Relationships
Maybe I could have avoided a thousand mistakes
Apart from casual encounters in public (including the workplace which is not addressed here), there are the CORE relationships whose emotions, attachments, and jealousies define the qualities of our lives to a large extent. And remember, distance = clarity. You have to step back from the trees to see the forest. Note: the writing on this page is pretty informal (e.g., sentence fragments, shifting verb tenses, the things I advise my students against).
Parents--Especially Fathers and Sons
So much in the literature. Title of a novel by Russian Ivan Turgenev… A son wants to please his father and some try harder than others. Sometimes it’s impossible. There is no biological imperative for this. The moral imperative is to be a decent human being, not because it pleases your father. I had this friend (Ernie) whose background ran similar to mine. The closeness between Ernie and his father waxed and waned over the years. I know the father didn’t approve of Ernie’s course of study in college: a master’s degree in English. Like me, Ernie wanted to become a college professor. He decided not to go on for the doctorate for two reasons: 1) there were no university teaching jobs anywhere at the time; 2) accepting that, he decided to marry. Following that, his educational background led him down the path in corporations needing someone who could write semi-intelligibly: reports, procedures, manuals, instructions, specifications, and the like. This served a practical purpose: self-sufficiency, aka putting bread on the table.
Funny thing: when he decided NOT to go on for the doctorate his father disapproved. Apparently, he disliked the bride-to-be more than Ernie’s graduate studies. Later, Ernie had a younger cousin, who went to college and then graduate studies in political science and law, achieving his doctorate, tenure at a university, and publishing scholarly books. He also does speaking engagements. All in all he makes a lot of money. Well, his uncle (Ernie’s Dad) is much impressed, almost to the point of being able to recite his nephew’s job description. Ernie asked me what I thought. I won’t say here. You decide. Write me and tell me what you think.
In fiction, fully-drawn characters have some depth and a “psychological profile” which can be established from their actions and interactions in the story. Sometimes, things are revealed about the author. I have three completed novels and a fourth which I thought had some good promise but I simply put it away. All contain some autobiographical elements. Check it out.
First novel: heroic son believes himself orphaned. Heroic father finds him later, saves his life, and they are reunited. Hollywood ending, what the son would have ideally wished.
Second novel: Loser-type son is estranged from father, haunted by unpleasant childhood memories. Is called to hospital when father has stroke. Death-bed scene. Father’s enigmatic last words:
“If only . . . you and I . . . .”
Tears blinded [the son].
“Only . . . .”
“Dad?”
“Only . . . you had done some good . . . .”
This is the way the son knew the relationship to have been.
Third novel: when very young, the main character’s father was killed in a car crash and he is raised by foster parents. Then his foster father dies from a heart attack. Unlike #2, the character has good memories of both fathers. A problematic father-son relationship does not exist here, but there is loss and part of the story line deals with bad fathers and redemption.
Fourth novel (incomplete): There is no appearance or reference to the main character’s father whatsoever. You can see the progression here. Father as vital to the main character is removed.
This type of analysis can be fun, but it is more fun when it’s someone else’s father. I have a son and we’d follow each other into hell—not so sure we haven’t done that already. My relationship with him is one of the best things in my life. It wasn’t always that way, but it is now. Cordelia said to Lear, “I love you according to my bond [duty], no more, no less.” Refreshing honesty. We love family members. Sometimes we may not like them.
A brief but important note about my mother, whom I lost to Alzheimers in September, ’08: when I was a child, she read to me all the time, so I must credit her with instilling me with my love of language and reading.
“It is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons.” –
Friedrich von Schiller.
Children.
Guess what? This precept may tear down the foundations of Christendom as we know it, but children owe their parents nothing. They didn’t ask to be brought into this world. If the parents have done right, then sure, some gratitude and respect are forthcoming. Undertaking parenthood is the most solemn responsibility of all. And there are countless couples out there who have no business being parents. In those cases, we hope the best for the children. Maybe they cannot only survive, but thrive.
Band of Brothers and then they're gone.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
In high school and college, most of us make friends whom we may come to love like brothers (or sisters). You think the close attachments will last forever, like in your first romantic relationship when you say “I’ll love you forever”. Well, when we’re in our teens and early twenties, we want to believe this.
I had three really good buddies from high school, through college, graduate school and beyond. When all three got married, I was asked to be best man. At least at some point I was highly regarded. Three-time MVP. I made another friend (Billy) later and could have been a fourth best man at his wedding, which was going to be in Seattle. I was married with a small child in south Florida with a sticky job situation so I had to pass. Billy and I had been pretty close, but over time he kind of turned his back. Maybe it had something to do with it being around the time my son was having problems, dropping out of high school, manic-depression issues, not working. Billy kept telling me to throw him out in the street. Well, he said it just one too many times and in so many words I told him to shut up. Interestingly, a lot of people, friends, passing acquaintances said the same thing. Walk in my shoes, brothers and sisters. Anyway, Billy had a daughter when he was in his early forties which would put him around 60 at her high school graduation. I hope he never had to face the same problems.
My other three friends and I, the “Four Musketeers” had a lot of great times: mainly the bull sessions, pizza, beer, movies, a few concerts (including a free one at Montclair State College featuring then little known Bruce Springsteen), shows in Manhattan, hiking in the country, road trips. One of them collaborated with me/I collaborated with him on the early drafts of a first novel (see A Reign of Peace).We played basketball, softball. One might conclude that the drifting apart was mostly caused by my moving to south Florida. They’re still in New Jersey. There is mail, the telephone. I used to make an annual visit in the autumn (the only decent season up there). One confided over the years that, even though geography is not a factor for the rest of them, they are rarely in contact with each other.
I worked with a woman (Jeannie) in ’87 in the MIS division of American Broadcasting (the TV network). Good friend. Kindred spirits. We still exchange letters on a regular basis. Hers are handwritten (texting, old school). I type mine. She’s a bit averse to email, which frustrates the hell out of me.
I’ve made only a handful of friends here in Florida, but they drift away. In my current reclusive lifestyle, I don’t have many opportunities to meet new people. I enjoy some of my students but a friendship isn’t really appropriate. I also live in a condo development where, at 57, I am among the youngest and there are not many mutual interests for all their clubs and activities. I’m here for financial convenience. With all the rules and regs it’s a little like living in a minimum security prison.
I still remember a graduate professor saying something about the finality of people slipping out of your life. “You never see them again.”
I had three really good buddies from high school, through college, graduate school and beyond. When all three got married, I was asked to be best man. At least at some point I was highly regarded. Three-time MVP. I made another friend (Billy) later and could have been a fourth best man at his wedding, which was going to be in Seattle. I was married with a small child in south Florida with a sticky job situation so I had to pass. Billy and I had been pretty close, but over time he kind of turned his back. Maybe it had something to do with it being around the time my son was having problems, dropping out of high school, manic-depression issues, not working. Billy kept telling me to throw him out in the street. Well, he said it just one too many times and in so many words I told him to shut up. Interestingly, a lot of people, friends, passing acquaintances said the same thing. Walk in my shoes, brothers and sisters. Anyway, Billy had a daughter when he was in his early forties which would put him around 60 at her high school graduation. I hope he never had to face the same problems.
