This is the ninth year that he’s been in my life.
It hasn’t been all bad, and god knows a lot of our problems, whether we were on or off, were my fault too, but there’s always been the one not-so-silent pachyderm in the room: booze.
When we’d been together for a month an a half, he got ripped-to-the-gills drunk, drinking triple long island ice teas. On my birthday. He fell asleep that night, saying what a nice, good girl I was. I plotted dumping him. The next day, I walked out.
Then I came back.
He said he was going to cut back, that he knew he was out of line and he was so sorry. He said he knew he had a problem and that he was going to get it under control. I’d never lived with an active alcoholic before, and I had the ability at 20 to quit (and now, writing this, have been sober for 98 days) – even though some days, I still want to drink away the 18 hours I’m awake – so I believed him.
What a naive little girl I was.
He lasted two days, that I know of.
A year and a half later, I found irrefutable proof he’d been smoking pot the whole time, hiding it from me. After 18 months of arguing about the beer, I joined him and we became potheads together. Until I got pregnant. Then lost it. Then I’d start again, because at that point, sex, drinking, pot, and mutual adoration of stupid stoner comedy was what we had going for us, in a whole sea of what we didn’t. Then I got pregnant again. And quit again. And lost it again.
By 2004, we were broke, and on the verge of bankruptcy. The beer and weed were his priority. Everytime I tried to plant a foot about it, it became a larger hassle than just choking down the financial ruin. I’d never before had to switch service providers because the last had cut off my account for lack of payment. I almost bought a condo at 20, for fuck sakes. But now, I was. And everything, every bill, was in my name, because he had no credit history.
Then, I had a bipolar break, right before we went to visit his family – my first time meeting them. I needed to be in a locked-up room and instead, I was surrounded by strangers, telling me they loved me as they served him more alcohol. I heard the whispers about me, we had fights that couldn’t be concealed, and all I wanted was to drown myself in the lake.
Shortly after we returned, we broke up.
Ask me why I had stayed, why I fought for his sobriety, for our bank accounts and ultimately always backed down, and I could over-simplify it: I wanted him to be happy and I wanted to fix him. But that’s not the whole truth. I thought I owed it to him, for every insult I’d thrown his way. For every time that I told him that I loved him, knowing that I had no concept what the word meant, never mind owned the feeling. Because he needed me, and I needed him to need me.
It took him five months to want to be my friend again. Within two weeks, we were sleeping together. I didn’t want to be there, doing that, smoking that, drinking that, laughing then. Again. But I wanted him to want me, and he did need me, and I once again financially supported him while he decided to quit his job and get sober.
He thinks he lasted for three months, today. I know it was five weeks.
About a week after he started making up for lost drinking time, I was pregnant.
Selfishly, I told him that I was keeping it. Her. Zoë. Unselfishly, I told him that he could be as much a part of her life as he wanted. He said he wanted to. We talked about communication, and rules and boundaries. We talked about the drinking and how he would control it. It could be perfect.
What a naive little girl I was.
Pregnant and being called a stupid cunt doesn’t breed love, especially in me. He had became a mean drunk. Before, he’d always been a goof – someone who tripped over his feet and got a little too loud or emphatic. Then, with a belly weighing me down, the stench coming off of him making me gag, I lost the will to keep anything inside, so I unleashed full-bore.
But you know, he recognized that he had a problem and things would change when the baby came.
I did everything in preparation myself. I ruled pregnancy, and he failed. I took early maternity leave, so my income was half of what I was used to making, and he got a full-time income, plus an inheritance, and I still paid for every single thing for the baby.
And after she was born, while I was suicidal with post-partum, he got to come home from work every day and listen to me cry or whine for three minutes while he gulped down his first beer, and then he got to complain that it really sucked for him that he worked hard all day and had to come home at exactly the time when Zoë was most colicky. He didn’t get up at night, unless I made him, because he had to work. And I had breasts, you see, and once he figured out that breastfeeding made Zoë stop crying, it was the go-to solution. For the first couple of months when we would share rocking and bouncing duties while she screamed, he would need breaks every 10 minutes or so, a fresh beer nearby, and to have smoked a joint, first.
