I’ve been reading blogs all morning. When you can’t write, read instead.
“But why can’t you write, Alyson?”
Do you really want to know, pretend-other-person-that’s-actually-me-because-no-one else-really-cares?
“Yes, I do.” *shifty eyes*
There are so many reasons, but I suppose the one that stands out is that it’s not good enough; my standards have risen higher than my capabilities. Then, I feel as though I’ve written myself into a corner, limited myself to one certain kind of thing. I can’t write about the sex I’m not having. I can't write funny anecdotes because my brain has turned to mush and my ovaries have turned into ripe peaches ...Hey, pay attention!
“What? Oh...peaches, right!”
Technically my ovaries have nothing to do with this. I’m just obsessed with them in a strange way at the moment because my cousin just had a baby and I went to visit them two days in a row. I went back the second time because he was asleep the first day and I didn’t get to hold him. I wanted to hold him badly and when I did it was great. I was all, “look at your tiny face and your tiny hands”, and I totally bogarted the fucker for 20 minutes while all the menopausal bitches glared at me and sharpened their canes into spears to stab through my 24 (almost 25) year old baby making mechanics.
“Heh, Ute-Rus!”
I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. I don’t like children. They smell bad, take over the TV, and ruin your carpet. So basically they’re like men and animals all rolled into one package that won’t leave for 18+ years AND comes out of your vagina. Ugh. Why am I cooing over a baby? Am I going to turn into Octomom? There’s a conspiracy afoot. I’ve been having suburbia daydreams too. Someone or something is putting hormone meds in my food and drink...maybe even in my body lotion.
“Ok, now you’re just being paranoid. Heh...whore moans.”
Seriously. You’re ridiculous. I’m trying to tell you that I can’t write, I’m cuddling babies, and imagining a white colonial with a collie and a Volvo. Maybe my family was right about commitment – the psychotic kind not the relationship kind. Except instead of being treated for anger issues and problems with authority, I’ll be going for Suburbia Syndrome. Just like that movie that Nicole Kidman sucked in. Only I’d have better hair, facial expressions that surpass the range of a blow up doll, and my husband wouldn’t have to point his remote control at me for sex.
“Yeah, you should have more of that now.”
You’re telling me! Do you know I’ve had a handful of opportunities and I’ve passed on them?
“Maybe you are on drugs...”
That’s what I’m telling you! The lack of creative genius, the cooing, the ovary ripening that women who can’t have babies anymore can sense, the weird dreams, the turning down of prime one night stand ass: it all adds up. I’m being poisoned! Sprayed with eau de Fresh Fetus! Brain washed into looking for an ideal mate to MATE with and produce SUBURBAN SPAWN OF SATAN!
“You might want to calm down. Heavy breathing like that is only for orgasms and serial killers. I mean, unless you want to get off at work. I’m totally fine with it...”
Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate. I need to make a list of suspects. Who would stand to gain the most from slipping me...
“A length?”
...personality tranquilizers? *glare*
“ Hmm...Lunch Box Boy? He totally wants to fertilize your Vagunia.”
Idiot. He’s gay.
“Maybe for revenge, then?”
No. It’s not him. It’s got to be someone I see almost every day – like mom, Lee, or The Grandmother.
“My money is on Wrinkles. She’s been after you for years.”
You’re right. I’ve been spending more and more time over there lately. And she’s been way too nice – making me pie, rubbing my hair, not watching me in a creepy stalker fashion while I sleep. My GAWD! It is her!
“So what are you gonna do now, Sherlock Hormones?”
I’m going to confront her!
“.......now?”
As soon as I finish cross stitching this blank...I mean...Oh, just get the hell out of here!
Showing posts with label insanity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label insanity. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
"The insane, on occasion, are not without their charms.”
“Your grandmother thinks you need to be committed”, my mom said with a satisfied look on her face.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to my book. Here we go again. I moved my lips along with her next statement, parroting it word for word:
“Really, she does. It used to be that when you turned someone over to the loony bin, they’d give you $50. I hate they don’t do that anymore. I could definitely use the money and you could definitely use the help. Heh, heh, heh.”