My other three friends and I, the “Four Musketeers” had a lot of great times: mainly the bull sessions, pizza, beer, movies, a few concerts (including a free one at Montclair State College featuring then little known Bruce Springsteen), shows in Manhattan, hiking in the country, road trips. One of them collaborated with me/I collaborated with him on the early drafts of a first novel (see A Reign of Peace).We played basketball, softball. One might conclude that the drifting apart was mostly caused by my moving to south Florida. They’re still in New Jersey. There is mail, the telephone. I used to make an annual visit in the autumn (the only decent season up there). One confided over the years that, even though geography is not a factor for the rest of them, they are rarely in contact with each other.
I worked with a woman (Jeannie) in ’87 in the MIS division of American Broadcasting (the TV network). Good friend. Kindred spirits. We still exchange letters on a regular basis. Hers are handwritten (texting, old school). I type mine. She’s a bit averse to email, which frustrates the hell out of me.
I’ve made only a handful of friends here in Florida, but they drift away. In my current reclusive lifestyle, I don’t have many opportunities to meet new people. I enjoy some of my students but a friendship isn’t really appropriate. I also live in a condo development where, at 57, I am among the youngest and there are not many mutual interests for all their clubs and activities. I’m here for financial convenience. With all the rules and regs it’s a little like living in a minimum security prison.
I still remember a graduate professor saying something about the finality of people slipping out of your life. “You never see them again.”
"Frenemies" and the Bad Penny Theory.
Except when you see them again. I’m not given to hurting anyone knowingly. It still surprises me when people disappear. Sometimes it’s more like turning their backs. Just recently, an individual whom I regarded as one of the most balanced and sensible persons I have ever known, read something on this site and somehow became offended and attacked me personally, not my position. You never know. Anyone can turn. I'm a dick, you're a dick and leave it at that.
Sometimes the “friendship” is defined by tension and opposites attract syndrome. Passing acquaintance? BFF? Nemesis? There is always the chance you will cross paths again—especially when you least expect it. It may take the form of “hail-fellow-well-met”, with hollow exchanges of “we have to stay in touch”. Don’t you say it. They don’t mean it and after you exchange emails and phone numbers, chances are you won’t hear from them anytime soon, if at all.
If they’re bad pennies, you’ll only enjoy it if they have fared worse than you since the parting. This is particularly true with romantic relationships. More on that below. It’s in our baser nature.
The Wild Cards…the Bad and the Ugly.
These are people who claim to care but drive you crazy (unannounced visits, imposing their phobias, besieging you with hollow, if even well-intentioned advice, users, penny-wise pound foolish errands where you are dragged along). You get phone calls from them often and at inconvenient times and they will become indignant when they get your voice mail. They also like to know your whereabouts. I don’t like the idea of anyone knowing where I am 24/7. Sometimes getting away from it all means just that. Furthermore, it’s your job to make them feel good, no matter what is happening to you.
Lovers and Sociopaths.
Check out the following synopsis:
“Who is the devil you know?
Is it your lying, cheating ex-husband?
Your sadistic high school gym teacher?
Your boss who loves to humiliate people in meetings?
The colleague who stole your idea and passed it off as her own?
The Sociopath Next Door – link to book title.
In the pages of The Sociopath Next Door, you will realize that your ex was not just misunderstood. He’s a sociopath. And your boss, teacher, and colleague? They may be sociopaths too.
We are accustomed to think of sociopaths as violent criminals, but in The Sociopath Next Door, Harvard psychologist Martha Stout reveals that a shocking 4 percent of ordinary people—one in twenty-five—has an often undetected mental disorder, the chief symptom of which is that that person possesses no conscience. He or she has no ability whatsoever to feel shame, guilt, or remorse. One in twenty-five everyday Americans, therefore, is secretly a sociopath. They could be your colleague, your neighbor, even family. And they can do literally anything at all and feel absolutely no guilt.”
You can’t just want to be loved…you have to want to give love just as much if not more. Much of what follows is a mosaic of my experiences and stories from others as well.
“Who is the devil you know?
Is it your lying, cheating ex-husband?
Your sadistic high school gym teacher?
Your boss who loves to humiliate people in meetings?
The colleague who stole your idea and passed it off as her own?
The Sociopath Next Door – link to book title.
In the pages of The Sociopath Next Door, you will realize that your ex was not just misunderstood. He’s a sociopath. And your boss, teacher, and colleague? They may be sociopaths too.
We are accustomed to think of sociopaths as violent criminals, but in The Sociopath Next Door, Harvard psychologist Martha Stout reveals that a shocking 4 percent of ordinary people—one in twenty-five—has an often undetected mental disorder, the chief symptom of which is that that person possesses no conscience. He or she has no ability whatsoever to feel shame, guilt, or remorse. One in twenty-five everyday Americans, therefore, is secretly a sociopath. They could be your colleague, your neighbor, even family. And they can do literally anything at all and feel absolutely no guilt.”
You can’t just want to be loved…you have to want to give love just as much if not more. Much of what follows is a mosaic of my experiences and stories from others as well.
Love & Trust: The Senior Prom.
In early adolescence,I was, what my contemporaries at the time would have called a fat fuck. Then, the hormones kicked in, I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I better do something or I’ll never get a girlfriend. Lost 40 pounds but it took a long time. I got interested in sports and became more physically active. I had a better self-image. I had a crush on a cheerleader, who knew me when I was fat. The summer before senior year I got the courage to call her (hyperventilating) and ask her to a Yankee game. Not real good first date material. She didn’t say no. But, when our eyes finally met in a crowded school hall, it was all I could do just to grunt and nod and that was the end of that.
My best friend, Carl, had just met a girl named Maria (seriously), who was some kind of a third-string cheerleader. She got a friend and arranged a blind date. Carl, also a Yankee fan, agreed we should take the gals to a September Yankee game which was subsequently rained out, so we spent the afternoon bowling. That went nowhere. Graduation and the senior prom were fast approaching and I was getting desperate. Not to have a date for the prom would be unthinkable and I would have had to resign from the human race. So, I began to get chatty with a gal in history class and soon asked her to a school football game. We were to have met there on a Saturday afternoon. She showed up—with three of her friends. Not much opportunity for getting to know each other. I don’t recall what else we might have done, but that Spring she agreed to go to the prom. I was ecstatic—until she later informed me, not in these words, that she had gotten a better offer. I think that was my first lesson about trust in relationships. Even up until the last few years, I tended towards the gullible and was inclined to believe exactly what comes out of people’s mouths. That all changed about four and half years ago, but I’m saving that best for last. This present story is like Andy Hardy. The grand finale in this narrative is more like Fatal Attraction (1987).
Now, Carl who was taking Maria to the prom, was very sympathetic and comforting. Night of the prom I’m sitting in my room watching TV. My Dad knocks on my door and tells me that Carl is outside, sitting on the front steps. Turns out Maria outdoes my erstwhile date. She dumps him AT the prom after he’s spent a good bit of money, the corsage, renting the tux, and so on and leaves the prom with someone else. Dejected, shocked, I imagine, Carl came in and we commiserated. He reached into his pocket and gave me $5 for a graduation present. Not knowing what else to do, I handed him $5, like the Marx Brothers exchanging sausages. Ah, there must be something about Jersey girls I guess. But these were amateurs. See the concluding story.
We went off to college but saw each other all the time, both of us living at home, “townies” who went to college or something like that. First semester, Biology, I was lab partners with a talkative gal with passable looks and I asked her out for the following week. She said yes. Next week, she said no, that she was getting back with an estranged boyfriend.