After a few months, he stopped sharing duties and I stopped letting him do anything, even when he was willing.
I thought it would get better after colick ended. Then he quit his job and we started living off of only my maternity leave, so the booze would have to go – we couldn’t afford it. But he bartered to just three a day, that’s all, just three. He would control it.
What a naive little girl I was.
By her first birthday, there were pushing and shoving matches. I hit him once, a back-hand when he told me to go fuck myself, which gave him a black eye. I poured a beer over his head, and a six-pack down the sink. I blocked doors and I yelled and I gnashed my teeth and called him a fucking loser.
Ask me why I stayed with a baby, why I fought for his sobriety, for our bank accounts and ultimately always backed down, why I took being pushed into doors while I was holding our daughter, and I could over-simplify it: I wanted us to be a family. But that’s not the whole truth. I knew that I owed it to him, for every insult I’d thrown his way. For every critique of his parenting, and how I’d shoved in his face how uninvolved and selfish he’d been. Because it was just easier. Because now, I had a daughter and he was her father, and I wasn’t allowed to take her away from him by moral code.
We broke up. And then we’d start being friends and sleeping together and he’d do something to fuck it up, like, say, not show up for a visit with Zoë because he was too hung over from the night before. Then I got pregnant again, and he threatened to hit me with our daughter between us while I was hemmoraghing to death.
I took him to court and rules were put into place by court order about his drinking. He agreed to them, no problem.
What a naive little girl I was.
But, then we’d start being friends, and start sleeping together and he’d walk all over me and I’d let him.
Ask me why I let him stay in our life, why I begged him to stop walking out on and failing our daughter when he was mad at me or drinking, and I could over-simplify it: I wanted us to be able to be happy together, even if we lived apart. But that’s not the whole truth. I wanted him happy enough that he didn’t drink himself into a stupor and further complicate our lives. Caring about him, getting continually disappointed and being consistently last priority – both Zoë and I – to his drinking and social life, was the price I’d chosen to pay, so that my daughter could have the benefit of two parents who seemed most of the time like they liked, and even maybe even loved, each other.
As long as it wasn’t in her face, and I didn’t promise her ahead of time that she would see him or get a call from him, everything could be okay, right?
What a naive little girl I was.
Today, a person who I wished didn’t have reason for the wisdom said to me, “You have my permission to love you more.”
Lightbulb.
What I’ve been doing in almost every other aspect of my life, but never this one, is to choose me. Not the family we could be, not the friend I could have, or the boyfriend or the husband or provider. Me.
Because, if you ask me why I’ve stayed in this toxic situation, it’s simple: I did it for five years for him; I did it for four years for her. I have a daughter I can’t live without because of it, and she got a father that she already has low expectations of, who walks in the door after not seeing or speaking to her for a week and says he doesn’t want to play because he just wants to drink his coffee.
I always thought that having him in her life, in whatever safe capacity was possible, even if it was only for 10 hours a week, even if he never called her to say goodnight, or attended a preschool meeting or doctor’s appointment, was important because I didn’t have the right to take it away until he gave me no choice.
I thought that choosing what I wanted – ultimately, to be free of him – was selfish, regardless of what bane he brought upon me. And then last night, he showed up drunk, broke and in need of charity. For the fourth time in a year and a half. Despite the no-alcohol rules around Zoë. Despite that he’s promised twice before it wouldn’t happen again.
I didn’t let him stay, but I gave him cab fare to go home. Zoë was the best excuse that I could have ever needed for him to not be here in that condition. But really, in hindsight it wasn’t about her at all.
I chose to love myself – not his happiness or acquiescence – more.
I’ve misspoken, it seems.
