So, A Chef, His Wife, and His Girlfriend Walk Into A Rehab…

Everything came to a head last night, and I’m sitting here both laughing and crying because I think that I can see an end of some sorts in sight now. A real end, this time.

Now we're gonna do it my way... :-)

Now we’re gonna do it my way… :-)

greenThis whole story began and has now ended, with a lie. A lie that is called meth. Meth promises its user an escape. And, like most of the promises from hell, it is seeded in the truth, but it is warped and twisted, deceptive, and evil. Meth makes you forget about your problems; it gives you some added strength to get things done (you think); it bestows a sense of happiness (ignorance), power (over absolutely nothing), and hope (in getting your next fix). And then, like only a true enemy can do, it seeps out of your body, taking with it all the gifts it had lent you, and leaving in its wake even more chaos, destruction, problems, and hopelessness than you had had before.

In October 2011, Chef had a friend die in a motorcycle accident. Chef had struggled with drug addiction as a younger man, and except for a brief skirmish with it when we first got together over 23 years ago, he had remained clean all these years. But coupled with some health issues, a midlife crisis, and a general dissatisfaction with his career choices, he succumbed to the temptation to just use a little pick-me-up to get him home from a very hard funeral. Unlike the first time, the drug took a firm hold on him almost immediately, and he was simply unable to stop.

All prayers are appreciated; so will the rehab.

All prayers are appreciated; so will the rehab.

Throughout the time since then, I’ve been completely dumbstruck by just how different the man seemed. While he had flaws all along, it was terrifying to see those same flaws turn so completely confuse themexaggerated. I’ve always thought that he was a bit selfish, but meth would take that flaw and magnify it out of all proportion, and some of the things that I watched this man do and some of the words that have come out of his mouth have left me struggling to comprehend how someone could ever justify it to themselves, no matter how strung out they were. I was even more dismayed when he completely stopped even bothering to justify himself to anyone at all anymore. Bernice was what Chef called meth, and the affair that Chef & Bernice had was tantamount to a very warped Gone With the Wind, with Chef announcing that as God as his witness, he’d never be sober again, and Bernice announcing that “Frankly, my dear Bird, I don’t give a damn”. Bernice ruled his every word, thought, and action, and over the year and half I watched them, I learned a great deal about the verse : Out of the heart, the mouth speaks. Every slimy, crappy, evil thing that can be laid up in a person’s heart came pouring out of Chef’s mouth, and after months of allowing it to hurt me, I was finally able to look Bernice in the eye and let her know, I’m on to you, beeotch. I see you. More importantly, God does too. It ain’t over till it”s over, babe.

The Bible tells us that God works all things to His good, and this story is no exception. Since the split up, T and I have come to understand, forgive, and then to work together, to try to help Chef. Where I came so close to hating this girl for the pain her part in all of this had inflicted on me and my family, I’ve now come to rely on her as a partner who cares about Chef too, and she’s been invaluable as another soldier in this war against this horrible drug called meth. It would seem that our efforts have finally paid off, and today I can happily and hopefully announce, Chef is in rehab!!!

shadow of deathAfter a particularly nasty week involving Chef, I had pretty much withdrawn from wanting to see, hear, or even think about, him at all. I had heard all the same rhetoric from him about getting the help he would need to stop a million times, and yet he’d never followed through. I’d already lived through his affair with T, and the roller coaster ride of him saying all the right things to people, including me, that we so wanted to hear, but yet were in direct conflict with what he told someone else. He would tell T she was the love of his life, then come to my apartment and call her names and say he was stuck but was trying to find a way to come home again to me, the only love of his life. But my hope in him had eventually withered away, and it had become much easier to accept that he was truly gone. The more I pulled away, the more he would fight to keep me. And he was doing the same to T. It would seem that once we were both gone, that would have left him truly alone and desperate enough to finally get the help he needed. Ah, but no. Instead, he started a relationship with Sassy (not her real name) the Drug Dealer, instead, and when I found out he was getting the crap for free from this winner, my head about exploded. At least T was clean, if naive. But a drug dealer for a girlfriend, though?