We’d all go to mixers at various local colleges. “Care to dance?” “Get lost, creep.” Finally Carl meets someone and it’s going well and we do the double-date/blind date thing again. At this point, I’ve just about lost all faith in any of this business going right. I’d been depressed. Carl, his girlfriend, and I arrive at the mystery girl’s home. As we’re waiting inside the front door, she comes down the stairs and I am fairly knocked over: she is really very attractive. Amazingly, it seems mutual. Within two months, we fall in love and soon after agreed to get married—after college.
The First True Love. More pain and anguish than not and a lot of that is not to blame Jane. A lot of it was circumstantial, as in star-crossed lovers. Jane had been raised by strict grandparents and when we dated I had to have her home by nine. That summer, there was the groping, the back seat thrashing, the eternal pledging, the yearning when apart. I would also begin to learn about apartness, which defined a good many relationships, aka separation anxiety. Jane was going away to college in West Virginia, leaving at the end of August and I wouldn’t see her until Christmas. I remember the night we said goodbye. I cried like a mad fool. We wrote letters almost daily. I sneaked over to Carl’s house to make the occasional long distance call. Christmas came and went and there was no real alone time. We talked about her transferring after freshman year to a local school and the plans were made. Except that her grandfather did not like me and threatened her with not paying for her college if she transferred. When she protested, her grandfather threatened violence, and she fled—literally.
Jane got a job and Carl’s parents offered a spare room, for which she paid token rent. That was the end of college for her at the moment. She did it for me. I knew she loved me then. I was very serious about honoring the commitment and the sacrifice. I finished college, pouting at my graduation, because there were no job prospects. Well, no one put a gun to my head and told me to major in English. I could have done better. I also could have done worse.
Fidelity. I recall Jane’s Spring semester in West Virginia. I was getting a little used to the apartness and developing a trust that everything would work out. This was mainly because of her stated intent to transfer to a local Jersey school. That semester, to satisfy a school requirement, I had a job as a teacher’s aide. The school then (1972): the George Morris School for Retarded Children. Can you imagine that today? Know what? Best job I ever had. Good rapport with the kids. The one here, about eight years old, had Down’s Syndrome which was crudely called mongolism then. He was an adorable child and I named my only son after him who would be born nine years later.
We went off to college but saw each other all the time, both of us living at home, “townies” who went to college or something like that. First semester, Biology, I was lab partners with a talkative gal with passable looks and I asked her out for the following week. She said yes. Next week, she said no, that she was getting back with an estranged boyfriend.
We’d all go to mixers at various local colleges. “Care to dance?” “Get lost, creep.” Finally Carl meets someone and it’s going well and we do the double-date/blind date thing again. At this point, I’ve just about lost all faith in any of this business going right. I’d been depressed. Carl, his girlfriend, and I arrive at the mystery girl’s home. As we’re waiting inside the front door, she comes down the stairs and I am fairly knocked over: she is really very attractive. Amazingly, it seems mutual. Within two months, we fall in love and soon after agreed to get married—after college.
The First True Love. More pain and anguish than not and a lot of that is not to blame Jane. A lot of it was circumstantial, as in star-crossed lovers. Jane had been raised by strict grandparents and when we dated I had to have her home by nine. That summer, there was the groping, the back seat thrashing, the eternal pledging, the yearning when apart. I would also begin to learn about apartness, which defined a good many relationships, aka separation anxiety. Jane was going away to college in West Virginia, leaving at the end of August and I wouldn’t see her until Christmas. I remember the night we said goodbye. I cried like a mad fool. We wrote letters almost daily. I sneaked over to Carl’s house to make the occasional long distance call. Christmas came and went and there was no real alone time. We talked about her transferring after freshman year to a local school and the plans were made. Except that her grandfather did not like me and threatened her with not paying for her college if she transferred. When she protested, her grandfather threatened violence, and she fled—literally.
Jane got a job and Carl’s parents offered a spare room, for which she paid token rent. That was the end of college for her at the moment. She did it for me. I knew she loved me then. I was very serious about honoring the commitment and the sacrifice. I finished college, pouting at my graduation, because there were no job prospects. Well, no one put a gun to my head and told me to major in English. I could have done better. I also could have done worse.
Fidelity. I recall Jane’s Spring semester in West Virginia. I was getting a little used to the apartness and developing a trust that everything would work out. This was mainly because of her stated intent to transfer to a local Jersey school. That semester, to satisfy a school requirement, I had a job as a teacher’s aide. The school then (1972): the George Morris School for Retarded Children. Can you imagine that today? Know what? Best job I ever had. Good rapport with the kids. The one here, about eight years old, had Down’s Syndrome which was crudely called mongolism then. He was an adorable child and I named my only son after him who would be born nine years later.
I worked 8-3 and took one course at 4 with a great professor. Jane and I wrote letters constantly. The universe seemed ordered and the future not bleak. There was another college student working at George Morris, actually fulfilling her student teacher requirement, and she actually asked me out. Maybe it had something to with that day during playground duty. I turned around and saw an older student having thrown her to the ground and pulling her hair. I got him off of her and she was quite shaken and grateful. In my immature smugness: oh, I’m betrothed, can’t, sorry. Not mature enough to say something like “but you can buy me a cup of coffee.” Sounds like it’s from the movies. Something similar happened in graduate school. A classmate, an older (30s—ha!) gent journalist was taking a literary research course with me and took me aside to tell me that this gal in class “had the hots for me.” I was married, which she didn’t know. I never wore a ring—simple reason: crooked fingers. We became friends for a while and she slowly faded out of the picture, like everyone else. Why did women start becoming interested when I was unavailable?
In my last semester in graduate school (Seton Hall University), Jane and I got married. In March, 1975 and we moved into a hovel in Belleville, New Jersey, across from a Bamberger’s Distribution Center where trucks came in and out all night. It was cheap, all we could afford. The four-year wait was over. I didn’t even attend graduation; they mailed my diploma some months later. I worked a few months for my father in a factory, then spent the next five months unemployed, looking for any kind of office work. Six months after we got married, Jane suffered a nervous breakdown of sorts. The road to recovery was long and arduous and, never having experienced anything like this, I was mean to her. Everyone was basically ignorant on the subject of mental illness, the knee-jerk reaction being to tell the afflicted, “Just snap out of it.” Things were never quite the same between us but it wasn’t all bad. Two more breakdowns followed the next two Octobers like clockwork, and I was starting to develop defense mechanisms where your emotions shut down just enough to allow you to function through the crisis. Medication then controlled the problem for a while.
I started to fool around with writing at nights and on the weekend. Jane thought I was ignoring her, but I saw it as being neglected. My Dad also thought it was a waste of time. My early efforts were indeed pitiful.
In my last semester in graduate school (Seton Hall University), Jane and I got married. In March, 1975 and we moved into a hovel in Belleville, New Jersey, across from a Bamberger’s Distribution Center where trucks came in and out all night. It was cheap, all we could afford. The four-year wait was over. I didn’t even attend graduation; they mailed my diploma some months later. I worked a few months for my father in a factory, then spent the next five months unemployed, looking for any kind of office work. Six months after we got married, Jane suffered a nervous breakdown of sorts. The road to recovery was long and arduous and, never having experienced anything like this, I was mean to her. Everyone was basically ignorant on the subject of mental illness, the knee-jerk reaction being to tell the afflicted, “Just snap out of it.” Things were never quite the same between us but it wasn’t all bad. Two more breakdowns followed the next two Octobers like clockwork, and I was starting to develop defense mechanisms where your emotions shut down just enough to allow you to function through the crisis. Medication then controlled the problem for a while.
