Yesterday, I had a mostly great day. It was long and punishing but I felt good.
Everyone telling me my new hair is fabulous and I was wearing the Girl Child’s
jeans and sweater and they both fit
famously. I have been seeing a sweetheart of a man for 23 days now and got to
steal kisses with him in the parking lot between jobs. I worked a long hard day, headed home and
pulled in to check my mail. I looked at my brand new car as I got out of it to
walk to the mail box and I was actually….proud… proud of myself.
I have quashed that emotion my entire life. It was taught
in Sunday school that pride goeth before the fall and so I took it to heart
lest I burn in hell for basking in my own glory. I also had the hubris squeezed from my little
body by an unyielding mother and was forever behind her arm so my brother could
pass first. We went to every football game he played but my regional track
meets were just something that happened and scholarships and accomplishments
were expected from me but lauded when my brother gained them. So I
learned. Do what you’re supposed to do
and you won’t draw attention, good or bad. I learned my whole life to not be proud of a
fucking thing I did because that was presumptuous and just who the hell did I
think I was?? I still fight the inclination today to not be proud; so last
night, standing next to my mailbox, looking at my shiny car, wearing my
teenager’s jeans and sweater with my fabulous hair…I felt pride and contentment.
I was happy.
When I opened the mailbox I saw handwriting and without
even reading it, I knew. Then I pulled out 5 envelopes, all from him, all thick
and heavy. The pride. The happy. They slowly evaporated, lifting into the ice-cold
night air as I stood there staring. I
said out loud, “Awww shit.” I looked up to see if any neighbors were out and about
at close to 11PM. Not a soul but me and a stray cat. I carried my burden back
to the car got to the house and threw all of it on the table and took a hot
shower.
I came out and stared at the pile of mail and thought, Do I open it? Do I care? What the fuck can
he possibly say in all that? Maybe it’s
drawings or something.
I separated all the mail and then proceeded to open it all.
What I found were 71 front and back handwritten pages. Seventy…..One. I poured a glass of wine, put on some fuzzy
socks and jammies and pulled out a kitchen chair and started to read. The first line was a double-barrel fully
loaded guilt trip.
I’m
not doing good, baby.
What followed was a listing of supplications for my
attention, support, love and time. He apparently had corresponded with his
parents who told him they saw me at his daughter’s wedding and that I looked
great and he started in on that.
Why
did you lose weight baby? You didn't need to lose a pound for me to think you
were gorgeous. I love you, I've always loved you. Please don’t tell me you’re
with someone else. I can’t bear to think of that.
He followed with worries about all the kids and more
about how he loved me and at page 10, I put it down. I pictured the moment that
he realized it really was going to be over.
Would he be mad or resigned? Would he quit trying? I know that in his
mind all he has to do is get one tiny toe back in the door and he’s got it
licked. There was a time after he was gone, that was probably true. I knew
right that second that it was no longer. I had spent the day thinking about my future
and what I could do to make mine and my kids’ lives better, whether I’d find or
had found that someone to get old with or whether it really would be me by
myself forever and either way, I had a sense of hope and optimism about
it. Looking down at the letter on the
table made me feel anxious and dirty and sad.
I didn’t finish it. When I got to work this morning I
called the Department of Corrections and asked that he not be allowed to send
me any more mail. The woman cheerfully
told me she’d take care of it and that was that. When I hung up the phone, I
felt good and awful at the same time. Relieved
that I was never again going to open up my mailbox and find the sucker punch
waiting to steal my happy but sad that I’d more than likely done the worst
thing I could possibly do to another human being…erased his hope.
I know he
doesn’t deserve me. I know he DOES
deserve to be where he is but I just don’t have the desire to be the cause of
anyone’s pain. My best friend asked me how I felt when I told her I’d made the
call and I said, “I feel a bit like I've just pissed on a burning kitten.” I
got to feeling just actually like I was going to cry because I knew how badly
it was going to kill him when he found out. It makes me feel like a shitty
human being on a fundamental level to hurt someone and guess what? You better
fucking believe he knows it. So fuck him
and his happy stealing. Fuck him and all his manipulative machinations.
I’m now shopping for seat covers for my new
car…leopard or zebra???
