Awaiting Step 8: The forgiving has not come.

In the beginning we were giggly. I was fresh from college, living downtown, landed a full time job in the curatorial department of a museum. Life was dreamy. He was older, wore fitted pants, few kites, and called me cute names.

In the middle we were still mostly giggly. We took road trips, ate ice-cream with sprinkles, chased butterfly migrations, and watched old movies. Every now and then he would disappear for a night, or show up a few hours late, but it never amounted to much, and it certainly wasn’t often. We were together every day, he called every lunch time, and he emailed cute e-cards from Blue Mountain daily at 3pm.

In the end it turned out he was addicted to crack. Somehow he fit a double life in-between the life I saw, and the life he lived. Somewhere, in the fissures, between the moments, there was time for crack. I was embarrassed not to know. I dropped him at rehab and over the next few weeks the so very many lies started to ooze from floor boards and trickle in through phone calls and loose ends. There were just so many lies.

I never picked him up from rehab. After two years together it ended at a brick wall, me tossing him a duffel bag and telling him to call his sister for a ride when he was ready to go. I needed to preserve myself.

Twelve years later, eleven years after he married one of the women, who worked at the rehab, I am still waiting for him to complete step 8. I don’t care if it is technically NA and not AA, but I want my apology. For years afterward I wondered when it would come, how it would be delivered, and nothing happened. I dreamed of the punch I’d plant in his face, the door I’d slam, the anger that would finally go away, and the doorbell never rang. I figure I’d probably end up being friendly and happy to have it over with, this step 8, which promises: he will have made a list of all persons he had harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all. Heck, maybe he’d just hand me a check, $700 would be nice, and I’d feel much better.

Well now the fucker has cancer, and the still hurt part of me hopes he dies. That will make amends, finally.

Deep are the scars I carry from this battle that was not technically even mine.

 

The Introvert, Part Two

 “Take me past the magnet school the kids will be switching to,” my sister says as we head back to the soccer field to deliver the box of hot chocolate to the girls.

 “So this is the poor side of town? I think it is great that you are doing this, it is so, you.” She says, as I drive through a neighborhood of 1930’s detached single family houses with green lawns.

“I don’t think there is a poor part of this town, this neighborhood is nice.” Why am I such a bitch, why can’t I just give her a break?  I can’t stop myself from picking at her.

“My friend teaches at a school for gifted children, and she says it is so difficult that the kids have all sorts of emotional problems, are on medications, need therapy, she says it is awful.”

“Maybe the problem is in the kids chosen to be at the school. A gifted population may come with built in problems, it probably isn't just the school to blame.” I take a deep breath, can we stop now? I’ve got to figure out how I am going to deliver this hot chocolate to the team without having a nervous breakdown.  

We grab my chair, egg sandwich, and the box of hot chocolate from the car and head to the crowded soccer field. It is a clinic today, so there are ten teams mixed together. I am highly aware of the giant Dunkin Donuts logo I am toting through the crowd of suburban joggers. My sister gained a lot of weight after having cancer, and I need to lose some myself. Great, we are the fat people eating sandwiches, and the only people with a chair, nevermind the damn giant box of hot chocolate with a second donut box for the lids and cups.

“Let’s just sit here.” I feel disgusting. I give her the chair and I sit grounded to the grass.

“Look at that man taking; organizing soccer practice, he is an extrovert, he must get so much done.” I look up at the athletic, confident man. “Our husbands are introverts; I have been reading about introverts, it is fascinating, have you read anything about them?”

 “No.” I thought my direct statement might end the conversation, but instead it churns. “Actually, I did read half of a book before I realized it was written for extroverts who have introverted kids and are worried about them. I never finished it.” I am such a bitch. I need to get rid of this box of hot chocolate. I finally see another mom from the team.  “Let’s move over near some of the other parents and unload this box.” We pack up our chair, stuff our garbage into the chair bag, and migrate.

When the clinic ends I hand out nine cups of hot chocolate to nine smiling girls. Anna arrives with a huge smile telling me about the friend she met. One cup left.

"Mom, we have to give her a hot chocolate, I am going to get her," and off she ran. I quickly grab for my old coffee cup, dump out the last splash, pour two half cups of the remaining hot chocolate. I give both the quiet smiling girls a cup. "What are those black things floating in it?" Anna looks up at me.

"Oh, just marshmallows," I smile as a plunk a few in.