I started to fool around with writing at nights and on the weekend. Jane thought I was ignoring her, but I saw it as being neglected. My Dad also thought it was a waste of time. My early efforts were indeed pitiful.
Infatuations.
That Seventies Shirt
During about this time (late 70s), I was working in the corporate headquarters of an insurance company, writing policies and procedures. I was the only male in this department of young ladies, some of whom were rather attractive. One in particular, Susan, began to stir feelings, lust (?). Feeling neglected at home, yearning for romantic love again, I actually began to think I was falling in love with this Susan. Have an affair? Forget it. She was a married Catholic and very serious about it. And then Fate intervened. No, it was more like a sick joke. We were both sent on a seminar together at an old isolated hotel in the Virginia Blue Ridge Mountains.
What a setup. I think she had some idea of how I felt, but I never did anything inappropriate. The last night we were there, our hosts treated everyone to an open bar. Sue said goodnight early and I retreated to the open bar and knocked down scotch like a sailor on shore leave. I then adjourned to a common room, complete with stone fireplace and animal heads mounted on the walls. I watched a sports special on TV about the 1978 miracle comeback season of the New York Yankees, entitled, “You Know it Don’t Come Easy.” No, it don’t. Afterwards I wobbled back up to my room which was adjacent to Susan’s and noticed she had left her room keys in the door knob.
I stopped and stared for maybe 30 seconds. If it had meant what I initially thought (hoped?), I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. I knocked on the door. She cracked it open and I could read nothing from her expression. Oh, I forgot my keys. Thanks. Good night.
Shortly after, Susan became pregnant and left. As I recall it wasn’t a maternity leave. She wasn’t coming back. I felt like I had to move on.
Jane and I then began to imagine ourselves as parents. This was 1980. We agreed that if Jane could remain “episode-free” for four years, we’d give it a go. I read this back to myself and it seems like casual irresponsibility. Our son was born in late ’81.
Because of Jane’s illness and the unpredictability of recurring episodes, we moved into a terrific house with my parents: four bedrooms, separate kitchens, full finished basement and fireplace. Probably the best house I’ve ever lived in. This lasted from 1977-83. There were three distinct phases, lasting approximately two years each: 1) everyone got along; we were comfortable; 2) when my son was born, animosity began to spew forth, conflicts mainly involving meddling in our parenting; 3) we all decided it was best to get our own house. I recall looking at maybe 60 houses over three months. Finally, we settled on one I wasn’t particularly thrilled with. We lived there from 1983-87. Jane got sick twice and required hospitalization. My parents babysat while I went to work. Jane recovered and things went on. I continued writing, working on novels at night and on the weekends, not appreciated by anyone close to me. There were also the behind-the-back comments, so that, when I headed to my desk, my son would say things like, “Daddy’s wasting his time again.”
About the writing, the band of brothers couldn’t be less interested. I had no one to share this with. I was hopeful it could be successful; this was before the flood of publisher rejections began.
The best quality about my Dad was his generosity, although sometimes respect would have been preferable. In March, ’87, still dreary winter in Jersey, he offered to take all of us to Florida for a week. I had never been. It was a great trip, all touristy, but I fell in love with the climate. Disney, Epcot, Sea World, Silver Springs, Weeki-Watchee, Medieval Times. My uncle John had moved his family to south Florida back in the 70s. He drove up to Orlando to spend one day with us. He talked a lot about living there and how much he enjoyed it.
Back to Jersey, temperatures still in the 30s. My high-paying job at American Broadcasting was not going well. I would eventually be “disappeared”. New regime, the shifting of corporate fortunes and all that.” I’d get the flu 2-4 times every winter. Winter in the northeast basically runs from late November through the end of April. I used to call March suicide month. No end in sight and no holidays. Snow in April was not uncommon. It struck me when I was watching spring training baseball games on TV. The little ballparks, and the swaying palm trees out back behind the outfield fences. What if…?
No one was encouraging about this “bold stroke”, not even the band of brothers. “Florida? They have sinkholes there.” Or, “you’re not really going to stay there, are you?”
Now, here’s the kicker: my parents came along, too and Jane was none too thrilled about that. They’re interfering again. Not my choice. What if you get sick? I have to work and we have a five-year old. To my parents, Jane’s resentment was my fault. To Jane, their presence was my fault. It was my job to hold all the loose cannons together. So, we sold our houses within a week. To sunny Florida, all of us crammed into a three-bedroom apartment. That didn’t last long. After all, a three-story four-bedroom house proved too small. My parents moved out and a few months later I bought a house, however my parents were around all the time, helping out, but at least a little distance kept the lid on.
Passion and ardor waned in the marriage and as my son reached adolescence, the years grew stormy. He was volatile, even explosive at times; as a result, much of our energy was focused on him. I still tried to write, and even used the small fourth bedroom as a kind of home office. I would announce I’m going in for an hour or so, does anyone need anything? No? The door to that home office would be closed less than two minutes and the knocking would begin. What about this, what about that?
Middle school was difficult and high school did not end well. There were psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists, anti-depressants, and other medications. And one brief hospitalization. Meds for all of us, and individual and family therapy.
I stopped and stared for maybe 30 seconds. If it had meant what I initially thought (hoped?), I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. I knocked on the door. She cracked it open and I could read nothing from her expression. Oh, I forgot my keys. Thanks. Good night.
Shortly after, Susan became pregnant and left. As I recall it wasn’t a maternity leave. She wasn’t coming back. I felt like I had to move on.
Jane and I then began to imagine ourselves as parents. This was 1980. We agreed that if Jane could remain “episode-free” for four years, we’d give it a go. I read this back to myself and it seems like casual irresponsibility. Our son was born in late ’81.
Because of Jane’s illness and the unpredictability of recurring episodes, we moved into a terrific house with my parents: four bedrooms, separate kitchens, full finished basement and fireplace. Probably the best house I’ve ever lived in. This lasted from 1977-83. There were three distinct phases, lasting approximately two years each: 1) everyone got along; we were comfortable; 2) when my son was born, animosity began to spew forth, conflicts mainly involving meddling in our parenting; 3) we all decided it was best to get our own house. I recall looking at maybe 60 houses over three months. Finally, we settled on one I wasn’t particularly thrilled with. We lived there from 1983-87. Jane got sick twice and required hospitalization. My parents babysat while I went to work. Jane recovered and things went on. I continued writing, working on novels at night and on the weekends, not appreciated by anyone close to me. There were also the behind-the-back comments, so that, when I headed to my desk, my son would say things like, “Daddy’s wasting his time again.”
About the writing, the band of brothers couldn’t be less interested. I had no one to share this with. I was hopeful it could be successful; this was before the flood of publisher rejections began.
The best quality about my Dad was his generosity, although sometimes respect would have been preferable. In March, ’87, still dreary winter in Jersey, he offered to take all of us to Florida for a week. I had never been. It was a great trip, all touristy, but I fell in love with the climate. Disney, Epcot, Sea World, Silver Springs, Weeki-Watchee, Medieval Times. My uncle John had moved his family to south Florida back in the 70s. He drove up to Orlando to spend one day with us. He talked a lot about living there and how much he enjoyed it.