Over.My.Dead.Body.

If you read my last post, you know what my opinion of this person is, so I won’t bore you with all the details. Let’s just say that it took me about 4.2 minutes to trash that happy little budding romance, and I don’t feel a tad guilty about it. I know there are now a few human beings on earth that say my name with contempt, but frankly, I couldn’t care less. You mess with the bull, you get the horns, my friend.

Last night, I got a panicked message from Chef saying he was dying. I didn’t freak out or anything. He’s always telling me that. But this time, I felt like something was actuallyother white drug wrong, and I headed over to his house. After meth-induced psychosis drama, I was able to get his schizo butt to the hospital, and because of his suicide threats, I was able to get him committed involuntarily to treatment, for a whopping 3 days. Both T and I prayed, and held our breath to see what the psychiatrist would determine. If the psychiatrist recommended he stay longer, he would have to. Sure enough, he was told today that he’s in for the long-haul.

T and I are working frantically getting his home packed up and his affairs in order so that once clean, he can walk out of the doors to a well-managed, well-organized life that won’t overwhelm him. After speaking to him today, I feel even a little more hopeful since he sounded somewhat more like himself, and while sad and ashamed, he was able to crack a weak joke here and there. I feel a lot of sadness for him right now, knowing myself how hard it can be to laugh again. But he will.

In the meantime, Sassy has been broken up with via text message from Chef’s phone, kindly but firmly. I doubt ole Chef is going to thank me or T any time soon, but he did let Sassy down gently and kindly, yet firmly, thanks to T. :-) Today, another dealer and I came to an understanding about how things will be going down next time someone offers him a free date with Bernice. I figure by the time he gets out, T and I will have cleansed the leeches and junkies out of his life permanently. Man, I love technology…Thank you, Mr. Alexander Graham Bell!!

I want to ask everyone who prays if they would keep Chef in their prayers, and thank you all for hanging with me. Hopefully, we’ve finally arrived at how this story ends.

Sincerely,

Bird

Are You Prepared For Being A Friend of Mine?

Here’s something I’ll bet you didn’t know about me.

I’m extremely fearful, to the point it is an actual phobia, when it comes to going to the hospital. It has something to do with the way they smell and sound. One whiff of fear of spidersdisinfectant and the sweat of fear, coupled with some feminine, bored, muffled intercom voice communicating life and death in rainbow-colored codes, and I have been known to incapacitate myself with a full-blown panic attack.

A rumor that someone I know might be going in to the hospital for something is enough to make me hyperventilate and avoid Facebook, pigeons and voice mail for a week.

Because of this crippling effect on me, there is a kind of process I go through mentally before I’m going to step one foot into these sinister, stinky hubs of health. I’ve established an Is-It-Worth-It Checklist that I complete in my mind before I commit to visiting someone at the hospital.

Well, there are actually 2 lists – one for whether I should go for my own health, and the other for being a supportive, good friend.

The one for me is really just the one line of questioning – how bad does it hurt and will they give me excellent drugs to make it stop hurting?

The other, though, is kind of more complex, and until they start giving out the excellent drugs to the visitors, I’m probably always going to use it. It goes something like this:

Bird’s Is-It-Worth-It Checklist

1. How serious is the condition my friend is in the hospital for?

a.Could they possibly die? (Here I calculate the odds of survival, and adjust accordingly.)

Floating Petri Dish of Disease

Floating Petri Dish of Disease

b. Not life-threatening? Like plastic surgery or a mild heart-attack? (See you when you get out, dude!)

c. Odds are, this could be the end of the line for them. (What are the chances I’ll be seeing them in heaven? Just kidding! This one is unflinchingly rigid.)

