Tag Archives: memoir

The Irish chef

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31

You spotted me in the AA meeting from afar, you with your brainy glasses and that Irish je ne sais quoi air about you. I had 30 days sober, and you had two weeks under your belt. They always say to never pair up like this in AA in early sobriety. How many of us who don’t heed this advice think that we’re the exception? We all think we’re special and that we’ll be the exception to the rule.

I was well-behaved at first. I greeted you, and then quickly exited the meeting. But then later that day I saw you at Starbucks. You were intently reading The Big Book. I was reading something else, and will always read something else other than the damned Big Book. We politely smile at each other, but then after a while you invite me to join you at your table. As we leave Starbucks one of the gals from AA walks in and sees us together. She gives us that knowing judgmental look, and I don’t give a shit. To this day, even with everything that happened, I would do it all over again. I would do it again because the soul does not find a kindred spirit in every lifetime.

Talking to you felt like I had a front row seat to your spirit. There is so much about you that I connected with that I have trouble writing about it because my brain can hardly handle the beauty of your kindred spirit.

Remember the time I was so jacked up by my boss at work that you asked me out to a cafe before a meeting? You gave me the book The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. It was just the book I needed, but more than that, you wrote me something lovely in Gaelic in the front of the book. Unfortunately, I no longer recall the translation of what you wrote, but I treasure that you wrote me something in Gaelic, could have been your grocery list, and I would have treasured it as well.

You asked me to the New Year’s Eve AA dance, and it broke my heart to tell you no. It was a dream come true to be asked by you, but I knew it was too soon for us. I wanted nothing more than to accompany you to the dance. Your face fell when I told you I could not accept, and my heart just heaved with sadness. I knew it would be the only time you would ask me out, somehow I just knew.

A couple of weeks later you disappeared, and I knew you were drinking again. I actually felt it a few days prior to your disappearance. I could feel the shifts in you when you were headed towards the demons instead of away from them. It always irritated you that I had that knack. Trust me, I wish I didn’t have it because I always knew when you were going to pick up a drink. My soul would tense up, and pinch me with a warning. I would berate it to shut up, but it was right every single time.

Thank you for introducing me to Christy Moore, the Gaelic language, and for your thorough explanation as to why you and your family do not like Margaret Thatcher. This uninformed American never knew. Right now, I’m listening to “The Irish Rovers” hoping you are well, but my soul is pinching me back so I’ll make it a wish and a prayer instead.

Whiteout

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It’s just like any other road trip that is expected to be uneventful. You get in the car, and all is calm without a hitch. Ten miles into your trip the snow starts falling in such innocuous flakes at first that they could almost be dandruff. Not to disappoint though, the snow picks up, and before you know it, it’s a big deal. It happened so incrementally that you initially did not panic, but you are now in that place where you know you cannot go back, you cannot pull over, you can only go forward ever so slowly. It’s that kind of situation where you know in your heart that at the end of this trip you will either reach your destination with the feeling of a victor finishing a grueling marathon, or you will meet your demise in your some horrible car accident that is the stuff of nightmares.

And that is the current state of affairs with DID integration.

Once I accepted the diagnosis it was a bit interesting at first, learning more about myself, figuring things out, etc. Discovering Letty was even a joy once I got passed the scared stage. Up until recently I had the idea that her purpose was to “keep a look out” for danger. The “keep a lookout” part was only half the story. The person she’s looking out for, apparently, is the other piece of the puzzle …

“He be comin’ back!”

“Who’s coming back, sweetie?”

“My Dad is comin’ back! He’s comin’ back! I wish everyone would stop sayin’ he’s not comin’ back! It’s mean!”

“Honey, no one is trying to be mean. It’s just that he’s very sick, and that is why he cannot come back to us. I know he wishes he could. We wish he could, but he can’t. Remember when I told you that he is addicted? That is a kind of sick.”