Back to Jersey, temperatures still in the 30s. My high-paying job at American Broadcasting was not going well. I would eventually be “disappeared”. New regime, the shifting of corporate fortunes and all that.” I’d get the flu 2-4 times every winter. Winter in the northeast basically runs from late November through the end of April. I used to call March suicide month. No end in sight and no holidays. Snow in April was not uncommon. It struck me when I was watching spring training baseball games on TV. The little ballparks, and the swaying palm trees out back behind the outfield fences. What if…?
No one was encouraging about this “bold stroke”, not even the band of brothers. “Florida? They have sinkholes there.” Or, “you’re not really going to stay there, are you?”
Now, here’s the kicker: my parents came along, too and Jane was none too thrilled about that. They’re interfering again. Not my choice. What if you get sick? I have to work and we have a five-year old. To my parents, Jane’s resentment was my fault. To Jane, their presence was my fault. It was my job to hold all the loose cannons together. So, we sold our houses within a week. To sunny Florida, all of us crammed into a three-bedroom apartment. That didn’t last long. After all, a three-story four-bedroom house proved too small. My parents moved out and a few months later I bought a house, however my parents were around all the time, helping out, but at least a little distance kept the lid on.
Passion and ardor waned in the marriage and as my son reached adolescence, the years grew stormy. He was volatile, even explosive at times; as a result, much of our energy was focused on him. I still tried to write, and even used the small fourth bedroom as a kind of home office. I would announce I’m going in for an hour or so, does anyone need anything? No? The door to that home office would be closed less than two minutes and the knocking would begin. What about this, what about that?
Middle school was difficult and high school did not end well. There were psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists, anti-depressants, and other medications. And one brief hospitalization. Meds for all of us, and individual and family therapy.
Virtual Cheating.
By the late 90s, the Internet was beginning to offer virtual outlets for everyone’s frustrations. And it was available at work during intermittent periods of downtime. It didn’t take long to discover the guilty pleasures of online porn. I also during this time began to rationalize that poor me had been so neglected that what if I cheated? I visited the local nude bars a few times. Every time I left, I felt empty, filled with self-loathing.
During this time, I begged Jane to go with me to couples counseling. She refused and then I said when our son turns 18, I have to go. Apparently thinking I was bluffing, I remember her words, “go for it.” So I eventually did.
Back to the Internet, I began to look for writers groups, just to have someone to communicate with. I found a talented lady my age named Monica, who was writing novels and she was something of an artist, too. We exchanged writing and before long our kindred souls and spirits got a little friendlier than they should have. Similarly, she was the near the end in a bad marriage, except in her case, there were no children. Furtive phone calls, email, instant messaging, mailing gifts to P.O. boxes continued and I let myself get carried away. I briefly mulled over the idea of taking off, walking away from everything. Monica lived only two states away. I told her of my plans to divorce when my son was 18. I begged her on occasion to meet halfway for a long weekend, and she refused because and I quote, “I love you so much that if we met in person, I couldn’t bear to leave you.” Uh-huh. By the time I was divorced, this virtual affair was over with a whimper. Monica divorced and moved farther away to an area where she could find work to support herself, reasoning that she didn’t think I would leave my son to be with her so she had to look out for her own interests. I suppose she was right. I couldn’t leave him. In fact because of the animosity between Jane and our son, I asked that she move out because it would be better for him. That turned out to be sort of true. It was an amicable parting, though with much sadness.
The virtual affair over, Jane and I separated in April, 2000. The divorce did not come through until the following January. However, I started looking at dating sites, thinking that true love—in the flesh—was still possible. I was 48, in good physical condition, not the mess I am now. Too soon to give up.
During this time, I begged Jane to go with me to couples counseling. She refused and then I said when our son turns 18, I have to go. Apparently thinking I was bluffing, I remember her words, “go for it.” So I eventually did.
Back to the Internet, I began to look for writers groups, just to have someone to communicate with. I found a talented lady my age named Monica, who was writing novels and she was something of an artist, too. We exchanged writing and before long our kindred souls and spirits got a little friendlier than they should have. Similarly, she was the near the end in a bad marriage, except in her case, there were no children. Furtive phone calls, email, instant messaging, mailing gifts to P.O. boxes continued and I let myself get carried away. I briefly mulled over the idea of taking off, walking away from everything. Monica lived only two states away. I told her of my plans to divorce when my son was 18. I begged her on occasion to meet halfway for a long weekend, and she refused because and I quote, “I love you so much that if we met in person, I couldn’t bear to leave you.” Uh-huh. By the time I was divorced, this virtual affair was over with a whimper. Monica divorced and moved farther away to an area where she could find work to support herself, reasoning that she didn’t think I would leave my son to be with her so she had to look out for her own interests. I suppose she was right. I couldn’t leave him. In fact because of the animosity between Jane and our son, I asked that she move out because it would be better for him. That turned out to be sort of true. It was an amicable parting, though with much sadness.
The virtual affair over, Jane and I separated in April, 2000. The divorce did not come through until the following January. However, I started looking at dating sites, thinking that true love—in the flesh—was still possible. I was 48, in good physical condition, not the mess I am now. Too soon to give up.
Enter the Sociopath.
More from The Sociopath Next Door synopsis:
How do we recognize the remorseless? One of their chief characteristics is a kind of glow or charisma that makes sociopaths more charming or interesting than the other people around them. They’re more spontaneous, more intense, more complex, or even sexier than everyone else, making them tricky to identify and leaving us easily seduced. Fundamentally, sociopaths are different because they cannot love. Sociopaths learn early on to show sham emotion, but underneath they are indifferent to others’ suffering. They live to dominate and thrill to win.
“La Disturbia,’ crazy as batshit, nickname later shortened to Batz, Sometimes affectionately, Guano. But crazy like a fox. I didn’t see it until the after the spectacular extreme termination with prejudice, but all along Batz had a dual agenda, and was quite the Lady Macbeth in trying to shape it. Nothing that came before prepared me for this. It would be the last heartbreak since afterwards there was nothing left but fragments and shards.
We met online and the seemingly mutual interests jumped right out of the screen. We both hailed from New Jersey and we knew a lot of the same old haunts. She in fact had been a nurse at Beth Israel Hospital in Newark where I was born, not then but much later. At the time, summer 2000, a college professor, teaching nursing theory, a dissertation away from a PhD, I was attracted to her intellect as well as passion. Initially, we corresponded through email sharing many common interests, books, films, sports, and New Jersey. She was divorced with a teenage son and daughter.
As time proved, this was one disturbed individual, but I will say up front, I should have seen it coming, so I take the blame. Batz liked her alone time and a real meeting was delayed, because every summer, she and her daughter took a week to tour the country. That seemed OK to me. We actually met a couple of weeks before her birthday and I thought we could do something. But, she informed me, that she liked to spend her birthdays alone and I later learned that it was not uncommon for her to jump in her car and just take off. It was the second or third date, the first time I was invited to her home: “I hate Florida. As soon as my youngest graduates high school, I’m outta here.” I made a serious strategic blunder, considering I was looking for a serious relationship. What I should have done was say “thank you for a lovely evening and have a nice life.” Moving to Florida had been her ex-husband’s idea some years before.