My family just loves this “joke”. It makes the rounds every so often, along with:
1) You’re just like your father.
2) Men won’t date you because you have sex with them too soon.
3) We sometimes think you’re a lesbian, but it might be preferable to being a whore.
4) You’re not a nurturer. Just move out and leave the kid with us. You know you want to.
That last one is my favorite. It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. But I digress; let’s discuss this insane theory, hmm?
Mental illness runs in my family – manic depression, bipolar disorder. And I’m relatively sure my cousin is schizophrenic. No one ever knows who the fuck he’s talking to.
Aside from all that, I’ve always considered myself the “normal” one. While I might be weird to the general public, especially women, within my family I like to think that I collected all the marbles they lost and stored them up to use when needed.
I’ve seen my share of therapists, it’s true, but I attribute the majority of that to dealing with the neurosis of others. When you’re always around whack jobs you start to question your own sanity, to get drawn down into their rabbit hole of floating furniture and talking caterpillars that smoke the ganja.
My second to last therapist diagnosed me with ODD – oppositional defiant disorder. That’s about as crazy as I get. According to The Grandmother, this is enough to make a “vacation” necessary. Even though the diagnosis is from several years ago, it’s the only thing they have to cling to right now. Desperate people – grasping at straws!
But they have nothing left to fall back on because there’s no way I still have it.
Symptoms of ODD:
See? Equal opportunity refuser – that’s healthy, not crazy.
For example: If you just received a ridiculous sum of money from a dead relative I’m going to be resentful, I’m going to call you a lucky fucker, and I’m probably going to be angry that all my relatives are poor. It’s totally natural. But I’ll be happy for you as long as you share. Nevermind about your dead relative. You got money, ass cheese. Crying is for pussies.
“It’s not my fault she said ‘damn’ at school! You said it four times the other day and I usually just say ‘fucker’, which she didn’t say so there!”
“It’s not my fault that my car payment is late. The barman seduced me with Jack Daniels and karaoke!”
“It’s not my fault he likes me better. You should have slept with him first. I mean....”
I’m not in constant trouble. I occasionally get reprimanded for being late (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and for occasionally wearing “unprofessional” attire (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and I occasionally get the “oh, no you din’nt face” for saying things like “eff that shit in the ahole” and “your mom likes sausage” (and by occasionally...ok you get the point).
And just for the record, that last one is not fair at all. My boss is always saying things that cause me to make the “oh, no you din’nt face”. Like when she refers to lesbians: “licky splity”. Just...no.
For example: When my sister, the soul sucking twig of perfection, says something incomparably rude like “You’re a sucky mom” (I’m paraphrasing, but trust me, that’s exactly what it boils down to.) I respond with a bland facial expression and a quietly spoken:
“You listen to me you little asshole (soft smile). What you know about parenting could fit into your – A cup bra. When you push an 8lb squalling chunk of human out of your fucking vagina, in front of assorted strangers and one nurse turned paparazzi, then you can give me parenting advice. That may be happening sooner than you think since you can’t seem to keep your legs closed. Zing. Now, I suggest you turn around and toe-touch your little cheerleading ass out of the general vicinity before I decide to karate chop you in the face (innocent eyelash fluttering).”
Spiteful? All women are spiteful to a degree, even my 75 year old grandma.
Me: “I don’t want to go to church. I like gay people. I don’t care about politics, it’s boring. No, I don’t know anything about Al Gore and global warming because I don’t watch the news.”
G-ma: “I made this beautiful chocolate brownie pie with cream cheese icing. It’s absolutely delicious! You should try a piece. Mmm maybe a smaller piece, dear. *Hip poke, hip poke*. Actually, you know what, (takes back pie) you might just want to eat this piece of lettuce instead.”
Pause.
“How do you feel about gay people now?”
“What’s that clicking? Are you clicking something?” Cheeky grin from child in question. “You don’t fool me, I hear clicking.” 5 minutes later: “OH MY GAWD WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?!”
“Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. OH MY GAWD WHERE ARE YOUR EFFING PANTS KID!”
Kid: “Mom, what are those?” Points in the general direction of a million different objects.
Me: “What are what?”
Kid: “Those!” Still pointing.
Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Which thing are you pointing at?”
Kid: “That right there!” Finger wavers over a plethora of things and stuff.
Me: “Seriously, kid.”
Kid: “Why?”
Me: “Don’t start with the why stuff, please.”
Kid: “But why?”
Me: Deep breath...”holy mother...”
Kid: “Mom! WHAT IS THAT?!”
Me: Tugging on hair, eye sockets exploding - “I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! CHRIST ALIVE, I DON’T KNOW!”
That kind of stuff goes on all day, every day. I’m thinking about having the closet sound proofed.
Obviously there is no need for me to be committed. I’ve been looking into new therapists, but I probably wouldn’t need one of those either if the stupid doctor would just give me some pills that make me deaf for 14 hours a day and every other weekend.
On second thought...how quiet are those padded rooms?
I rolled my eyes and turned back to my book. Here we go again. I moved my lips along with her next statement, parroting it word for word:
“Really, she does. It used to be that when you turned someone over to the loony bin, they’d give you $50. I hate they don’t do that anymore. I could definitely use the money and you could definitely use the help. Heh, heh, heh.”
My family just loves this “joke”. It makes the rounds every so often, along with:
1) You’re just like your father.
2) Men won’t date you because you have sex with them too soon.
3) We sometimes think you’re a lesbian, but it might be preferable to being a whore.
4) You’re not a nurturer. Just move out and leave the kid with us. You know you want to.
That last one is my favorite. It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. But I digress; let’s discuss this insane theory, hmm?
Mental illness runs in my family – manic depression, bipolar disorder. And I’m relatively sure my cousin is schizophrenic. No one ever knows who the fuck he’s talking to.
Aside from all that, I’ve always considered myself the “normal” one. While I might be weird to the general public, especially women, within my family I like to think that I collected all the marbles they lost and stored them up to use when needed.
I’ve seen my share of therapists, it’s true, but I attribute the majority of that to dealing with the neurosis of others. When you’re always around whack jobs you start to question your own sanity, to get drawn down into their rabbit hole of floating furniture and talking caterpillars that smoke the ganja.
My second to last therapist diagnosed me with ODD – oppositional defiant disorder. That’s about as crazy as I get. According to The Grandmother, this is enough to make a “vacation” necessary. Even though the diagnosis is from several years ago, it’s the only thing they have to cling to right now. Desperate people – grasping at straws!
But they have nothing left to fall back on because there’s no way I still have it.
Symptoms of ODD:
- Actively does not follow adults' requests
See? Equal opportunity refuser – that’s healthy, not crazy.
- Angry and resentful of others
For example: If you just received a ridiculous sum of money from a dead relative I’m going to be resentful, I’m going to call you a lucky fucker, and I’m probably going to be angry that all my relatives are poor. It’s totally natural. But I’ll be happy for you as long as you share. Nevermind about your dead relative. You got money, ass cheese. Crying is for pussies.
- Blames others for own mistakes
“It’s not my fault she said ‘damn’ at school! You said it four times the other day and I usually just say ‘fucker’, which she didn’t say so there!”
“It’s not my fault that my car payment is late. The barman seduced me with Jack Daniels and karaoke!”
“It’s not my fault he likes me better. You should have slept with him first. I mean....”
- Has few or no friends or has lost friends
- Is in constant trouble in school
I’m not in constant trouble. I occasionally get reprimanded for being late (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and for occasionally wearing “unprofessional” attire (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and I occasionally get the “oh, no you din’nt face” for saying things like “eff that shit in the ahole” and “your mom likes sausage” (and by occasionally...ok you get the point).
And just for the record, that last one is not fair at all. My boss is always saying things that cause me to make the “oh, no you din’nt face”. Like when she refers to lesbians: “licky splity”. Just...no.
- Loses temper
For example: When my sister, the soul sucking twig of perfection, says something incomparably rude like “You’re a sucky mom” (I’m paraphrasing, but trust me, that’s exactly what it boils down to.) I respond with a bland facial expression and a quietly spoken:
“You listen to me you little asshole (soft smile). What you know about parenting could fit into your – A cup bra. When you push an 8lb squalling chunk of human out of your fucking vagina, in front of assorted strangers and one nurse turned paparazzi, then you can give me parenting advice. That may be happening sooner than you think since you can’t seem to keep your legs closed. Zing. Now, I suggest you turn around and toe-touch your little cheerleading ass out of the general vicinity before I decide to karate chop you in the face (innocent eyelash fluttering).”
