When I was young, my father was an absentee parent. His job required extensive travel, leaving my mother with all the responsibility. I adapted to his absence, and accepted the normality of it. It’s true, you can get used to almost anything.

The year my sister left for college, is the first time I remember feeling abandoned. In spite our seven year age difference, we very involved in each other’s lives. It wasn’t simply her departure. It was the bomb she dropped before she left and the realization there were no buffers between me and my mom. What can I say? Puberty is Hell.

In college, relationships were forged, as we stayed up late enveloped in our newly acquired superiority and solved the world’s problems. Graduation. Then, one by one, everyone moved away. Finally I left too, but returned and fell in love.

I fell for the one who would leave me behind frequently, but always return.

For me, it’s easier to be the one who leaves. Leaving is active, you are moving towards something and often have a purpose that distracts you from the realization of deserting someone. Having spent so much of my life being the one left, I know the void that erupts the moment the the door closes.

Tuesday, I left first. The Mister was still sleeping quietly when I leaned in to kiss him good bye. It was o’fuck thirty and I chose not linger, hoping he would drift back to sleep. It was strange leaving him behind, while I drove to the airport, but my thoughts quickly shifted to the day ahead.

I’ve flown many times, but rarely has anyone been awaiting my arrival. It’s different than someone waiting for you to pull into the driveway. It feels more personal, the waiting is participatory. You feel wanted.

Departing at an airport…is harder.

I returned home and found this note from Mister Hombre. I hadn’t anticipated my return to be welcome per se, but finding the note was much like being greeted at the door.

Friday, he will return from work and be equally welcome home. Next week, we will return our routine and once again he will be doing the leaving.

My plane stopped at the gate. Passengers were standing up to retrieve their belongs. I remained seated in the back of the plane, waiting for the others to disembark, before exiting. A man walked over and sat across the aisle, and leaned towards me.

“I’m Clay.”

“Claaaay,” I repeat and my voice trails off

“We went to college together. I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name…But it has been ten years.”

I remembered him the moment he introduced himself. We exchanged pleasantries. He’s working as a professional songwriter. One of his tracks was nominated for a Grammy a few years ago. He was an exceptional painter when we were in college. It was evident the painter was dueling with the musician. I always wondered which talent would prevail.

Finally, he asked the inevitable, “What are you doing now?”

********************

Two years have passed since I left my job, and I am still clueless about what I am doing. Beneath it all, I feel a pang of guilt admitting I do not work. For eight years, I gave my all. I researched new technology, and accepted trial by fire projects with tight deadlines. I thought the work I was contributing really mattered, but in the end, it only mattered to me.

The harder I worked, the less information I received from coworkers. The longer the hours, the higher the expectations. Towards the end, I did other’s jobs in addition to my own. When I asked my supervisor what kind of future I could expect, he gave me a tiny raise, but no answer. My attitude became atrocious; can do quickly evolved into fuck you.

Two days before I quit, I totally lost my shit. I have a temper, but it usually doesn’t show until I’ve had my fill of B.S. After I lose it once, I loose it more frequently before I beat my temper into submission, where it remains for months. I don’t like to get that angry it indicates a lack of self-control.

Ironically, when I lost it wasn’t at my job. The straw was a repair bill for my vehicle. I reviewed the receipt, at home. The more I studied it, the angrier I got. Rather than take the reasonable course of action and go to the repair shop to chew the manager a new asshole, I walked to Big Bertha and gave her a proper ass whipping. I neglected to wrap my hands. When I finished, I emerged with seven bloody knuckles.

I returned to work the following day with extra long sleeves. I had been holding on to my sanity by my fingernails for months. I hid a letter of resignation under my keyboard earlier in case of emergency. I had removed most of my personal effects from my office. The only two remaining, my worry rock and my coffee cup.

I had an epiphany when I was staring at a stack of job folders. In that moment, I realized I had used every resource in my power to transform that experience into a job worth keeping. I knew there was nothing left in my toy chest to change my circumstances.

I picked up the worry rock, coffee cup and brief case. I walked by the V.P.’s, desk conveniently while he was on the phone, and said “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore”. He followed me out and I surrendered my office key. He asked me to reconsider, and I responded with the unthinkable. The truth. I told him, he didn’t need me, he needed the others in my position to do their part instead of screwing around.

I still haven’t forgiven myself for walking away without proper notice. Giving up. Two years have passed. I suppose it is forgotten by all, except me. I’m fiercely loyal, but that job broke me. I could never overcome the constraints of a family-owned-nepotism-favored-females-are-inferior-what-do-you-mean-you-don’t-embrace-our-religion-of-choice-let’s-discriminate-against-minorites-and-customers-who-market-stuff-we-find-deplorable-though-not-ilegal.

