Hey…how are you doing?
Hi…who is this?
Jackdude, hi!
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
He left me. Twice.
Abandoned like a two-day-old sandwich, pitched aside to melt in a puddle of separated mayonnaise and pickle juice.
His abrupt exit was a power outage in my life, black ink overtaking the brilliant light that was once present. No communication, no explanation. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. The second time, I was so caught up in him being back, so excited about being reunited that I never brought up the important questions about why he walked out in the first place… then he redacted before I even had the chance to ask.
And yet here’s Joe Third Chance. This rotting corpse. This decrepit zombie, ambling slowly back into my life. Maggots crawl from vacant eye sockets, limbs hang on by a thread. He is totally stinking up my inbox. How does he even remember my name? He left me! He ditched me! This fucking bastard broke my heart. And then broke it again.
How am I doing? HOW AM I DOING?!
The man is deranged. Crazy. Psychopathic. SADISTIC.
I text back:
What the exact cinnamon toast fuck is the matter with you? Do you seriously think you are just going to waltz back in the door I should have shut and deadbolted with a Doberman standing sentry? Do you remember walking out on me? Twice? Do you really think you can give me the complete silent treatment for literal months and now act like nothing happened? Are you out of your mind? Are you just coming back to stick the knife in a little deeper? Why on God’s green Earth are you contacting me after you already stated, twice, that you were worried I was going to cheat on you, something I have never done and never would do? You already established you don’t want to see me so why the hell are these words sitting here on my phone staring me in the face? Do you want to see how much pain you can cause? WHAT KIND OF DIABOLICAL CRAZY PSYCHOTIC MOTHERFUCKER ARE YOU??!!
Okay, that’s what I WANT to text. What I actually text is this:
why are you contacting me
I honestly can’t imagine what possible reason he could have for bubbling up out of nowhere, a faulty sewer line spewing forth communication after months of silence. But he does have a reason. His little idea is an insulting slap in the face.
He wants to give me money.
You read that right. Mr. Hero thinks he’s going to save the day, rescue me from my business being shut down. It’s no secret that my line of work has been deemed “unnecessary”, which is super fun for my self esteem, and my wallet.
The shutdown brought back memories of a question posed when I was in middle school. You have a lifeboat that can sustain only seven people, you have ten. Who gets to live? And of course, you’re deciding between doctors, scientists, farmers, and a hairdresser. I’m not super optimistic about my chances. I might as well visit a roulette wheel and bet on pink.
Well, Jackdude is an engineer and gets to stay in the lifeboat, while I am pitched overboard with an unceremonious splash. He was crowned Worthy Of Continuing To Work by the powers that be, and has plenty of money coming in. He always did have a healthy six-figure income, heavy drinking notwithstanding. I have no idea how he pulls off this little hat-trick, but he’s been doing it forever.
This sucks. So the guy who dumped me twice is returning now, when I’m at my weakest, to offer me some of his bags of money. I feel humiliated. My cheeks burn, knowing that I really could use any money I can get. I’m rapidly exhausting my resources, and I have kids who still require some level of responsibility and care.
I can’t do it. There is no way. I would live in a tent before accepting money from him. In January. In the Himalayas.
Yet here I am having this stupid text conversation wth him. So, I ask him why he’s contacting me now…
Things have changed… I got another DUI.
Yep. That’s what he said.
If any of you readers have a single solitary idea whatsoever as to why getting another DUI constitutes a text message to your old girlfriend about how you want to pay her bills, I am listening. I never did figure this one out, it’s a question for the ages. Like hot dog buns coming in 8 while hot dogs are sold in 10, why monosyllabic is such a long word, and why Target insists on designing women’s clothing only appropriate for Laura Ingalls Wilder or a prison inmate.
The text conversation continues. He feels badly for me, he knows this is hard for me, he wants to help me, bla bla bla. After a while of this, I weary of the lengthy text conversation, and I stupidly take the bait, and finally press the doomsday button.
CALL.
The minute he answers, I am sucked in. The jovial demeanor, the disarmingly humble tone, the contagious laugh. We instantly reconnect. I genuinely loved this man. We chat for a while, and I dig in. I ask why he left the second time. I told him I felt used. He said he had been with someone who cheated on him, so when I said something questionable, he panicked and left. Understandable, I guess. Is it? He said he was sorry. He was delightful on the phone, we talked for an hour and a half. He explained everything he had done, and then some.
I explained why I couldn’t accept money from him. There’s just no way. He hurt me beyond belief. The scars have barely begun to heal, and I can’t feel beholden to the person who was once my emotional captor.
I actually think this is a common mistake to make, from toxic partners to toxic friends or even toxic parents. They swoop in with an offer of a place to stay, a down payment on a house, an extra car given, or even just outright money. It seems harmless enough, but the strings attached become chains that imprison, and you are now mentally bound to them. They can lord this over you forever, there is no expiration date for them reminding you how much you “needed” them. It allows controllers to stay in power.
I am all too familiar with this bait-and-switch, having seen it repeatedly in family situations in the church. Ha! I did learn something after all.
As much as I would love the thousands he is offering me, it is blood money and I won’t do it. I will struggle along in the open water until I find a piece of driftwood and swim to shore. I have to make this work, and make this work by myself, somehow. He insists that maybe at some point in the future he could help, and I tell him I’ll think about it. He says he’s worried about me.
He is warm, caring and wonderful. We talk, we laugh, we connect. I feel that old desire rising, the comfort of the connection with another person, the feeling of home. I have found my soulmate, and I get the sense that maybe we can work this out. Maybe it will all be okay.
We finish up our conversation, with sweet platitudes and his assurances that we will be talking much, much more. We are reconnected at last, and will eventually be riding his Harley into the sunset. Well, when he gets his license back, anyway.
We say a lengthy goodbye.
I’m smiling.
I hear my daughter “Mom, are you done yet?” in the next room.
“Just a minute,”
I look at the phone in my hand , conversation ended. 79 minutes.
He was my everything. The One. He took good care of me, I never spent a dime when I was with him. He opened every door, told me I was beautiful, did every charming thing you could ever think of that a man could do.
I click on his number and open up Add Contact. I had taken his name out before. I type his name in carefully, and hit Add, so the number is attached to his name.
I sit for a while, thinking about the wonderful times together. I anticipate the cuddle time we are going to have…long late nights over his Jack and my Chardonnay, talking endlessly about everything as he gazes into my brown eyes with his beautiful blues as I get lost in those pools of pale ice, as he laughs that contagious beautiful laugh, as I fall asleep in his arms, never to be alone again… And I won’t screw it up this time. I’ll do better, I’ll make sure I never do or say anything to make him suspect me of anything wrong. I’ll be the most faithful, wonderful, loving partner to him, and I’ll be very careful not to trigger his pain. I can’t wait to be in his arms again.
I continue to the next screen.
BLOCK NUMBER?
I tap YES.
Worship Leader Gone Wild 