My Life, Part VII

I told you that I had become depressed with the ending of my hopes for a career in the Army, and that I had developed anxiety issues after my accident. And I told you that I withdrew from my family and my life, and retreated into escapism. But I didn't tell you the link between the two: Prozac.

During the year and a half that I was recovering physically from my accident, I had finally gone and sought help for my depression, and now, anxiety. And they, of course, put me on meds. The pills helped at first: lifted the heavy weight of bad feelings and allowed me to start actually dealing with the issues underlying them, and also to start functioning again. But they had another effect as well. They numbed my feelings and left me in a state of permanent detachment. I still had feelings, but I didn't fully experience them, if that makes any sense. I could be angry, but look at myself objectively at the same time and say, "Hm, I'm angry right now. Fascinating."

And so, I went about my life and obligations mechanically, out of a sense of duty, rather than out of passion and love. And, though I was "comfortably numb" I was, in another way, more dissatisfied than ever. Nothing meant anything. And so I found things to occupy my mind, to distract me from the emptiness of being me. Or of being me on Prozac, anyway. Again, not making excuses: I'm responsible for my actions and decisions. Just explaining how it happened.

So, I went to college, intending to major in English Lit. I had imagined grey-haired professors in tweed jackets talking about Shakespeare and Dickens, and examining them on their literary and artistic merit. What I got was embittered feminists and opinionated homosexuals grinding their philosophical and political axes. At the expense of everything that I valued about literature, art, and culture. It was too late, by the time I realized just how bad it was, to switch my major. But I switched my focus from literature to creative writing, so at least I had to take fewer lit courses.  I had always wanted to write anyway.

For those who haven't experienced it, it's hard to describe how difficult it is to be a white, heterosexual, monogamous, conservative, Christian man in academia today. In other words, to be the personification of everything that is scorned and reviled by the current academic climate. And then, to be a veteran and an ex-cop on top of that: you may as well be walking around with horns and a pitchfork. Oh, and anti-feminist, which was probably the most damning thing of all. Not misogynist, just complementarian. I think feminism is at least as bad for women as it is for men. I don't want to cry about it, and I dealt with it at the time: stood my ground and fought for my beliefs, even though it got me in trouble more than once. But it really starts to hurt your feelings after a while. 'Nuff said.

Around 1999, I reached a point where I couldn't--or was unwilling to--take any more of my wife's nonsense. We had an ugly, horrible fight, I don't even remember what over (there were so many), and I left. I got a room in a fleabag hotel and proceeded to get drunk. But in the wee hours of the morning, I was awoken from my alcohol-induced coma by loud and continual banging on my door. Turns out that my wife had, for no reason other than spite, called the police and taken out a restraining order against me. She knew damn well that I was completely incapable of harming her or the children, and my kids will confirm that to this day. My mother got caught up in the hysteria, and she and my stepfather joined in, too. I ended up in the hospital under a 72-hour "observation". But it was manifestly apparent that there was no merit to it, and I was released in less than 24 hours, and the restraining order dropped before it even went to hearing. She even went, after she had calmed down, to the courthouse and admitted that it was unfounded and unnecessary. And my mother had realized within a day or two that she'd been misled, and tried to make things right. But the fact that it had been in place created a permanent record in the files of the county, which showed up on any thorough background investigation. I've forgiven them all, but there's a wound there that's probably never going to go away.

We stayed separated for a few months. Then she came to me, apologized, said she was trying to change, and that she loved me and wanted me back. So I forgave her, and moved back in.

But, once I graduated, I couldn't get a job in teaching because of the restraining order. And tensions started to build again. Money got tight, and we got behind on our mortgage, and she started to slip back into her old ways. For three or four years after the separation, things had been better. But I had told her when I agreed to come back, that I wasn't going to put up with that crap anymore, and if I left again it would be forever.

The consequence of that, however, was that she turned her cruelty from me to the kids. But hid it from me, of course. Especially toward the two who took most after me. It was when I started to see this, on top of things beginning to deteriorate again between us, that I seriously started to consider ending it for good. My kids were teenagers by then, and beginning to see clearly themselves. They came to me one day, told me that they had had a meeting, the four of them, and that they thought I should leave her. I was moved to tears. What amazing and unselfish kids.

I didn't act on it right away: I still wanted to do the right thing. I had arranged a payment plan to catch up on our mortgage, but it was going to mean a frugal Christmas, and I told her how much we had to spend. And she went and spent four times that much. So we were going to lose the house. The only option was to move back into my mother's place (not with her, just a place she owned). But my wife absolutely refused. I tried to explain that we had no other option. She threatened to leave and get her own place. She was bluffing, trying to force me to give her her way. But I said, "Ok." And that was that.

Like I said before, I don't blame it all on her. I know I made mistakes, and did wrong, and failed. But I'm not going to be falsely noble and take all the blame to myself either. I'm just telling it like it was.

And we've resolved things now. We're able to talk like reasonable adults. She's finally gone and gotten professional help with her issues (and she had ample justification for her issues from her life before we met. I'm not going to tell her secrets here, but I knew this all along and it's one of the reasons I tried so hard to put up with her). After we split, she still called me almost every day for about two years, just to talk. And I let her, even though I didn't really want to, and even though she was already with someone else. And, about five or six years ago now, after I had embarked on my journey of spiritual renewal, I called her and said, "I need to tell you two things: One, I'm sorry for everything I ever did to hurt you. And two, I forgive you for everything you ever did to me." A couple of years ago, when she split up with her third husband, I went and helped her move (and made sure she got out safely). So I consider that resolved.

I ended up finally finding work at the community college at which I had done my first two years. I didn't have a Master's degree, so I taught remedial college prep courses, adult ed., and GED.

When we had divorced, I made a promise to my kids that I would not bring anyone else into the house as long as they were at home (we let them choose who to live with, and three of them ended up with me). I made half-hearted attempts at dating, but not only had I made that promise; I also knew I wasn't ready for a real relationship yet. And I don't lie to women. So, as you can imagine, most women weren't really interested in waiting around for several years to see if maybe I would be ready to get serious once all my kids were grown. So I just kind of settled into being single.

Except there was Jessica. Jessica was the first girl I met after the divorce. I met her on an internet dating site, we communicated online for a while, and we went out once. Then, late one night, I got a call from a little girl. It was Jessica's daughter. Her mom wasn't feeling well and she was scared and didn't know what to do, and my number was on the refrigerator. So I got directions to their house, drove over, and took care of her. Jessica still talks about how much that meant to them, but I don't think she's ever realized how much it meant to me, to be trusted like that, and to have the opportunity to be a good man and to take care of a vulnerable woman and a little girl in need. Nothing in the world makes me happier.

So Jessica and I sort of dated, but really just became friends. I was totally up-front with her about my intentions, my promise to my kids, and where I was emotionally. And she accepted it, and accepted me, and we just had companionship and nothing else. And it was lovely.

But, after a while, she began to pull away and become distant. I found out later that it was because she was developing deeper feelings for me, and knew I didn't return them. But at the time, I didn't realize that, and we ended up losing touch for a while. A couple of years, in fact.

Then came the summer of 2004, when we got hit by four successive hurricanes. I had not been getting as many classes to teach, because another former instructor had returned and they gave her some of mine. We were left in serious financial trouble, and I decided that I needed something more reliable: a full-time job with salary and benefits. And I thought I might like to live somewhere where there were no hurricanes. I found one in Phoenix, teaching adult ed. and GED prep. to inmates in a state prison.