- Spiteful or seeks revenge
Spiteful? All women are spiteful to a degree, even my 75 year old grandma.
Me: “I don’t want to go to church. I like gay people. I don’t care about politics, it’s boring. No, I don’t know anything about Al Gore and global warming because I don’t watch the news.”
G-ma: “I made this beautiful chocolate brownie pie with cream cheese icing. It’s absolutely delicious! You should try a piece. Mmm maybe a smaller piece, dear. *Hip poke, hip poke*. Actually, you know what, (takes back pie) you might just want to eat this piece of lettuce instead.”
Pause.
“How do you feel about gay people now?”
- Touchy or easily annoyed
“What’s that clicking? Are you clicking something?” Cheeky grin from child in question. “You don’t fool me, I hear clicking.” 5 minutes later: “OH MY GAWD WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?!”
“Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. OH MY GAWD WHERE ARE YOUR EFFING PANTS KID!”
Kid: “Mom, what are those?” Points in the general direction of a million different objects.
Me: “What are what?”
Kid: “Those!” Still pointing.
Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Which thing are you pointing at?”
Kid: “That right there!” Finger wavers over a plethora of things and stuff.
Me: “Seriously, kid.”
Kid: “Why?”
Me: “Don’t start with the why stuff, please.”
Kid: “But why?”
Me: Deep breath...”holy mother...”
Kid: “Mom! WHAT IS THAT?!”
Me: Tugging on hair, eye sockets exploding - “I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! CHRIST ALIVE, I DON’T KNOW!”
That kind of stuff goes on all day, every day. I’m thinking about having the closet sound proofed.
Obviously there is no need for me to be committed. I’ve been looking into new therapists, but I probably wouldn’t need one of those either if the stupid doctor would just give me some pills that make me deaf for 14 hours a day and every other weekend.
On second thought...how quiet are those padded rooms?
Friday, October 23, 2009
We've only just begun: The end. I win.
His mother told me she found my work number in the court papers. She wanted to see her grandchild.
I was floored. I honestly couldn’t ask her any pertinent questions. Mainly, “Where the fuck have YOU been the past year and a half?”
I agreed to take the kid to their house so they could see her. At that point, I was imagining Chris covering up her existence...or something. I thought that I would see what it was all about, see if they were good people, and if they were...they should be in her life. It was the right thing to do.
It was hands down one of the top three most awkward moments of my life. Poor Hannah had no idea what the fuck was going on. They didn’t even remember who I was, but I remembered every little detail about them.
Chris was there, in close proximity again. He sat in a chair across from mine, barely moving or saying a word. I was so deeply embarrassed by my still there raging sexual attraction for him, I rambled. They asked one or two nonchalant questions about the kid, and I went off on a tangent. Yatta yatta yatta. I know they were thinking, “This chick is on speed.”
I think I only made it about two hours. I couldn’t stand it. I made up an excuse and bolted.
The next few times were a little easier. I asked Chris’s mom to meet me, without the kid, to talk some things out. I was irritated and angry that they never once offered me any kind of explanation for their absence. They just stepped in like, “Hi. What’s for dinner? Oh, hey kid!”
We met at the mall and sat in the food court. I wanted a public area where I would be less likely to show my ass and she would, hopefully, be less likely to show hers. I didn’t know how it would go.
Basically, I tanked. I never ended up getting the answers I came for or saying all of the things I wanted. She twisted around what I was trying to nervously get out and made it sound like I was being ridiculous. I felt like the little teenager that was trying to wear her mom's shoes and play with a real live baby. This woman had delt with three other women before me...what the fuck did I think I was doing?
At one point, when she said something about me not contacting them I said something along the lines of this, “Talk to Chris about that. I called him over and over again, for months, and he never had the time.”
“I didn’t know you’d asked him”, she said.
“Oh, yes. I asked him.”