Why can’t i forgive myself for escaping a bad situation? Why can’t allow myself the privilege of enjoying the fruits of the Mister’s good luck (his words, not mine). I AM lucky. I have the privilege of staying home and being a woman of leisure. I’m not a woman of inaction.

********************
It’s times like these that I better understand impotence. Who knew I would allow a job, even a shitty job, to define my self worth. I thought I was more mature than that.

********************

When I ran into Clay it was surreal. Not because I had not seen him in ten years, but the quality in his voice. Strangely, it felt like an intervention. His voice had a genuine peaceful quality about it. I can’t explain why, only that it did.

There is a park nearby. It has hiking trails, river access, and picnic amenities. It has potential to be a great space for nature lovers, but it is secluded, and not a patrol priority for law enforcement. Rumor is, the park is a favorite location for drug deals, and prostitution. When I asked a police officer about it, he recommended staying away.

The thing I detest about being a woman, is society’s implication, of being the liability sex. I’m not sure which bothers me most, assumptions made about my individual character, or that it contains elements of truth. Everybody knows when you have a son, you only have to concern yourself about one swinging dick, but when you have a daughter you have to worry about all the swinging dicks.

I’m infuriated my tax dollars are being used to maintain a public space as safe zone for illegal activities. For officials to concede a park to lawless activities and suggest citizens enjoy recreation elsewhere, because they don’t properly patrol, uggh! I refuse to be intimidated in my own fucking cow town. I will not live afraid, simply because it is impractical for me to urinate while standing erect.

My ego is not so great that I forfeit safety in favor of pride. I’ve read the statistics for assault and the results are staggering. It makes me nauseous when I consider the number of women I know who are statistics too. Dark college campuses, mall parking lots, and unfamiliar streets foster my cognizance of spacial awareness, and stranger proximity.

The Mister and I have returned to the park. We go in the morning or afternoon (fewer suspicious types around). Trails are more interesting than circling the neighborhood. Each time, I long to return more frequently, whether or not I have a companion. Safety is a priority for me and the Mister, but I don’t want the Mister’s work schedule to control my walking schedule.

The Mister and I agree, I won’t visit the park without bringing some form of intimidation. We’ve concluded the safest times to visit the park are early morning (people are sleeping it off) or mid-afternoon (day jobs, and after lunch). I’ve reviewed self-defense tactics from the Mister’s employee training manual. If the Mister is available, we will go together.

The safest recourse is to find another space and forget the park, but I’m not willing to concede, yet… I understand the risks… and I don’t take them lightly. Being cavalier has consequences I don’t need. I’m not making an executive decision, the Mister knows my intentions and we are discussing self-protection measures. I agreed not to go alone until we reached a consensus. I’ve arranged to borrow a dog for some outings (I’m not ready to be a dog owner).

What measures do you suggest? Mace? Pepper Spray? Cattle Prod?

Thanks for your compassion and support on the last post. Things are quiet. If that sounds vague, worry not. Though not synonymous with peaceful, quiet is a good thing. I poured my frustrations and insecurities into this space because I didn’t want to pick a fight with the Mister. Some might argue he doesn’t deserve an extension of grace, but attacking him (even if deserved) is fruitless. It doesn’t correct his actions, and it does nothing for my self-esteem to emotionally kick a man in the crotch, after his parents have tried to rip his heart out of his chest. I can’t condone being mean for the sake of being mean.

The Mister has been supportive and believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. He’s tolerated my cutting remarks, and he’s held back my hair while I puked still greeted in the morning with the words, “I love you”. He’s encouraged me to chase my dreams. Dreams I seldom acknowledge much less consider attainable. Unconditional love. The least I can do is return the favor. I’m no saint. I just haven’t written about my character flaws it yet.

It’s important to learn from everyone. Those who know more than you and those who know less, those who learn from their mistakes, and those who don’t. I try to learn from my mistakes, and make adjustments should I face a similar situation occur in the future. The Mister, in his unshakable optimism, believes things will happen differently in spite of his indifference.

He believes whereas I suspect. I suppose both methods have a place in this world, and neither should be exclusive….

Tuesday morning the Mister met with the One Eyes and a contractor who has been hired to work on the One Eyes’ home. The Mister didn’t ask me to accompany him, and I didn’t volunteer. In the home’s current state, it is unsafe to be occupied by the One Eyes. Carpet must be installed, leaks repaired, handrails installed, closets re-equipped, ceilings repaired, walls repainted, and the whole structure cleaned from top to bottom.