2. Just how angry or hurt will they be if I just call them on the phone instead of physically going to the hospital?

a. Really, really angry? (Are they prone to kicking butt when displeased, and if so, can I take them down? Also, how bad will it hurt?)

b.Indifferent – (They’re super popular; they actually begin their recovery after they return home. The hospital visitors actually sign a guestbook walking into the patient’s room. $5 and a broke friend, my name can be there, too.)

c. Hard to tell – (They might act like they don’t care, but last time you did find a stuffed animal of yours boiling in the kitchen…It seemed like it was some kind of warning.)

d. They get the really cool drugs and won’t be lucid for weeks after they get out. (I’ll photoshop a picture of myself in front of the hospital, and presto! I’m a good friend!)

e.They hate visitors – I’d being doing them a favor! (I’ve never met someone I could use this one on.)

3. If I buy them a really cool get-well gift, can I get off the hook?awesome me

a. No. They’re flush with stuff, and a gift isn’t going to go very far with them unless I had to take out a loan to buy it. (Not likely these days.)

b. They practically live in a cardboard box. A gift certificate to Taco Bell will buy me a pass for the next three hospitalizations. (God bless Taco Bell’s Dollar Menu!)

c. Depends on the kind of gift. Am I willing to go to the mall (another phobia of mine, though to a much lesser degree) and spend the ridiculous amount of money they charge for something from Hot Topic or Victoria’s Secret? (I’ve never answered yes to this one. It’s included because eventually one of my friends will get a boob job, and this one will finally come into play.)

d. No. This friend isn’t superficial or materialistic. Next time, be pickier about the kinds of friends you want. :-)

4. Is it in any way possible to pretend I didn’t know they were in the hospital until they get out?

a. Yes, if I pretend I’ve just been super busy. Once upon a time, I could actually get away with this one. I’m notorious for being hard to get ahold of most of the time. These days, though, my friends all know me pretty well, (or I’ve already done this the first couple of times they were hospitalized), and this doesn’t fly anymore.

b. No. They ran ads on every television and radio station in Tulsa, left text messages and voice messages on every telephone I have, sent a telegram, two pigeon carriers,hilarious a note on my windshield, sent a note from my mother to my boss, and paid to have their name and room number written in the sky over my apartment. My presence is requested, and my absence will be noted and unhappily addressed when they are released.

5. How important is this friendship to me in the long run?

a. I can make new friends; giving me one of your kidneys doesn’t make us sisters under the skin, right? Actually, I find it pretty nerve-wracking to try to even talk to someone I don’t know, so this is a stupid thing to even be on my checklist. Still, it does cross my mind…

b. Will they quietly be hurt, or will I find a dead fish wrapped in newspaper on my doorstep? Quietly hurt, in my opinion, can actually be worse than a threat from the mafia that I’ll be sleeping with the fishes, especially since I live in Tulsa, Oklahoma

c. Friendships are pretty important, and I really love this person a lot. Oh, fine!! I’ll go to the stupid hospital, but I’m not promising I won’t pee myself on your floor when I smell alcohol swabs, spray you with snot when I can’t breathe because I can mentally see the needle in your IV stabbing through the walls of your vein,  or puke in your trash can when that horrible intercom voice blares through my head. Hey! It’s what you wanted!! Still want me to be your friend??

I wanted to take a minute to thank the fellow bloggers that nominated me for some awards. I promise, I’ll try to get to those some time this weekend. Thank you so much!!fear of trust

– Bird

 

My Heart’s A Traitor Bastard

I cried today. A lot.

Now, if you’ve been following this blog for the last year and some months, you’re probably saying to yourself, so what? This girl has

You moved a girl-chipmunk into our hole, gave her my nuts (and yours), and everyone saw. But these flowers make it all better, baby. Give me a smooch.

You moved a girl-chipmunk into our hole, gave her my nuts (and yours…tsk, tsk), and all our chipmunk friends saw. Now I live in a rundown hole in the ghetto. But these flowers make it all better, baby. Give me a smooch.

been crying for over a year now. But the truth is, I’ve been relatively content the last few months, and tears haven’t been all that common. But in the last few weeks, a lot of stuff has been happening around me, and today, I finally broke down and had a nice, long cry-fest. Sometimes, tears are the only way to cleanse a wounded soul. And mine is sparkling clean right now.