I’ve gone on at length over the past year to explain the lack of love I’ve felt, and how manipulative I might have been, craving of affection and raging when it’s not found. That’s not entirely true. I’ve felt something I’d consider to be love for a number of people: the tough ones. These are the people that don’t give back what they receive, who might extol your beauty, grace and talents when they’re in the mood to, but otherwise, for whatever reason, might be unavailable for any form of friendship. Those that, on the surface, are there when it’s convenient to be.
These are the people I’ve continually sought out the affections of, whether it was a friend, lover or parent – and they’re the same people who have brought about the largest reactions when their affection wasn’t given, and when mine wasn’t returned, usually thrown out in the garbage and had a pile of shit rubbed in its face.
These people have, I dare say as one who is often just as guilty, little to no integrity. They are judgmental of others nearly always, gossips, arrogant in their perceived roles of power, knowledge or abilities. They don’t see themselves objectively – as most of us don’t – and they’re often quotable on their belief that they always accept responsibility for their faults and misguided actions.
One of the great things about the personal blogging community is that it gives you a lens to look through – different points of view are always coming within your own microcosm, and it can change the way we look at ourselves in the mirror.
Without blogging, I wouldn’t have been exposed to Grace D’s keynote in July. I wouldn’t have cried the ugly cry in a room full of other people (a lot of whom were also crying the ugly cry), hugged some close women after approaching the table to ask for tissues and approached Grace afterwards, unable to speak. I wouldn’t have ultimately freaked out because it was too much for me to handle, shut down for a few hours, returned back to the party dissociated, drank and stayed up all night, and come back with regrets.
Regrets that taught me about myself, and my ethics.
Without blogging, I wouldn’t have been exposed to posts written in reference to me – some so positive and filled with adoring words that I’ve never felt I would ever deserve, so that my eyes welled up and I cried happy tears; some that filled me with the rage; some that instigated distrust within the community; some that made me stop, stare at myself, and realize how it is that I might seem to people who don’t realize that even if I’m constantly changing and shifting, I am 100% myself online, as I intend to be.
Without blogging, I wouldn’t be where I am, writing professionally, designing websites, speaking at conferences, taking part in projects that are bigger than the universe I was part of five years ago. I wouldn’t be beginning to grasp some semblance of confidence in my abilities. I would be likely be smaller, duller, more marred, without a feeling of futurosity and the hopes and dreams I have (or as many items as there is on my bucket-list).
Because of blogging and specifically a few recent posts, I’ve learned one of the largest lessons I needed to about myself: despite how true Grace’s words are, I am nearly always the person who does things backwards. Even if I forgive myself first, it doesn’t mean that the rage would go away.
I am so tired of feeling rage toward the people that I initially just wanted to care about me – it’s energy that should and could and most definitely would be put to better use somewhere else.
This is not to say, or negate, any of the affection that has come in my direction. There’s been volumes of it in the past couple of years, especially. In fact, I’m owning up to taking that affection for granted, because there wasn’t game needed to get it. I didn’t have to bend over, change my ideals and ethics, open my house and heart to you every time you had a bad moment, or adopt your own mannerisms (even if it wasn’t intentional, totally) to get it. I admit, freely, that I’ve become close with a number of people that required nothing more than me, and because there wasn’t a chase, I didn’t participate actively – because I was busy putting effort into the others.
The ones that needed to just see how well I could take care of them, or advise them, or make them smile during a bad moment, to fall ass over teakettle.
You don’t have to be a Freudian scholar to see the daddy issues, abandonment issues or borderline personality disorder written on the wall.
So. I’ve come to all of these conclusions about the hows and whys of me and my history and now, it’s time to put those into some rational form of cogent action so that I can forgive myself for the self-hatred, the anger, the self-abuse, the denial and the way I’ve brought those facets into others’ lives. I need to forgive them, first.
Might as well do it here, right?
To my father: I forgive you for the knee-jerk reactions that resulted in my ribs and eye socket being fractured, dislocated joints and the migraines I now get regularly. I understand that raising a strong-willed, intelligent, dramatically-mooded child can cause these moments to flare up – I know first-hand what it’s like to want to slap your child and feel the red bubbling up. I forgive you for your weakness of ability to walk away during those moments. I value that it taught me to do so, at any costs and ultimately, to ask for help when it’s needed.