“Well, I’m sure he feels kind of awkward...since you two don’t really know each other. But Hannah shouldn’t have to suffer for a one night stand.”
Bitch say WHAT?
I know my mouth was hanging open. I was appalled, embarrassed, angry, defensive....so many things. Maybe we didn’t know each other well, but it wasn’t a goddamn one night stand. I was having more sex in your house than you were, lady. He met my parents...even if it wasn’t intentional. I met you guys several times and you don’t even fucking remember me. My head nearly exploded.
I stayed calm though. I don’t remember what I said, but I’m sure it was borderline civil.
I rarely spoke to Chris in the months that followed. The kid continued to go over for day visits without me. I was weary of overnighters, but his mother and I were getting along better. She and Chris’s father are truly good people, just misguided and ignorant when it comes to their youngest son.
I took Hannah to their house for Christmas Day present opening. Chris and I exchanged tentative smiles and conversation. We sat next to each other while we put the kid’s toys together. Another one of those moments of feeling loss....
He was never far from my mind now that I was seeing him more often again. I still wanted him and I never once let him see me looking anything less than completely put together. I raged about his lackadaisical involvement out loud to everyone and dreamed about his hands on my body at night. It was mental torture. Had he said “come”, I would have...on the spot. That’s embarrassing to admit, but completely true.
Then the accident happened.
His mom called to tell me that he’d lost control of his motorcycle and wasn’t wearing a helmet.
I was terrified he would die and the kid wouldn’t know her dad. I was terrified he would die period...but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to feel that way. What was he to me other than Hannah’s dad?
I found out he had a girlfriend then. His mom called to give me an update about him waking up. He was confused, she said, and asked for me.
Me? He asked for me?
Yes. Instead of his girlfriend, his mom said. She had to remind him of her.
I was a mental case. What did that mean? I went off into fantasy land and didn’t come around for a very long time. I became obsessed with his recovery process and hearing about this girlfriend I knew nothing of. What did she have that I didn’t? Not his child. She was older. I was younger. Surely I was the better choice?
Along with those feelings, I had others.
He was having trouble with his memory and not thinking clearly. It took him longer to speak a sentence. He was physically banged up too...deep gashes on his head that required surgery.
Once it was established that he wasn’t going to die...I felt a sort of grim satisfaction. His girlfriend wasn’t likely to stay and help him recover (and she didn’t). Who knew what else he’d lost? He was already having trouble with his mind. I had as many cruel and smugly righteous thoughts as I did worries for his health. In a way, I thought of it as his payback for everything I’d been put through...for all of his nonchalance and disregard for our daughter and.....well, my fucking uterus, ok.
I got over that relatively quickly, only lapsing into calling him a retard when I was really angry or frustrated. He’s not, by the way.
A year after the accident, he was still home and still struggling with his recovery. He still moved slowly and felt like he was in a fog sometimes. Whatever that meant...
He seemed lonely and depressed. I felt sorry for him, but after the accident...there was one very noticeable difference.
The way he looked at me.
I could be completely off base, but I could have sworn he was checking me out. His smile, the old look in his eye...they were there. He seemed shy instead of indifferent when we spoke.
I seized that idea and ran with it.
The kid was spending the night there one or two weekends a month. Instead of making his mom meet me, I drove the LONG drive to their house, just so he could see me in one getup or another. I wore going out outfits when I wasn’t going out. Shoes that were...ridiculous. A lot of the time, I was going out...and I let it be known just how much fun I was getting ready to have while he sat at home with his parents.
It was ridiculous and petty. I wanted him not only to want me, but to know that other men were having me...to feel alone and disabled.
But he never changed. He stayed home, he didn’t seem to be progressing, and he didn’t seem to be taking any more interest in my antics. I stopped.
But don’t think that I was some desperate psycho baby’s mama, fawning all over him and blowing up his phone, crying on his doorstep. All of those issues...stayed internal. I never made a scene; I never professed any kind of feelings for or to him at all (except the original irritation with his lack of parenting).
I haven’t seen him out of sweat pants or jogging shorts in two years. I asked him if he’d like to go to dinner with me twice...to get him out of the house and to see if I could finally have the conversation I never had with him. To just ask him...why? He agreed then backed out due to not feeling well.