I’m only guessing, but I think every jilted wife in the world has this secret fantasy that their wandering husband will wake up one day, kick the other woman to the curb, and come crawling back, professing their undying love between the heart-felt regrets for what they’d done to us.  It’s a stupid daydream in all it’s simple-ness; by the time the wanderer has wandered, there is a mountain of crap to be shoveled through before reconciliation can even be considered, and mere words don’t even begin to cut it. If , that is, reconciliation is even something these broken wives hope for. I’m betting there is more interest in seeing their husbands having a high-heeled shoe surgically removed from their a$$es than any kind of sorrowful regret / let’s-live-happily-ever-after moments. But I’m actually not one of these normal, broken women. As pathetic as it may sound, deep down in the hidden recesses of my heart, I wanted my husband to come back some day. And for some added humiliation, I’ll go ahead and admit it. I still love Chef. So much for being a secret bad-a$$ ninja woman. I’m a sap.

I’m a person that holds logic in high regard, and it is with no small amount of embarrassment that I admit this to you all. Despite all the betrayal, humiliation, and dashed hopes, I still wanted my husband to come and sweep me off my feet again. And that deep desire has been the bane of my existence for months now. While it’s true that I haven’t felt that excruciating pain like I did in the beginning, and I’ve been able to happily believe at some points that I was over him, I’ve noticed this disturbing trend in myself. The less angry I feel, the more I can still feel that love for him.

Will someone please shoot me?

The Chef and T Love Fest has been going downhill over at the old Homestead for a while now, and even my poor dogs look traumatized by the rather quick run this relationship seemed to have taken, almost from the minute they moved in together. It is a sterling example of the very truth that the old cliché preaches — the grass is never greener on the other side. I won’t pour out the intimate circumstances of the up-and-coming demise of their relationship…It is their story, and I’m only a third-party spectator with limited rights to it, but I will say this. I can’t say with any real honesty that I wasn’t a little happy to see it all fall to crap, and so quickly at that. So much for the next Romeo & Juliet romance.  :-)

I know.

It is a very ungodly attitude, but as I told you all before..I don’t have this Christian thing down yet when it comes to my separation and impending divorce. I still suffer from being a fallen human with a fallen nature. And as T has had to experience, in lesser degrees, some of the emotions I had experienced when she and my husband decided they were in love, I’ve found a lot of that crazy anger melting away. Turns out, revenge loses some of its charm without that anger to fuel it.

I actually dreamed of the time when T and Chef would get a taste of their own medicine, and yet, when it really actually happened, I found myself less gleeful than I had expected, and rather a little more sad for them. None of the major players in this creepy triangle are happy for the most part. Actually, I’m the one who seems to be enjoying my life more consistently. How weird is that?? Satan must be having a blast at the amount of misery he’s been able to spread around in my little circle. What a douche.

Which has led me back to my original thoughts. Would I take him back? I think the answer is maybe. On the one hand, forgiveness isn’t a problem for me. I can forgive him. But trust, on the opposite hand, is a huge problem in my life. And the trust is gone, gone, gone. But, what if he and I were to get counseling? Oh, please. I’ve tried how many counselors for lesser things in my life? And I’ve stuck with none of them. And he’s worse than I am about that kind of stuff. Then, I’ve asked myself if he really loved me, how could he have done all the stuff he did? And here’s where I get stuck. He couldn’t have, could he? His words these days are perfect, as usual, but I’m not a fool enough to believe this man I’ve lived with my entire adult life doesn’t know just what to say to manipulate me. But, where are the actions to back up the words? Until recently, there were none, but he’s starting to do little things that make me wonder.

And I just hate that!

This cartoon sums my life right now perfectly. Chef is chasing Bird...but what will happen if he catches her? Fried chicken?

This cartoon sums my life right now perfectly. Chef is chasing Bird…but what will happen if he catches her? Fried chicken?