“But … but shouldn’t we go see him to tell him that we love him so he knows?”

“Oh honey, I wish we could. But it wouldn’t be good for us to try to do that.”

“You be like everybody else that tries to tell me to stop. I’m not gonna stop lookin’ for him. I not gonna stop …”

And she cries, and cries ,and cries. I am beyond exhausted.

Unrelated, or maybe it’s related, who knows … I’m taking an introduction to chemical dependency class for my own knowledge, and even reading the textbook gets Letty going.

Alcohol dependence is a progressive and fatal disease for those unable to exercise abstinence from alcohol.

“He be comin’ back!”

“Cirrhosis of the liver for those unable to stop drinking is an inevitable …”

“He comin’ back! You’ll see!”

Yep, I’m definitely in the midst of the whiteout.

a strange coincidence

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Kat,

In my last post I mentioned you, Kat. And, mysteriously, an email from you landed in my inbox today after all these years. If you are reading my blog I have to tell you that it will do nothing for your search for absolution.

I gave up my youth with you. It’s true that I could have left, but I chose to stay for far too long. I regret it all with you, the entirety of it. And this is because you betrayed me in every way possible. Cheating on me with your secretary was nothing compared to everything else. But, really, the secretary!? Wasn’t I better than such a cliched betrayal? I can still see myself yelling, “What a fucking cliche!” at you during Christmas season 2004 when I learned you were cheating on me with her, the very woman who had fucking Thanksgiving dinner with us when we went through our vegan stage. There we were having god-damn Tofurky Roll (what was I thinking? Tofurky Roll!?) with this entity I can hardly call a person because of the sheer betrayal from both of you.

Do you remember telling me a couple months later that you didn’t know who you wanted to be with? Then, an hour later, at a club you became irritated with me because I was not outgoing enough at the club, not fun enough? In a huff you said to me that this was why you were “torn” between us. I thought so little of myself that I put up with this, and even hated myself for the fact that I did not live up to your standards. I get mad at myself just thinking of how fucked up my thinking was in all of this.

There was the night you were enraged that I would not have sex with you. I could not believe my own strength when I kicked you off of me as you tried to force yourself on me. I don’t know who was more surprised when you hit the wall and landed on the floor. Thankfully, you were too drunk to fight back. Through out our relationship you felt entitled to have sex with me. Entitled! This example is just that, an example of other instances.

But even more insidious is the way you caused me to doubt my own sanity. You were so brilliant at turning a situation around, and convincing me that I was wrong in the end. The sad part is that you were able to do this because you are incredibly smart. You should try using that brilliance in a more positive fashion instead of manipulating people in your life. The nice takeaway for me in this situation is that I became a fabulous bullshit detector because of you. I became a damn good interrogator in my job. I learned how to follow the falling-apart-story. Strangely, a lot of my career success I attribute to learning how to stand up to you. It is no accident that I got into this field right around the time that I left you.

Oh, yes, and then there’s the small item of being ripped off of no less than $50,000. Even in the midst of our breakup you promised you would not do this, but you did. You.Are.A.Thief. That is what your grave should say. Here Lies A Thief, of Life, Love, and Money.

For the sake of some kind of brevity here, let’s just end this traipse down memory lane with the recollection of your ultimate trump card in getting me stay with you, and that is your suicide attempt. You attempted to kill yourself right after I stood up to you and told you not to contact me until you could treat me like a human being. And you wonder why I want nothing to do with you? You wonder why I have not responded to any of your contacts to me over the years? Wonder no more. I allowed you to take my youth and a decade of my life because I thought so little of myself, and you exploited that to the fullest extent until I walked away.

Yes, I loved you at one time. And I regret it all. It was all a waste on you because you betrayed me in every possible way. You have no capacity for true love and friendship. I want to leave this earth without every hearing from you again in any way. If you really care about me, do this one thing for me. It’s the least you can do given what you took from me.

Beatriz