My best friend went with me to pick up the kid once and observed his odd behavior with me. She thinks he’s embarrassed about his issues and doesn’t want me to see him this way. Who really knows?
He avoids me most days now. Stays upstairs. He and the kid have gotten a little closer. I can tell on those days when I don’t call ahead and he’s still in the living room...she cares about him and he looks like he cares about her. They hug each other and kiss each other and she squeals and laughs with him. I know that doesn’t sound like much to you, but for her it’s massive. She’s lived in a house with three women and she’s always been wary of men. She doesn’t let them close to her and she isn’t easily persuaded.
I go over there with yesterday’s makeup on and pj pants now, my hair in a messy bun and with a carefree attitude. More often than not I have his mom meet me somewhere. He still gives me those looks from time to time that make my face burn and my heart skip a beat. I still have this place inside me that compels me to care about him, to still want him sometimes. But I don’t let it make me crazy anymore. I ignore it and I go on about my business.
I’m no longer that 18 year old girl that went after trouble and got it. I’m a 24 year old woman. And now I’m the trouble.
I was floored. I honestly couldn’t ask her any pertinent questions. Mainly, “Where the fuck have YOU been the past year and a half?”
I agreed to take the kid to their house so they could see her. At that point, I was imagining Chris covering up her existence...or something. I thought that I would see what it was all about, see if they were good people, and if they were...they should be in her life. It was the right thing to do.
It was hands down one of the top three most awkward moments of my life. Poor Hannah had no idea what the fuck was going on. They didn’t even remember who I was, but I remembered every little detail about them.
Chris was there, in close proximity again. He sat in a chair across from mine, barely moving or saying a word. I was so deeply embarrassed by my still there raging sexual attraction for him, I rambled. They asked one or two nonchalant questions about the kid, and I went off on a tangent. Yatta yatta yatta. I know they were thinking, “This chick is on speed.”
I think I only made it about two hours. I couldn’t stand it. I made up an excuse and bolted.
The next few times were a little easier. I asked Chris’s mom to meet me, without the kid, to talk some things out. I was irritated and angry that they never once offered me any kind of explanation for their absence. They just stepped in like, “Hi. What’s for dinner? Oh, hey kid!”
We met at the mall and sat in the food court. I wanted a public area where I would be less likely to show my ass and she would, hopefully, be less likely to show hers. I didn’t know how it would go.
Basically, I tanked. I never ended up getting the answers I came for or saying all of the things I wanted. She twisted around what I was trying to nervously get out and made it sound like I was being ridiculous. I felt like the little teenager that was trying to wear her mom's shoes and play with a real live baby. This woman had delt with three other women before me...what the fuck did I think I was doing?
At one point, when she said something about me not contacting them I said something along the lines of this, “Talk to Chris about that. I called him over and over again, for months, and he never had the time.”
“I didn’t know you’d asked him”, she said.
“Oh, yes. I asked him.”
“Well, I’m sure he feels kind of awkward...since you two don’t really know each other. But Hannah shouldn’t have to suffer for a one night stand.”
Bitch say WHAT?
I know my mouth was hanging open. I was appalled, embarrassed, angry, defensive....so many things. Maybe we didn’t know each other well, but it wasn’t a goddamn one night stand. I was having more sex in your house than you were, lady. He met my parents...even if it wasn’t intentional. I met you guys several times and you don’t even fucking remember me. My head nearly exploded.
I stayed calm though. I don’t remember what I said, but I’m sure it was borderline civil.
I rarely spoke to Chris in the months that followed. The kid continued to go over for day visits without me. I was weary of overnighters, but his mother and I were getting along better. She and Chris’s father are truly good people, just misguided and ignorant when it comes to their youngest son.
I took Hannah to their house for Christmas Day present opening. Chris and I exchanged tentative smiles and conversation. We sat next to each other while we put the kid’s toys together. Another one of those moments of feeling loss....
He was never far from my mind now that I was seeing him more often again. I still wanted him and I never once let him see me looking anything less than completely put together. I raged about his lackadaisical involvement out loud to everyone and dreamed about his hands on my body at night. It was mental torture. Had he said “come”, I would have...on the spot. That’s embarrassing to admit, but completely true.