Let’s face it. As long as Chef and Bird live in the same city, we’re always going to be connected. We both find it easy at times to slip back into the comfortably worn routines we’d had with one another all these years, and while I can’t say what it does for him, I can say it makes me long for those simpler, happier times I was secure in his love. And anymore, he voices more and more of his regret over all that has happened to our marriage and family, and more importantly (to me), his dissatisfaction with his new relationship. And now that she is setting up her own escape route, I’m faced with the decision…move on without him, or explore the possibility that this marriage might have a tiny chance if we were to work on it.

Today, all the stuff going on in my life, added to Chef’s very early morning visit to my apartment this morning, where he cried for hours over all that has happened, including hurting me, his children, and T, and his one, true humble apology added to his pleading for another chance, all culminated into a good cry this afternoon.

To my chagrin, not once did I even think about kicking him in the butt with my own high-heeled shoe. Instead, I just wanted God to take that lingering love for him out of my heart, or to just make this last year and a half disappear completely. I want a Do-Over.

And incidentally, God is completely blowing off my requests. I guess I’m always going to love Chef. I might never be his wife again, but the love is still there. And whether I like it or not, all of this really did happen. It isn’t just going to go away. Oh, my treacherous heart!!

Anyways, this is more of a mental health post than anything. I’d love to know if there are any other wives that wish they didn’t feel this vulnerable to their exes, like me.

– Bird


How Algebra Is Hurting My Divorce Recovery

Algebra Equation

Algebra Equation (Photo credit: Evelyn Saenz) Bastard Subject crippled me!

Growing up, my stepfather moved us around a lot, so I went to a lot of different schools. But, inexplicably, we would move back to this one town periodically — maybe to re-group for the next move — and I would return to a private church school filled with people I’d known since I was little. I always loved returning. It felt like home, and it meant I didn’t have to go through that awkward “new girl” thing.

The school was basically set up so that we students taught ourselves. Does anyone remember the ACE system? PACES? The way our school was set up is that all the students in the school sat at a “cubicle”. After testing, we’d be given our PACE’s, which were basically little work books. We’d read our lesson and complete any assigned work. If we had any questions, we had a little Texas Flag or a little United States Flag that we would put in a hole at the top of our desk, thus indicating to the supervisor or voluntary school monitors that we needed help or we needed to go grade our work. Once given permission, we’d take our workbook (PACE) to an island in the middle of the room, find the answer key for our particular book, grade it, and returned to our desk. If I’m remembering correctly, we usually had 5 or 6 subjects each, so you’d basically perform this same routine for each subject. Frankly, I loved the system. You moved at your own pace, and there was never any reason to get bored. I flew through some subjects. English, English Literature, History, Bible….Some things came blessedly easy for me. But some things did not, and as a freshman in high school, my nemesis was algebra.

What an unholy, brain-freezing concept this was to me! X = Y – Z(A) * B/56….What the hell!? Who gets to decide what X equals? Is that a paying job somewhere? And why can’t he just give the stupid answer? Why all the mystery and games? I was baffled.

I mentioned a million posts back that I went to that private school with some of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, so I was reluctant to let anyone know that while most of my friends were wading through calculus and trigonometry, I was struggling with a subject that, let’s face it, is just one tiny step up from learning our times tables. It blew.

I read and re-read those stupid workbooks, struggling to make sense of what was going on here, but my brain was completely uncooperative. It took very little time for me to decide that this was stupid, I was never going to get it, and my next step was to figure out how to get out of having to know it. Yes. I was a very optimistic person about solving my own problems.

The thing is, you don’t get to graduate from high school without algebra. Forget geometry, or trig, or calculus! And I didn’t want to be “the stupid one” at school. I was getting my butt kicked by this subject, and it was really starting to wear on me.

