Girl's Day Out...

Today is gonna be fun.

I'm meeting a galfriend in Deland for a bit of
shopping and lunch and much chatting.

Deland is a lovely college town, home of
Stetson University, founded by the man known
for making Stetson hats.

Lunch will be enjoyed at Main Street Grill, sitting
outside next to the tiled fountain.

For those of you waiting for Part 4 to It's All About Choices,
I'm planning to add that tonight.

It's All About Choices - Part 3...

Michael was an avid reader, a talented carpenter, electrician,
plumber. He could build a house. Re-build an engine.
He taught himself to repair antique clocks.
He had, in my eyes, the potential to be successful and happy.
Yet, with all of that, his attitude was reflected in his
favorite phrase, "Life sucks and then you die."
He made that true... for him.
To this day, I cringe whenever I hear anyone make that
statement.

In his eyes, nothing was ever enough. Nothing was ever quite
right. But, he wanted all he wanted without effort.
He wanted easy. He wore me down.
I wore myself down trying to create a life that needed two
people participating equally.

Finally, I realized that I was disappearing.
I had allowed myself to become almost completely absorbed
by him. I had no goals or dreams for myself. I existed entirely
to nurture him and his life.
I knew then that if I continued living that way, that I would
eventually fade away... and die.
My self would be gone forever. I would cease to exist.
I had to leave.

Anyone who knows me well, knows that there are very few
things I do quickly. I am a planner. I am an analyzer.
I am becoming more spontaneous... slowly.
But, eleven years ago, I wanted to be as prepared as possible.
I spent the next year saving money. Michael was unemployed
for the first nine months of that year.

February 1, 1997 I rented a small apartment about five miles
north of where we lived.
Michael and I were working opposite shifts, so I was able to
move small loads to the apartment while he was at work.
I was a nervous wreck.

March 1, 1997 I told Michael that I was moving out.
He said nothing, but I could see the muscles in his jaw
contracting. He wouldn't look at me. He kept staring at
the television. I asked him if he had anything to say, if he
wanted to talk. Almost in a whisper, he finally replied,
"What's to talk about? Your mind's made up."
I spent that night in a fitful sleep on the couch.
The next morning I loaded more of my things in my car
and drove to my apartment.
I don't remember my first night there.

Soul Salve...

Alone is not
always lonely, not
always empty, not
always painful.

Alone can be
healing, can be
peaceful, can be
necessary
time
well
spent.





( It's All About Choices - Part 3... is in process)

It's All About Choices - Part 2...

To start at the beginning, scroll down one post.


I've mentioned before somewhere, I think, that the reason I
married Michael was because...
he was the first man to ask me.
I was twenty-six at the time and literally afraid
that no one else would ask me to be their wife.
So, I said yes to him. Stupid.

I had nice boyfriends in high school.
I think I remember four dates in college.
After college, I moved to Florida and began to meet every
asshole, freak and jerk within a fifty mile radius.
Michael compared favorably to them. I thought.

To continue...
The job we took at the motel was miserable. The details don't
really matter. Suffice it to say, we lasted six months there
before we quit and moved to a duplex a few miles north and
on the mainland. Of course, this meant Michael needed to
find another job. And, the bankruptcy was not yet final.

Not long after we left the motel, the Federal Bankruptcy Court
notified us that they were sending movers to repossess our
bedroom and living room furniture. They were the only things
of value that we had that could be auctioned off, and the
monies distributed to our creditors. They didn't get much.
The day they picked up the furniture was another humiliation.

The next episode involved my health.
I was experiencing pain in my lower right abdomen. It was
determined that there was some kind of growth in the area
of my right ovary. Turned out to be scar tissue. No big deal.
It required minor surgery to remove it. I decided to ask the
surgeon to cut my tubes since he was going to be in the
neighborhood anyway. Michael and I had already decided
that we would not have children. I wanted to stop taking the pill.
I did not want to have his children.

This was around 1982 or '83 when insurance companies still
allowed patients to stay in the hospital a couple of days after
any surgery. I was scheduled to be there for two days.

I honestly don't remember if Michael was working by then.
If he was, he took off the entire week. To be with me? Nah.
To drink.

The morning of the surgery, he came to the hospital carrying
some kind of potted, flowering plant and put it on my table
beside the bed. I was in shock. He had NEVER given me flowers
of any kind. Ever. He had always said flowers were a waste of
money because they always died. (Never mind the money he
pissed away, literally, on the beer he drank.)

When I thanked him for the flowers, he said, "Well, I figured
that if you die I'd feel bad because I never gave you flowers
while you were alive. And, this is a plant so maybe it will live
a while." So much for that emotional moment.

As soon as I woke up from surgery, he went home.
Next morning, the doctor released me to go home. It was about
10 a.m. I called the house so Michael could pick me up.
No answer. I waited half an hour and called again. No answer.
The cleaning crew came in to get the room ready for the next
patient. Hard to do with me still in the bed.