Then the accident happened.
His mom called to tell me that he’d lost control of his motorcycle and wasn’t wearing a helmet.
I was terrified he would die and the kid wouldn’t know her dad. I was terrified he would die period...but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to feel that way. What was he to me other than Hannah’s dad?
I found out he had a girlfriend then. His mom called to give me an update about him waking up. He was confused, she said, and asked for me.
Me? He asked for me?
Yes. Instead of his girlfriend, his mom said. She had to remind him of her.
I was a mental case. What did that mean? I went off into fantasy land and didn’t come around for a very long time. I became obsessed with his recovery process and hearing about this girlfriend I knew nothing of. What did she have that I didn’t? Not his child. She was older. I was younger. Surely I was the better choice?
Along with those feelings, I had others.
He was having trouble with his memory and not thinking clearly. It took him longer to speak a sentence. He was physically banged up too...deep gashes on his head that required surgery.
Once it was established that he wasn’t going to die...I felt a sort of grim satisfaction. His girlfriend wasn’t likely to stay and help him recover (and she didn’t). Who knew what else he’d lost? He was already having trouble with his mind. I had as many cruel and smugly righteous thoughts as I did worries for his health. In a way, I thought of it as his payback for everything I’d been put through...for all of his nonchalance and disregard for our daughter and.....well, my fucking uterus, ok.
I got over that relatively quickly, only lapsing into calling him a retard when I was really angry or frustrated. He’s not, by the way.
A year after the accident, he was still home and still struggling with his recovery. He still moved slowly and felt like he was in a fog sometimes. Whatever that meant...
He seemed lonely and depressed. I felt sorry for him, but after the accident...there was one very noticeable difference.
The way he looked at me.
I could be completely off base, but I could have sworn he was checking me out. His smile, the old look in his eye...they were there. He seemed shy instead of indifferent when we spoke.
I seized that idea and ran with it.
The kid was spending the night there one or two weekends a month. Instead of making his mom meet me, I drove the LONG drive to their house, just so he could see me in one getup or another. I wore going out outfits when I wasn’t going out. Shoes that were...ridiculous. A lot of the time, I was going out...and I let it be known just how much fun I was getting ready to have while he sat at home with his parents.
It was ridiculous and petty. I wanted him not only to want me, but to know that other men were having me...to feel alone and disabled.
But he never changed. He stayed home, he didn’t seem to be progressing, and he didn’t seem to be taking any more interest in my antics. I stopped.
But don’t think that I was some desperate psycho baby’s mama, fawning all over him and blowing up his phone, crying on his doorstep. All of those issues...stayed internal. I never made a scene; I never professed any kind of feelings for or to him at all (except the original irritation with his lack of parenting).
I haven’t seen him out of sweat pants or jogging shorts in two years. I asked him if he’d like to go to dinner with me twice...to get him out of the house and to see if I could finally have the conversation I never had with him. To just ask him...why? He agreed then backed out due to not feeling well.
My best friend went with me to pick up the kid once and observed his odd behavior with me. She thinks he’s embarrassed about his issues and doesn’t want me to see him this way. Who really knows?
He avoids me most days now. Stays upstairs. He and the kid have gotten a little closer. I can tell on those days when I don’t call ahead and he’s still in the living room...she cares about him and he looks like he cares about her. They hug each other and kiss each other and she squeals and laughs with him. I know that doesn’t sound like much to you, but for her it’s massive. She’s lived in a house with three women and she’s always been wary of men. She doesn’t let them close to her and she isn’t easily persuaded.
I go over there with yesterday’s makeup on and pj pants now, my hair in a messy bun and with a carefree attitude. More often than not I have his mom meet me somewhere. He still gives me those looks from time to time that make my face burn and my heart skip a beat. I still have this place inside me that compels me to care about him, to still want him sometimes. But I don’t let it make me crazy anymore. I ignore it and I go on about my business.
I’m no longer that 18 year old girl that went after trouble and got it. I’m a 24 year old woman. And now I’m the trouble.
Oh...and so is she:
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