Enter, Mr. S. Mr. S was the supervisor over our entire school, and I was his and his wife’s baby-sitter. I’d had Mr. S explain this Algebraic Hell to me a few times at school, but I was embarrassed to have the other geniuses that sat around me to know I was struggling with something they had probably passed as kindergartners, so I’d quickly say I understood him, figuring I’d just figure it out by myself — alone — later on. Turns out, that would be a trait in myself that has caused me a lot more work than was probably necessary.

One evening, I was working on my homework at Mr. S’s house while he and his wife prepared to go out for the evening. I don’t remember if I asked for help or he just noticed I was struggling. My guess is that he just noticed I was struggling, because I didn’t want him to think I was a moron, either.

He told me something that has stuck with me all of my life, and many, many times I’ve reflected back to that moment when I realized something very, very true about myself.

He said, “Cathie, why do you make everything so complicated? If you take each step and focus on just that one step, before you know it, all the steps are done, and you have your answer! Don’t try to just jump to the end, skipping as many of the steps as you can. You don’t save time that way! You’ll come up with the wrong answer, and you’ll end up having to do it all over again.”

Then, he sat down and began explaining, in detail, each step of my algebra problems, and a light went off in my head. Suddenly, everything fell in place, and the logic was perfect. I love logic, and it is still surprising to me that out of all the subjects in the world, the one subject that simply is pure logic would be so hard for me. Without exaggeration, algebra became my very best subject, and I was able to apply that lesson to almost every aspect of my life from then on out.

Maybe the worst thing about going through my separation is that emotions aren’t dependable, yet they have this super-human strength to really belt us in the face. You can take a cheater + a co-dependent and still equal all sorts of different scenarios. Some women/men will stay even if they know without a doubt they won’t really ever be happy. Some of them flipped the offender off as they exit the door, and then fall apart in their cars. (That one would be me…). Some of them can walk away, adjust quickly, and seem to recover in minutes. It is all such a slippery, unpredictable mess and my very soul hates unpredictable, slippery messes. I want an algebraic logic to my life, and this whole situation hasn’t been easy for me to negotiate because I have freaking no clue how I myself am going to react next. I feel like my own personality is playing this game with me, and I’m kicking my own ass. The upside is, I’ll emerge the victor either way. :-) The downside is that, I don’t have a Mr. S around to make the light switch in my brain flip on.

What I really liked the best about the ACE program was that it taught me something more valuable than the schoolwork. It taught me how to teach myself. I’m always in the process of learning something new. I love to learn. I’ve held several kinds of positions in my life such as paralegal, book-keeper, human resources, network administrator, help-desk manager, IT, and a slew of other kinds of jobs. And every time I would begin a new “career”, I’d study, study, study so I would know as much as I could about my position. Hence, at 44 years old, I have this confidence in my ability to learn anything. Now that I’m dealing with circumstances that don’t follow any kind of logic to me, added to my fluctuating emotions, I’m frustrated with myself. And to make the experience really super exciting, I’m not a patient person either! I want this crap over with, and I want it right now! Yeah. I can be a lot of fun.

I tend to have way more patience for other people than I do myself, and one of the things I’ve been struggling with these last few weeks is with the question “why”. It isn’t the usual question…”Why did he do this?”. It the question, “Why am I doing this?” You’d think that since we inhabit these brains, we’d have a clearer picture of why we do what we do more so than anyone else, but I’m beginning to doubt it.

I’ve spent the last few weeks reading every single thing I could find about the emotional side of breaking up. I’m probably an hour away from being certified as a therapist. And you know what I’ve learned about myself? I’m a control-freak that doesn’t accept reality easily. I always think I can change anything, and even when it is clear as day that I’m going to fail, I’ll try anyways. I don’t know, but that feels a bit like a pride problem. Great.

What a bummer.

The truth…The logic in all of this creepy, painful mess is kind of the same as the algebra lecture Mr. S gave me. Stop skipping steps. You aren’t going to save yourself any time (or pain), and you are going to come up with the wrong answers. If you don’t really live in the process, it will become like a bone that wasn’t set properly. Yes, you’ll probably be able to use it, but it will always have a little ache to it and sometimes it just will never work properly again unless it is re-broken and set again.