The Mister returned from the meeting before lunch. I asked how he managed not leave without taking his parents to lunch and he replied, “I think they were ready for me to leave”. That never happens. They ALWAYS expect a road trip to get lunch. I didn’t ask any more questions about the meeting.

Later Mister Hombre mentioned he saw his brother at a fast food restaurant on the morning of the meeting, but his brother didn’t volunteer to join him with the contractor. I asked him if he would have volunteered if the situation had been reversed and he responded,”No, but this isn’t about me, it’s about my brother.” This is a good example of how the Mister and his brothers operate. Ignorance is bliss.

I talked to a friend who met the One Eyes when the Mister took them shopping. She acknowledged we had our hands full, then she asked how I was doing. I told her there are good days and bad days, but I’m hanging in there.

©2008 Cloud Study, Chalk Pastel on Textured Paper

I should have written this Thursday, in the moments after my heart fell, but I didn’t. My instinct was to tell my partner, “I need a drink,” but I had enough presence of mind to know that doesn’t help. Instead, I retreated into my silent, contemplative self. We made an unscheduled stop at a wooded park near home, and walked the nature trails along the river. The gravity of it all, made me feel like I had been punched in the stomach. With each additional step, I felt my shoulders fall forward as my face grew longer. Too much reality, and too powerless to make a difference.

You can know the truth, but as long as it remains unspoken, it doesn’t carry the proper weight. False hope lies in the inability to articulate, but maybe it’s just denial. I would prefer to be kicked in the crotch with a steel toed shoe than entertain the prospect of being in denial. Premature mourning of anticipated disasters is my baby……not denial.

*****

I’m in awe of this online community… compassion, consolation, laughter, sharing, openness, trust, and honor among thieves. There is a special uninhibitedness in meeting people through words and brief excerpts, absent of accent, geography, social status, and age. It’s an openness seldom available in physical introductions, and an opportunity to meet the self prior to previewing the shell.

I had the pleasure and privilege of meeting some of you in person. I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything. It never occurred there could be a residual effect to, sharing food and wine, walking, talking or seeing the whites of your eyes…

When I was younger and more socially inept than now, I forged a few relationships based on angst. I worried if I didn’t bring some form of depression or personal disaster to the table, then I didn’t have anything worthy of friendship. I feared I was uninteresting on ordinary days, so I held my angst close and nurtured it.

I finally realized, it was no way to live or forge relationships, and the pendulum swung in the opposite direction. Now, I go through periods of silence and stoical contemplation. I don’t want to whine, which is why I’ve posted so little of late.

I can’t talk to the Mister. He has his own guilt to contend with and I don’t want to add to it. I don’t want to burden him, nor do I want to portray him as the bad guy. I’m just beginning to understand what it was like growing up in a home in which love was the means to justify treating you kids like crap.

******

The Mister and I were driving back from his parent’s home. He had made preparations for freezing conditions the previous day. We checked out the homestead to make sure there were no frozen pipes or damage. Mister Hombre called his father at the assisted living facility (ALF) to report the homestead survived the freeze. Ole One Eye proceeded to harass him about new car tags so Mrs. One Eye could drive (she’s been advised not to by all her doctors). The conversation was lengthy and wore the Mister down.

Afterwards, I suggested the Mister that he and the brothers sell the cars. There is a power of attorney drawn up that would make the action legal. The Mister said, he was hesitant to sell the car because they might need it for a caregiver to drive them to Dr’s appointments should they return home. In that moment, I felt a little piece of myself die.

I haven’t remained HERE this year, so they could return home.

If you read the above paragraph, without comprehending the context, I sound like a complete bitch. I’m not in a position to deny my status, as there is too much published material to contradict it, but I feel compelled to offer a few points in my defense:

• My top priorities for my in-laws are: their health, and their safety.
• They may or may not have enough financial resources to remain in their home full-time with medical supervision.
• They need 24 hour care (On this point, Mister Hombre and I agree)
• They think their happiness depends upon returning home, but they seem to forget they weren’t happy at home prior to moving to the ALF.
• We’ve remained here ostensibly to get the One Eye’s settled, and assist in protecting financial resources from the state, and see that certain medical needs are accomplished….Eleven months later, few of these goals have been attempted, much less accomplished.
• The One Eyes make few attempts at hygiene. They smell, and wear the same clothes for days. The boys will not address this, and the ALF staff cannot force them to bathe.

Thanks. I’m not looking for answers, My solutions are not welcome by the Mister, and he has his own demons to consider. I’m only looking for fortitude.