To my mother: I forgive you for walking away when I needed a champion and protector by my side. At nineteen, in the place you were, there was little way that motherhood would have come naturally to you. I forgive your defences against labelling, but still see that I am more like you than anyone in the world – ironic, since I grew up without your influence – and know that should I have been in the same position, in a relationship with the person my father could be and with a difficult child while under some form of chemical, emotional and historical influence, I would have fled, too. And I wouldn’t have come back because I would have felt unworthy to deserve the opportunity. This forgiveness doesn’t continue onward, though, so the true action for any repair and relationship needs to come from you because I need to feel deeply that you want me as your daughter.
To The Ex: I forgive you for not being the person that you have the capacity to be. For assuming your worth is so little, that the existence you lead is the best you deserve. I forgive you for accepting the easy road, because I understand that some days, everything feels an uphill climb and you’re just tired of walking. I forgive you for extending your disillusionment onto me, for the blame and the emotional abuse that you’ve laid upon me (sometimes independently and sometimes as a reaction to my own toward you). I forgive you for not being present for your daughter, because I understand that truly present right now seems less acceptable than sort of around, as much as you have to be. Know that that doesn’t mean she will forgive you, but hopefully, I will raise her with the empathy needed to do so, without taking on your pain personally.
To her: I forgive you for falling into the trap of perception fitting the most recent events. I acknowledge how easy it must be to see someone as never having supported you, when your last memory of them is your conclusion that they weren’t loyal. I forgive you for the lack of holistic vision you have, for how justified you felt in tainting my opinion of others’ and for the concern that you caused – ultimately leading me to invite you into our home and family to remedy the danger to your safety. I appreciate your attempts at healing yourself and your family and for your regret about nearly breaking another’s.
To her and her husband: I forgive you for changing the course of my history, irreparably. I forgive your weakness of strength to approach me with any and all concerns you had both when they first surfaced and later, before emergency measures were taken. I forgive your lack of trust that I was able to seek out help if I needed it, the steadfastness with which I have always raised my daughter to ensure she would grow up missing exactly the experiences I lived with, and your attempts to repeatedly defend your position, without actually expressing anything more than slander toward my character. I appreciate that your vision saw more (and continues to, despite reality) than what you were actually faced with: a recently-relapsed anorexic with severe post-partum depression (who was under treatment for it) parenting to-the-book so as to make up for the daily guilt she felt for resenting her life; a boyfriend/soon-to-be ex who was nearly always drinking, getting high or unemployed; and a difficultly-tempered baby who, in addition to nearly six months of colic, had a severe, undiagnosed wheat allergy. You saw a potential for danger, and you chose to take action months later, apparently, when confrontation and an end to the friendship made it easier for you to do so. I forgive you for not making that call sooner, if you truly feel it was justified.
To me: I forgive you for rarely caring enough about your own happiness, or deservedness, to seek out new options. I forgive you for never completing anything, and then using that as an excuse the next time that you didn’t. I accept that horror begets trepidation, and that this is also part of the reason why loving and being loved doesn’t come naturally to you, and why you’ve been more apt to settle around the types that are only passionate loves for a little while, enemies for the rest. I absolve you of the years of drinking, drugs, smoking, dieting, puking, shitting, fucking, eating and spending – I know they came from a place much larger than the land called bipolar and that sometimes, excess was all that could make you feel. I pardon you for dissociating from life, beatings, sexual assault, conversations, fights, your daughter’s first year, loved ones and responsibilities. I’m happy you’re taking this step.
With that, I close the book on the past, put it on the highest shelf of the bookcase and forget to dust it off from now on. I won’t page through it until I feel as though my journey’s coming to a close, and I won’t consider my journey done until I don’t want to page through it anymore. Until then, I’m going to try to refocus myself.