I don’t want to have to “re-break” a wound that I didn’t allow to heal correctly. I’ve read a million other women’s stories on different sites, so I don’t feel quite as embarrassed about my different, pathetically weak reactions to thing. (Except, I’m still pretty mortified about the Drunk Dialing Incident). But one think that is perfectly logical to me is that if God wanted to  get me to really look at the areas in myself that needed to be addressed, this was the perfect way to get that accomplished. Just read all the posts since this started, and you’ll see how many different, somewhat alarming, lessons I’ve learned about who I really am.

While all of this has sucked the big one, though, I’ve also learned some things about myself that I can like, too. I was always a little fearful that I needed someone to take care of me…that I would always be dependent on someone else. Not true. I not only can support myself, but I can do it in a very rough part of town, and hold my own. I bought a tool kit, and I can now use every single thing in it. I replaced my own door-knob. Laugh if you want, but that is a pretty big accomplishment for me. I’ve learned that it is bad for the oil light to come on in your car, and then I learned how to check the oil and add the appropriate amount. I’m learning that I like living single. Who knew? I never have done that before! I think I like myself more these days than I did before. And it is based completely on my own opinion..not anyone else’s. Yes. My emotions are all over the place these days, but my reactions a bit more controlled. And I guess the thing I’m learning that I value the most is that even in the midst of all of this, I’m still able to learn something from it.

I’m okay. Feeling quieter, but in a good way.

Even when the occasional, overwhelming tears erupt, they are not the despairing kind that feel like death… They are more the sad homage to a life I really loved once, and while it is gone, it deserved the appreciation it is given. If I hadn’t been so content in the life, it wouldn’t have mattered as much that it was over. So, I’m giving myself a bit of a break that it seems to be taking FREAKING FOREVER to be completely, 100% happy and content again.

I will say this, though. After reading a ton of people’s thoughts, feelings, etc., about their own divorce fiasco’s,  I was struck by the sheer number of these women that were still very much caught in that painful time years and years later. I don’t have any judgments against any person living in their own hell, but someone just please shoot me right in the head if 5 years from now, I’m still talking about this!!!!!

:-)

– Bird

Dancing In Our Nightmares

Ok.

First, before I sound like a goofball, I just want to go on the record as saying that I almost never watch Dr. Phil. Don’t get me wrong. I think he has a lot of wisdom, but I rarely find myself in the mood to hear about how bad other people’s lives are….except when my own is castleflailing so badly there is nowhere to go but up. In an unfamiliar act, I set my DVR to record one of his past episodes a few weeks ago. The only word I remembered from the advertisement was “Dealbreakers” and I thought about my whole relationship with Chef this last year, and the word stuck with me. It’s just been fraught with dealbreakers lately.

Then, in a more normal display of rebellion, I ignored the recording for weeks. I don’t know why I find myself afraid to hear some things, but something in me told me I wasn’t going to like hearing this. I couldn’t have been more wrong, or more right.

The truth is, had I watched this episode a few weeks ago, it would have only made me feel worse about myself, but lately, I’ve been able to adjust to how I fit in my new world, and while I feel still a bit unsure of myself, I have to say I’m feeling much more adult than I ever have before.

One of the guests on the show was the young wife of a man caught in a sting trying to have sex with a 13 year-old girl. Now, I’d like to think that had Chef walked over that line, I’d have kicked his nasty butt to the curb, but these days, I find myself less sure of what I will and will not tolerate. I’m not so quick to decide I’d do anything. I’ve already compromised more than I said I ever would.