This time I didn’t say it first. She did. It had been a few months, and the romance was growing torrid: movies, beach picnics after dark, hasty lunchtime meetings, long walks, and much intellectual sharing. She seemed interested in my writing. Still, there seemed an underlying note of tension, perhaps not as subtle as I thought then. Then, one twilight on a nearly deserted beach: “I think I’m falling in love with you.” That, in hindsight advanced the tension and established her dual agenda. Her parents were deceased and her children would be moving onto college. I had two elderly parents and a son still dependent on me. I was in no position to leave.
We continued in the pose of serious dating, me staying over when the kids were with the ex. Until mid’04, we traveled a lot: back to Jersey, tracing our roots and old neighborhoods, including a reunion with the band of brothers. We didn’t look up any of her friends, which I thought was odd. We were both were very generous with gifts. I bought her red roses all the time. We exchanged jewelry. Always went halfsies on dinners out and birthdays were a big deal. Trips included: Disney, Epcot, west coast of Florida, Key West three years running, Jersey (as I mentioned), Vermont. Now, Batz was a sports enthusiast, especially baseball, complaining that her ex never took her to Cooperstown. I arranged a surprise trip for her birthday.
The hook in me went deepest at one of our Disney visits. We were taking the ferry back to one of the resorts and it came over the loudspeaker, “When you wish upon a star….” I got teary and thought this is it. I’ve found true love.
Over time, a kind of distancing set in and I think Batz was having second thoughts; she was conflicted. I like this guy well enough, but not staying Florida was a bigger priority. Distancing would take the form of taking the kids to visit college, a week alone to rent a bungalow at the Jersey shore to work on her dissertation. Weekends gone to work on it at a local university. I offered to help her edit it, although she wrote well. In the four years we were actually together, I never saw a page of this opus. Other weekend or weeklong disappearances included: road trips for the kids, visiting friends in Atlanta and New York, disaster drills at her university. I was in a basketball league. She rarely attended my games, failed to show up at amateur acting group’s final show I was “performing” in.
One weekend, she refused to stay over at my place because there was no one at her house to walk the dog, a scruffy undisciplined mutt.
It got to the point where we saw each other as little as three times a month (living 20 minutes apart) and this was the first time I tried to break this off. Maybe it was all she wanted. It wasn’t enough for me. It reminds me of Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in Annie Hall (1977), each seeing their own shrink. Both shrinks ask the same question: “do you have sex often”. He says, “almost never, about three times a week.” She says, “constantly, about three times a week.”
We met at a beach parking lot on a Sunday morning. I got in her car, with her house key in my clenched fist, set to return it. Not sure quite what to expect, I thought it was possible she might be relieved, and we’d go on our separate ways, but no. I said I know you have a lot going on with the kids, the college, your research, but I don’t even come before the dog. She put on quite a show: shock, hyperventilating (please get me some juice from the shop up the road, my blood sugar’s dropping, I feel faint), tears, what can I do…. Promises of spending more time together gushed out and, with this second blunder, I relented. We did spend a little more time together, but the previous habits eventually set back in.
Then there were the unfettered, undisguised lies: I will never leave you, no matter what, evoked as part of informal vows we recited in a Key West church.
How do we recognize the remorseless? One of their chief characteristics is a kind of glow or charisma that makes sociopaths more charming or interesting than the other people around them. They’re more spontaneous, more intense, more complex, or even sexier than everyone else, making them tricky to identify and leaving us easily seduced. Fundamentally, sociopaths are different because they cannot love. Sociopaths learn early on to show sham emotion, but underneath they are indifferent to others’ suffering. They live to dominate and thrill to win.
“La Disturbia,’ crazy as batshit, nickname later shortened to Batz, Sometimes affectionately, Guano. But crazy like a fox. I didn’t see it until the after the spectacular extreme termination with prejudice, but all along Batz had a dual agenda, and was quite the Lady Macbeth in trying to shape it. Nothing that came before prepared me for this. It would be the last heartbreak since afterwards there was nothing left but fragments and shards.
We met online and the seemingly mutual interests jumped right out of the screen. We both hailed from New Jersey and we knew a lot of the same old haunts. She in fact had been a nurse at Beth Israel Hospital in Newark where I was born, not then but much later. At the time, summer 2000, a college professor, teaching nursing theory, a dissertation away from a PhD, I was attracted to her intellect as well as passion. Initially, we corresponded through email sharing many common interests, books, films, sports, and New Jersey. She was divorced with a teenage son and daughter.
As time proved, this was one disturbed individual, but I will say up front, I should have seen it coming, so I take the blame. Batz liked her alone time and a real meeting was delayed, because every summer, she and her daughter took a week to tour the country. That seemed OK to me. We actually met a couple of weeks before her birthday and I thought we could do something. But, she informed me, that she liked to spend her birthdays alone and I later learned that it was not uncommon for her to jump in her car and just take off. It was the second or third date, the first time I was invited to her home: “I hate Florida. As soon as my youngest graduates high school, I’m outta here.” I made a serious strategic blunder, considering I was looking for a serious relationship. What I should have done was say “thank you for a lovely evening and have a nice life.” Moving to Florida had been her ex-husband’s idea some years before.
This time I didn’t say it first. She did. It had been a few months, and the romance was growing torrid: movies, beach picnics after dark, hasty lunchtime meetings, long walks, and much intellectual sharing. She seemed interested in my writing. Still, there seemed an underlying note of tension, perhaps not as subtle as I thought then. Then, one twilight on a nearly deserted beach: “I think I’m falling in love with you.” That, in hindsight advanced the tension and established her dual agenda. Her parents were deceased and her children would be moving onto college. I had two elderly parents and a son still dependent on me. I was in no position to leave.
We continued in the pose of serious dating, me staying over when the kids were with the ex. Until mid’04, we traveled a lot: back to Jersey, tracing our roots and old neighborhoods, including a reunion with the band of brothers. We didn’t look up any of her friends, which I thought was odd. We were both were very generous with gifts. I bought her red roses all the time. We exchanged jewelry. Always went halfsies on dinners out and birthdays were a big deal. Trips included: Disney, Epcot, west coast of Florida, Key West three years running, Jersey (as I mentioned), Vermont. Now, Batz was a sports enthusiast, especially baseball, complaining that her ex never took her to Cooperstown. I arranged a surprise trip for her birthday.
The hook in me went deepest at one of our Disney visits. We were taking the ferry back to one of the resorts and it came over the loudspeaker, “When you wish upon a star….” I got teary and thought this is it. I’ve found true love.
Over time, a kind of distancing set in and I think Batz was having second thoughts; she was conflicted. I like this guy well enough, but not staying Florida was a bigger priority. Distancing would take the form of taking the kids to visit college, a week alone to rent a bungalow at the Jersey shore to work on her dissertation. Weekends gone to work on it at a local university. I offered to help her edit it, although she wrote well. In the four years we were actually together, I never saw a page of this opus. Other weekend or weeklong disappearances included: road trips for the kids, visiting friends in Atlanta and New York, disaster drills at her university. I was in a basketball league. She rarely attended my games, failed to show up at amateur acting group’s final show I was “performing” in.
One weekend, she refused to stay over at my place because there was no one at her house to walk the dog, a scruffy undisciplined mutt.
It got to the point where we saw each other as little as three times a month (living 20 minutes apart) and this was the first time I tried to break this off. Maybe it was all she wanted. It wasn’t enough for me. It reminds me of Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in Annie Hall (1977), each seeing their own shrink. Both shrinks ask the same question: “do you have sex often”. He says, “almost never, about three times a week.” She says, “constantly, about three times a week.”
