Archive for October, 2012

Al and Bruce fall like dominoes

For the entire 16 years of our marriage, Daisy was a terrible flirt. I thought it was cute (and harmless), and then one day she became sexually involved with some guy she met at the horse ranch just outside of town where she boarded her horses—a broken-down and arthritic ex rodeo clown linoleum installer named Al—which was not cute at all and hurt like hell. He had beautiful glimmering blue eyes and a rare wit, and an unrideable, trained burro named Lucida, left over from his clown days. Fickly enough, at the same time as she was making her getaway from our marriage she was letting the air out of Al’s parade, and none too gently at that, i.e., she cut him off on the same day, his fate and mine sealed simultaneously in one single, fell quash. Neither Al nor I ever tumbled to what had befallen us, and for a long time after she was gone, I’d get these rather forlorn (and most often drunken) phone calls from him wanting to know where Daze was and could he have her phone number, PLEASE.  Her parting remark to me was that by the end of our marriage, she didn’t care if I lived or died. I don’t know what her parting shot at Al was. He never said or maybe he didn’t remember, or maybe he didn’t want to remember. She never dated much after that, never remarried, lives alone now with 4 dogs and 9 cats in the really seamy part of west Modesto. Her horses are her life now. I know I’m bipolar and all, but come on, give me a break, how bad could it have been for her?

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How many people do you know

who grew up in a house where there were actually button hooks around, real ones, ones that had once been put to good use? Although I am one such, I never was put in button shoes, not even as an infant  mostly I went barefoot, and by the time I was able to stand, proper shoes were on the market, ones with laces, and the button hook, in no time at all, became a thing of no import, and could be found, if you really wanted to see one, in the very back of the top drawer (left) in a dresser in your mom’s bedroom, the one she kept the boxes of Sees candy in, candy which her male admirers would ply her with, and like as not she’d have sex with them if they did. Don’t misunderstand this! She was no slut. She just fell in love easily and often, especially if there were chocolates to be had. I sometimes wonder if she was borderline, because she couldn’t bear to be without a man longer than 5 minutes, say. Yes, my mother, the one who deigned to control her brood of six children via half formed and conditional attachments, and would only maintain an attachment with you if you were obedient and compliant or had somehow made her look good to her peers, making me feel I was worthless (what other possible explanation could a youngster come up with, eh?) (and very angry inside) convincing me that she (and ultimately ALL women) couldn’t be trusted to maintain an attachment. And this of course has royally fucked up my relationships with other people in general, but especially women in particular, so that now I have to MAKE the other person remain attached to me, despite how worthless I am, by being funny and entertaining or in some way useful or interesting, which of course is an insult to them, when you think about it. So, dearest Susan, do I love my therapist (and you) enough to let her (and you) be, to trust the two of you to think kindly-fondly of me even when I have nothing to say? What can we say about a man who is constitutionally incapable of simply sitting quietly with another person, even one he loves dearly? Ans: that the button hook must’ve intruded into his life early on, too early for any kind of sense of self worth to have even formed much less survived.

So of course all of this inner anger comes into the fore during a mania-inspired rage fit, and of course it is invariably directed at the woman in my life at the time. Neat, eh? That I was ever able to get a woman to have sex with me at all has got to be right up there along with the other miracles in my life.

My therapist says I’m being too hard on myself. I sure hope so.

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