Where did we leave off? Oh yes, I had caved and contacted Bob wanting our pain to be even, wanting him to for once do his part. He had responded with a mild and fairly civil comment, “You are right, and I got what I deserved when I was turned away after flying up on a moment’s notice. I will forever live with the regret.”
I sat, hunched in my bed, surrounded by Cory’s dolls, her stuffed animals, dozens of beautiful framed photographs staring me down for the wall, and creased my brow. Was he actually being nice? Was he taking responsibility? What in the heck was going on here?
I sat there dubiously, wondering if perhaps he had finally gotten into treatment. Then I wondered if he were simply trying to give me an all expense paid trip on the guilt train, for he was exceptionally talented at turning things around on a person- moving the spotlight from his faults or short comings to the other person’s. Before you knew it, you were thinking whatever bad behavior he’d shown could have been prevented if you’d simply anticipated his needs better, and remembered not to “poke the bear”, one of his favorite sayings that transferred responsibility of his temper tantrums from himself to anyone else that happened to be in the room.
As I sat there pondering the meaning and intentions behind his statement, I recalled my declaration of freedom, made over the phone not quite three years ago. He’d been in the middle of an episode, spewing out words of acid. His voice got louder and louder until I was holding the phone out from my ear lest I suffer permanent hearing loss. As I did so, my brain seemed to wake up and tap me on the shoulder, “Umm, hey, Nicole, are we really here again? This exact same sad destination…you are 37 years old, you know. When is enough just enough?”
You’re right, brain. I do not want to be back in this bad place. I have done nothing to this man to incur his rage and cursing. I have only tried to help him and love him to the best of my ability. This is not my fault. I don’t deserve this.
Bringing the phone back to my mouth, I interjected with the calmest, and lowest tone I could muster under the circumstances. “Bob? Bob? Hey, Bob…”
After a few attempts, he spat back, “What?!”
This is what I said, “I’m going to give this to you straight, and I’m gonna say it slow….I am not your mother. I refuse to take responsibility for your temper tantrums anymore.”
This drove him into the greatest fury I have ever beared witness to, in person or via phone call. I could hear things being thrown, and he was screaming and yelling, completely out of control. I knew that it was over. I no longer felt safe. It was the end of the road. No matter how much I wanted him to be well so that we could have a healthy relationship, he had to be the one who wanted it for himself.
My phone beeped with an incoming message, interrupting my memories him threatening to blow his brains out at my front door so the kids would have to see the mess and a creepy, shudder inducing threat to come over and chop me into 86 pieces. I peered over my screen to read,
“Sorry for your loss.”
Well, look at that, friends and neighbors, Bob was back.
:)
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