By noon, still no Michael. I called the local police department.
Neighbors were all at work. The police called me back and said
they couldn't tell if he was home or not, but they got no response
when they banged on the door. Terrific.

I thought about calling a taxi, but I had no cash on me.
So, I kept calling the house. Finally, around 3 p.m., he answered
the phone. Slurred speech. Said he had taken some Tylenol for
a toothache and had been sleeping. Right.
When he showed up at the hospital, he reeked of alcohol and
was staggering. I drove home.

Did I mention that we had to buy a new bed because we lost
the last one in the bankruptcy?
Did I mention that Michael arranged to have the new bed...
a king size waterbed... delivered on the day I got home from
having surgery? SO I COULD HELP HIM SET IT UP.
And, I did. And, it hurt. Stupid.
It was either help him or sleep curled up in a pappasan chair.
He didn't ask friends for help. That's what his wife was for.


I will try to post again tomorrow night...

It's All About Choices...

House of Horror...

It was ten years ago this March that I left my husband.
It will be ten years this August that he killed himself.

Seems that I should be done with this by now. Right?
Apparently not. Perhaps writing this will put me another
step closer to being done.

Warning to those easily offended or sensitive to graphic description:
Stop reading now and come back in a few days. Or, scroll down to
other posts or read through the archives. It's all about choices...


Michael was a drunk. Likeable enough, as many drunks are, but a drunk
nonetheless. He was also a drunk who didn't like to work but loved
being taken care of. He walked out on good jobs without having another
job waiting. That meant no money from him for the six months to
eighteen months it took him to find another job. Correction: accept
another job. He was picky. He could afford to be picky. He bragged, often,
that his wife was smarter than him and always made more money.
That wife was me. Stupid. Enabler. Stupid. Scared. Stupid. Dumbshit.

We met at work in 1977. A shitty factory that hired shitty people.
He had left his first wife and moved back to his parent's home.
Ironically, he left his first wife because she didn't want to work.
Or so he said. I never talked to her.
I helped him with the do-it-yourself-divorce paperwork. Stupid.
We got married in 1978. On the beach at sunrise. Hippy-style.
About a year later, he quit that job. Walked out.
He said he couldn't handle the un-safe conditions there. People got
hurt there. That was true. I was very aware of those conditions because
I worked in their Emergency First Aid Department for two years
of the nine years I spent there.

That company hired him back a few weeks later, because he was a
damn good die-setter. He walked out again before two weeks went by.
That stretch of unemployment lasted about four months.
So began that pattern.

Did I mention he had a DUI on his record? From shortly after we
started dating. Before I married him. No driver's license. Stupid.

His next job was with a company that made cement blocks. Good wage.
Rotating shift. Close enough to the apartment that he could ride a
bicycle to work when our schedules didn't jive. He quit. No notice.
Safety issues there, too, he said. He wasn't comfortable.

That stretch of unemployment was enough to get the bill collectors
riled. Eventually, he talked me into filing for bankruptcy.
Perhaps the most humiliating experience of my life. Lied to my parents.
I borrowed the bankruptcy fee from them, but told them it was to pay
bills. They knew he wasn't working. I paid them back in full a year later.

I have no issues with bankruptcy for people who come by hard times
honestly. I didn't feel that we deserved that option.
He could have been working.

Did his family help? Fuck. Where do you think he learned all this?
I was buying groceries for them too. Stupid.

We needed to find a cheaper place to live and a job for him.
He found an ad in the paper for live-in managers at a motel
on the beachside. That meant I would be working two jobs. Stupid.
He loved it. Convenience stores within walking distance. Lots of beer.

I came home one night, after working a long day, and nothing had been
done at the motel. He was drunk. Of course.
My duties at the motel included all the bookkeeping and helping him
with cleaning, repairs and laundry. Plus, I did our shopping, cooking,
bill-paying and apartment cleaning. This night put me over the edge.

A bit of advice for those who might be dealing with a drunk: don't
bother talking to them when they are drunk. Not that they are any
more reasonable when they might be sober for an hour or two. But,
they might remember the conversation later if they're not drinking
at the time. Actually, if you are dealing with a drunk... just leave. Quickly.
And, don't look back.

To continue with the night that put me over the edge...
I ranted. And I ranted some more. I think it was the first time I let
him see me angry because of his drinking. We had been married about
four years at that point.
His response to my ranting?
He stood up slowly and pointed his index finger in my face.
His brow wrinkled, his eyes squinted, his face got red.
He said, "If you EVER try to make me choose between my beer,
cigarettes, pot and you? YOU will lose!"

Are ya thinking this might have been the time an intelligent person
would have packed her shit and hauled ass out the door? Yeah.
Stupid.
Stupid for another fifteen fucking years.


I can feel the bile rising in my throat.
Part Two will be continued later...