We met at a beach parking lot on a Sunday morning. I got in her car, with her house key in my clenched fist, set to return it. Not sure quite what to expect, I thought it was possible she might be relieved, and we’d go on our separate ways, but no. I said I know you have a lot going on with the kids, the college, your research, but I don’t even come before the dog. She put on quite a show: shock, hyperventilating (please get me some juice from the shop up the road, my blood sugar’s dropping, I feel faint), tears, what can I do…. Promises of spending more time together gushed out and, with this second blunder, I relented. We did spend a little more time together, but the previous habits eventually set back in.
Then there were the unfettered, undisguised lies: I will never leave you, no matter what, evoked as part of informal vows we recited in a Key West church.
Your son can be with us if necessary, with my background (nursing), I will help you with your parents when the time comes. And the bizarre behavior…. Backing up a bit, early on I raised the issue of marriage and her response was cool and clinical. I thought about it and decided I agreed; given the success rates of marriages, living together would be more practical. In public, if someone made the “mistake” of thinking us married, she’d let out an audible gasp and her features would screw up as if she had bitten into a lemon.
The unspoken tension notched up in the latter half of ’03. During a third straight visit to a timeshare in Key West, I could tell things were not right. Her daughter’s senior year. Time was running out. In early ’04, my son took ill and was hospitalized for nearly a month. Batz crawled under a rock. I saw her exactly once during this period. I could have used the moral support, especially from someone who claimed to love me and with a medical background. My son recovered and I took some time to care for him under the Family Medical Leave Act. He gradually improved.
During this period, I was thinking a lot about Dilbertland: 30 years and I was burned out, a real syndrome. I decided to take a huge pay cut and teach high school. I was interviewed and was hired at a county job fair and was scheduled to begin that August. Batz took me out to dinner on my last day at Dilbertland. This was two weeks before the scheduled timeshare week in Key West. Are we going? She was evasive. I don’t know. He daughter graduated and she had put her house up for sale and it went quickly. For some “unaccountable” (ha!) reason, she scheduled the closing during the timeshare week. That pissed me off but there was the larger question of “what are we—you and I—going to do?” “I don’t know.” I remember telling a therapist at the time: I can’t see the future. For the second time, I said, forget it all, you can’t seem to commit. Of course this exchange took place over the phone. She had moved out of her sold house and wouldn’t tell me exactly where she was staying. I said, as I listened to tears which may or may not have been real, let’s just get on with our lives.” I hung up on her. So, I went to Key West and took my son who had never been.
After a couple of days, Batz began calling my cell phone. I didn’t answer right away, but I listened to the hysterical messages: “I’m sorry. I need you. I love you. If you don’t answer, I guess I’ll have to keep calling you the rest of my life.” Finally, I caved, too stupid to accept at this point that the relationship was not salvageable. Blunder number three.
You may conclude I got what I deserved since I kept asking for it and you’d be right.
Upon returning from Key West at the end of June, we resumed phone calls and email. She vaguely alluded to staying with local friends. Memory gets a little fuzzy here, but I believe she asked to meet at the beach one Sunday morning. Anticipating reconcilement (I was delusional), she struck hard again. Something about taking a teaching position in another state and would I come with her. Obviously this had been in the works for some time, possibly as far back as the previous year. This from a person who often commented about taking the high road with life’s problems. Now, to my shame, I went back to my one-bedroom apartment and actually thought about it for the afternoon. Shaking my head, I called and said no. She may have said something like, we can still be together. It’s a year contract. The broken relationship limped along with phone calls and email and we did not see each other for nine months, not until the following Spring (’05). She told me she broke her teaching contract and would come to me when the holidays were over. These plans were delayed when her daughter began having trouble at school (maybe, who knows), across country. That added some months, and some other circumstances required the daughter to transfer to another university, closer but still out of state.
Batz came to visit for three or four days. I was already in my second semester of high school. There was another brief visit, then a Thanksgiving visit, probably because her children were otherwise engaged. At this point she promised a return for good after the holidays. I told her I would get a larger apartment. I had to move anyway; the place had rats. I moved into a new place, clean, larger, a week before Christmas. Batz had a lot of furniture in storage, but was going to load up her car, including the insufferable mutt, and drive to my place, sounding none too enthusiastic over the phone. It was right after New Year’s. I received a call from her on the road that she had a slight accident. She was OK but the dog had been hurt. Instead of seeking vet attention where she was or continuing and finding one near me she did an about-face and returned to her point of origin. The dog supposedly required two weeks to convalesce.
I feel like such a fool re-piecing this together. You had to get up pretty late at night to fool me.
She arrived on a Thursday afternoon. This is when it really started to get weird. She did indeed unload her car, placed clothes in the closet. One of her first questions: “where will my piano go?” Hmmm. What I should have said was bend over and I'll show you. I was working (a brief but lucrative return to Dilbertland) and on Friday afternoon, a 13th , Batz called me at work and asked me to leave early. She claimed someone called her cell and said, “Prepare to die.” I immediately thought it was a Friday the thirteenth prank. We didn’t go out that Saturday, but I remember Batz complaining about the space, the bathroom, even the household cleaners I was using. You could cut the tension with a knife. I went to bed early. She came in later and slept with her back to me, something she had never done before. Sunday morning I awoke early and went to the computer in the other room. I remember her coming through the door, saying good morning, reaching out, giving me a hug. She was pale and her smile belied her distress, her tormented features. I realize now it was a tentative goodbye hug. That morning she began asking could I consider living an hour north. How about 300 miles away? I said I’d been in the apartment one month and had signed a lease. It was early afternoon and I spoke to my son and he asked if I wanted to watch a little football with him. I needed to get out for a while, the air was getting a bit thick. We went to a sports bar and I think I was out two and a half hours. The county fair was in town that weekend and he suggested why don’t you, me, and Batz go later that evening? I said I’d drive back home and ask her. I arrived and noticed that her car was gone, and in my nutshell brain I thought maybe she went to the store to get something for dinner. I passed the shrubbery from the parking lot and noticed some clothes hangers, as if dropped.
The apartment was deathly still. Directly in front of me on my round glass table was a white sheet of paper filled with printing. “Dear Joe-Jerk…I think you’re too attached to your family, blah-blah…” I was sufficiently shocked that I couldn’t finish reading the note, that in retrospect was probably written in advance. I can’t prove it but it fits the profile.
I rushed to the second bedroom, threw open the closet doors and all her clothes were gone. A normal guy would have ordered a hit on her by this time. I called her cell and said in good theatrical voice: what have you done? A lot of stammering, tears (which may or may not have been real). I actually (call it self-emasculation) asked (begged?) her to come back so we could talk. She said no and I just hung up. I waited a couple of hours, called back and she surprisingly answered. I asked again and then the final spike: “that threatening call Friday? That was your son.” I was so enraged that I yelled at the top of my lungs and called her every name in the book. And that was that. I even checked phone records. He made no such call. I haven’t mentioned it, but the two were wary of each other. He said on more than one occasion, “you’re going to get hurt.” Batz didn’t exactly take the “high road” out of my life.