And so, I could really empathize with this poor wife who hated what her husband had done, yet still loved her husband and was so broken and confused by what he seemed to find lacking in her. As I watched her cry and struggle to answer questions about reactions in herself that she simply did not understand, I got it. I just understood. Sometimes, we are appalled at our own reactions. I knew that I could get over Chef using drugs, and even the porn, with a little help. I was even pretty sure I could get over the affair, given the proper amount of remorse and regret, along with love and kindness. And in an enormous amount of humiliating lack of self-respect, I figured I could get over my husband moving the girl into my home, giving her love letters that basically said the same things he used to write to me, and letting her hang up her clothes in my half of our closet, lay her head on the pillows I used to sleep on, and even use the clothes I hadn’t taken with me, not to mention what she does sexually with my husband. Yes. I thought I could get over all of this.

The problem for me is that I never really had a list of dealbreakers in my own mind. As Christians, I do believe we should go above and beyond to make our marriages work. But the Bible says to let an unbelieving spouse go his own way, too, and that is where I got stuck. I didn’t want to believe that Chef had tricked me for all of those years. I wanted to believe in this fantasy I had created in my own mind of just who and what Chef was all about, and he just couldn’t live up to that dream. I think the man he was is worthy of the grieving I did for him, but the man he is now doesn’t want to be a Christian man, and I have to leave him to it, then. A marriage won’t work if both people are struggling towards different goals.

Which leads me to another realization I came to. And this one is a bit harder to admit. Because of my age when the predator starting molesting me, I have spent most of my life in a “child-like” bubble. Most of my reactions to big emotions seem to be those of a teen-age girl, which explains why I’ve avoided them completely when possible. My relationships have always looked more fatherly/daughterly than two equal partners and it wasn’t until I started to refuse to allow Chef to order me to do things I just didn’t want to do that we started to really have problems.

There have been an alarming number of compromises I’ve made in order to keep my husband happy, and it is with a lot of shame I admit that. It seems to me that God did actually answer my prayers when I begged Him to rescue me and Chef out of this drug-induced, porn-tainted hell I found myself in. I just figured He would magically make Chef suddenly well. I didn’t realize God, instead, started my healing first.

Ask any of the many people who knew me growing up and you’ll probably get the same story. I was an obedient, respectful child. And even though I was being molested, my reactions to authority were not a farce. I obeyed without question. And that is the kind of wife I was too.

Over the last few years, though, God was bringing that sexual dysfunction and emotional retardation to surface and we had been dealing with it, piece by piece. And as I was able to address and unravel some of that shame, guilt, and rage, I was healing. And as I was healing, I wasn’t so quick to allow Chef to bully me into doing things I just felt were wrong. I don’t know how this looked from his side, but I’m guessing he probably didn’t understand this spineless girl growing the huevos to say no to him. And if we’re going to be fair here, it wasn’t what he had signed up for.

It’s kind of scary what doors can be opened in your own mind just hearing and seeing a similar situation for another person, but I have to say I’m glad these doors are open now. I don’t think Chef’s needing to replace me with T says anything bad about me anymore, nor do I feel that overwhelming, erratic urge to win him back just to prove there never had been anything wrong with me in the first place. The prize would not be worth the pain I’d continue to be living in. There have been way too many dealbreakers for me to even consider it. And as an adult woman, I’m clearly placing a line in the sand about what I will and will not tolerate from someone I love and trust. No more fairy tales and grieving for something that, in the light of day, was unhealthy from the very start. And I don’t say it was unhealthy because of Chef. It was unhealthy because I was a broken, unhealthy little girl when I set out down this path.

I’m not mad at Chef anymore for all of his meth-linked mistakes. He’s a broken person just like me, and he hasn’t found his way to his Healer yet. But I’m thanking God tonight for a little clarity and for allowing me to begin seeing Chef and T from a different viewpoint that isn’t so cynical, hurt, and angry. We are all just a lot of people who are broken, radiating towards other broken people, replicating a horrible dance that feels familiar to us. Abused people find people who abuse them to dance with. Addicts find other addicts to dance with. We all rebuild the nightmares of our childhoods, and live in those frail castles until God plucks us out and renews our hearts and our minds.

I just left the stupid dance early, and Chef got another partner that still knows the steps. I’m sorry, Chef and T. I’m learning the steps to a new dance now.

– Bird