in his footsteps at that age.
He, of course, was furious that I disagreed with him. He insisted if he was gonna be on drugs, he’d
might as well do the ones he enjoyed. Doing drugs was doing drugs, whether you paid
for them at Rite Aid or on the corner in a dark part of town. When I countered that medication could be
helpful when it was prescribed by a doctor, he went through the roof. “A prescription is nothing but piece of paper.” he insisted.
It was now easily 3
a.m. By a quarter past the hour, he was
screaming in my face, “What the hell would you know about it, Nick? Have you ever done drugs?”
I shook my head no, astonished that he could actually
sound proud as he responded, “Well, I have.
I’ve done them all. I lived under a fucking bridge. I know more about drugs than you ever will and
I know more than some stupid doctor!” He
then rounded the discussion home by declaring how much better his life was when
he was on cocaine. All the reasons why
it was easier, more fun, and more authentic poured out of his mouth until
morning light broke through the window blinds.
I was exhausted. I
was furious. I was impotent with my
rage. I literally couldn’t form
words. How could he say his life was
better homeless, starving, and coked out of his mind? I had
talked to his brother. I knew just how
bad it had been. He had weighed maybe 90
pounds. He had overdosed. Twice.
They had to use the paddles to bring him back. What was the point of him getting clean, if
he resented it and missed his former life?
What was I, to him? What was Cory? Apparently nothing compared to a pile
of glistening white powder.
He hammered home the point that he was a former addict,
and would always be an addict. That left
me right with him, living under the constant shadow, and waiting for the other
shoe to drop. Panic joined my fury. Any trust that I had rebuilt from the ground
up for him was shaking, falling apart with every drug worshipping word that
left his mouth. So he went to church
now. So he had completed a substance
abuse program. So what? Why are
you here? Why did you even show up here
begging for a chance if you knew these were the odds you were bringing to the
table? Because you LOVED me? Thanks, babe, but it sounds like my chances
of being raped, shot, or hit by a bus are better than my chances of seeing you
stay clean. Why did you come back at
all?
I had spent all this time romanticizing that he did the
drugs and drank because he couldn’t deal with having lost us all those years
ago. When in fact, it seemed we now weren’t
enough to replace his craving for drugs and alcohol. I was missing the forest for the trees. Maybe he didn’t do the drugs because he
missed us at all. He’d been doing drugs
since he was 15; drinking since he was 10.
Pouring and mixing his dad’s drinks since he was 5. There was obviously more to the story.
I was exhausted with the one-sided argument, and afraid
to speak my mind. I hated feeling like I
had no voice. I lay there, beside him,
trying to catch a couple hours of sleep before my alarm went off, playing the
night over in my head. On one hand, it
had been a blur of laughter, his heady compliments, his hand on the small of my
back, and his kiss. But on the other
hand, his instabilities were peeking through...disturbing and just plain odd. I questioned myself deep inside…did he really
belief that stuff about the song titles?
Did he really think the government was trying to control people with
prescription meds? How weird was
that? I tried to imagine myself laying
cheek and jowl with that type of mentality night after night for the rest of my
life, and I just couldn’t do it. It made
me tired, and it made me sad.
In the early morning light, my eyes moved to my closet,
where a clear, beautiful three stone engagement ring slept in a velvet box on
the highest shelf. I’d taken it off the
last time he’d called me a vulgar name in a rage and refused to put it on again
until he was “better”. He asked me once,
in frustration, how would I know when he was “better”? Well, not being called names would be a good
start. But mainly, seeking and staying in treatment. He needed meds and counseling. My
life was on hold, as I waited for him to get well. On this night, it began to occur to me, maybe
he didn’t even want to get better, in the first place. And with that bitter knowledge, could I,
every night, lay down with him to spoon, putting my back against the belly of a
man who had once destroyed my entire house one night, only to tenderly offer me
slippers the next morning so I wouldn’t cut my feet on the debris? Something in his mind, in the brain that
controlled his hands and his tongue, was badly broken. I was so afraid…afraid of him, afraid of my
love for him, and afraid he could never be fixed.
The
next day, I gave no explanation. I
chastely kissed him good-bye when I dropped him off at his house and drove
away, numb. From there, I simply stopped
answering the phone and didn’t return any of his messages. How could I?
How could I tell the man I loved to my very bones that I couldn’t be
with him because he was unstable?
And
what would he do to me if I did?
The fact that he had no idea why I was avoiding him made
it clear to me just how ill he really was.
His behaviors, so bizarre and frightening to me, were normal to him;
they had become his frame of reference. His
rambling messages started out hurt and puzzled, but quickly turned angry and
resentful. “Didn’t you have a good
time? What did I do wrong this
time? Was it the restaurant? Didn’t I spend enough money on you? Did I
not FUCK you good enough? What,
Nick, what? You’re gonna have to explain
to me cause I just don’t fucking get it.”
I couldn’t answer him.
My heart knew I wasn’t up to the task, the stress, the sheer anxiety of
picking up the lion tamer’s chair day after endless day. That chair was heavy.
I didn’t know how to put into words the enormity of my
realization that I couldn’t and didn’t
want to deal with him every day for
the rest of my life.
So I said nothing.
And six months later, I went back to him. Again.
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