Naturally I got an email two weeks later, with Batz writing that her behavior was inexcusable. Yeah, so. I wrote back and said I refuse to despise you but you are despicable. Finally, in a process which had started 18 months earlier, we were done. My biggest mistake? Answering those calls in Key West back in ’04. You have to know when to let go, when the situation is no longer tenable. Well, Batz at least cured me of separation anxiety. A fitting epitaph for this bizarre, twisted relationship: “We’ll always be together as long as we’re apart.”
The unspoken tension notched up in the latter half of ’03. During a third straight visit to a timeshare in Key West, I could tell things were not right. Her daughter’s senior year. Time was running out. In early ’04, my son took ill and was hospitalized for nearly a month. Batz crawled under a rock. I saw her exactly once during this period. I could have used the moral support, especially from someone who claimed to love me and with a medical background. My son recovered and I took some time to care for him under the Family Medical Leave Act. He gradually improved.
During this period, I was thinking a lot about Dilbertland: 30 years and I was burned out, a real syndrome. I decided to take a huge pay cut and teach high school. I was interviewed and was hired at a county job fair and was scheduled to begin that August. Batz took me out to dinner on my last day at Dilbertland. This was two weeks before the scheduled timeshare week in Key West. Are we going? She was evasive. I don’t know. He daughter graduated and she had put her house up for sale and it went quickly. For some “unaccountable” (ha!) reason, she scheduled the closing during the timeshare week. That pissed me off but there was the larger question of “what are we—you and I—going to do?” “I don’t know.” I remember telling a therapist at the time: I can’t see the future. For the second time, I said, forget it all, you can’t seem to commit. Of course this exchange took place over the phone. She had moved out of her sold house and wouldn’t tell me exactly where she was staying. I said, as I listened to tears which may or may not have been real, let’s just get on with our lives.” I hung up on her. So, I went to Key West and took my son who had never been.
After a couple of days, Batz began calling my cell phone. I didn’t answer right away, but I listened to the hysterical messages: “I’m sorry. I need you. I love you. If you don’t answer, I guess I’ll have to keep calling you the rest of my life.” Finally, I caved, too stupid to accept at this point that the relationship was not salvageable. Blunder number three.
You may conclude I got what I deserved since I kept asking for it and you’d be right.
Upon returning from Key West at the end of June, we resumed phone calls and email. She vaguely alluded to staying with local friends. Memory gets a little fuzzy here, but I believe she asked to meet at the beach one Sunday morning. Anticipating reconcilement (I was delusional), she struck hard again. Something about taking a teaching position in another state and would I come with her. Obviously this had been in the works for some time, possibly as far back as the previous year. This from a person who often commented about taking the high road with life’s problems. Now, to my shame, I went back to my one-bedroom apartment and actually thought about it for the afternoon. Shaking my head, I called and said no. She may have said something like, we can still be together. It’s a year contract. The broken relationship limped along with phone calls and email and we did not see each other for nine months, not until the following Spring (’05). She told me she broke her teaching contract and would come to me when the holidays were over. These plans were delayed when her daughter began having trouble at school (maybe, who knows), across country. That added some months, and some other circumstances required the daughter to transfer to another university, closer but still out of state.
Batz came to visit for three or four days. I was already in my second semester of high school. There was another brief visit, then a Thanksgiving visit, probably because her children were otherwise engaged. At this point she promised a return for good after the holidays. I told her I would get a larger apartment. I had to move anyway; the place had rats. I moved into a new place, clean, larger, a week before Christmas. Batz had a lot of furniture in storage, but was going to load up her car, including the insufferable mutt, and drive to my place, sounding none too enthusiastic over the phone. It was right after New Year’s. I received a call from her on the road that she had a slight accident. She was OK but the dog had been hurt. Instead of seeking vet attention where she was or continuing and finding one near me she did an about-face and returned to her point of origin. The dog supposedly required two weeks to convalesce.
I feel like such a fool re-piecing this together. You had to get up pretty late at night to fool me.
She arrived on a Thursday afternoon. This is when it really started to get weird. She did indeed unload her car, placed clothes in the closet. One of her first questions: “where will my piano go?” Hmmm. What I should have said was bend over and I'll show you. I was working (a brief but lucrative return to Dilbertland) and on Friday afternoon, a 13th , Batz called me at work and asked me to leave early. She claimed someone called her cell and said, “Prepare to die.” I immediately thought it was a Friday the thirteenth prank. We didn’t go out that Saturday, but I remember Batz complaining about the space, the bathroom, even the household cleaners I was using. You could cut the tension with a knife. I went to bed early. She came in later and slept with her back to me, something she had never done before. Sunday morning I awoke early and went to the computer in the other room. I remember her coming through the door, saying good morning, reaching out, giving me a hug. She was pale and her smile belied her distress, her tormented features. I realize now it was a tentative goodbye hug. That morning she began asking could I consider living an hour north. How about 300 miles away? I said I’d been in the apartment one month and had signed a lease. It was early afternoon and I spoke to my son and he asked if I wanted to watch a little football with him. I needed to get out for a while, the air was getting a bit thick. We went to a sports bar and I think I was out two and a half hours. The county fair was in town that weekend and he suggested why don’t you, me, and Batz go later that evening? I said I’d drive back home and ask her. I arrived and noticed that her car was gone, and in my nutshell brain I thought maybe she went to the store to get something for dinner. I passed the shrubbery from the parking lot and noticed some clothes hangers, as if dropped.
The apartment was deathly still. Directly in front of me on my round glass table was a white sheet of paper filled with printing. “Dear Joe-Jerk…I think you’re too attached to your family, blah-blah…” I was sufficiently shocked that I couldn’t finish reading the note, that in retrospect was probably written in advance. I can’t prove it but it fits the profile.
I rushed to the second bedroom, threw open the closet doors and all her clothes were gone. A normal guy would have ordered a hit on her by this time. I called her cell and said in good theatrical voice: what have you done? A lot of stammering, tears (which may or may not have been real). I actually (call it self-emasculation) asked (begged?) her to come back so we could talk. She said no and I just hung up. I waited a couple of hours, called back and she surprisingly answered. I asked again and then the final spike: “that threatening call Friday? That was your son.” I was so enraged that I yelled at the top of my lungs and called her every name in the book. And that was that. I even checked phone records. He made no such call. I haven’t mentioned it, but the two were wary of each other. He said on more than one occasion, “you’re going to get hurt.” Batz didn’t exactly take the “high road” out of my life.
Naturally I got an email two weeks later, with Batz writing that her behavior was inexcusable. Yeah, so. I wrote back and said I refuse to despise you but you are despicable. Finally, in a process which had started 18 months earlier, we were done. My biggest mistake? Answering those calls in Key West back in ’04. You have to know when to let go, when the situation is no longer tenable. Well, Batz at least cured me of separation anxiety. A fitting epitaph for this bizarre, twisted relationship: “We’ll always be together as long as we’re apart.”
The Key West church? The moonlit beaches, the Disney endings? Playing Glenn Close to Robert Redford in The Natural (1984)? All delusions.
No, it was more like this. I may not have the facts, location, or time period in the exact order, but the truth of the story is here. Despite the woman’s pathological lies and deceit, in the final analysis, I ignored ample warnings and I take responsibility for the emotional pain. Shame on me many times over. Not looking for sympathy. So, guys and gals, heed what is said on early dates and act accordingly and decisively and don’t look back. The real victim in these relationship clusterfucks? One's sense of trust. Dignity doesn't fare so well either.