When I moved from my Hometown to the suburbs of Philadelphia, I moved into Asshole's parents' house.  The plan was to look for jobs and find an apartment to rent.  Asshole's parents were very happy to have me. Their home is large and they were gracious hosts.  They seemed to really want this arrangement to work out.  They gave me a car to use for work and basically helped me get on my feet. My perception was that they were genuinely happy that their precious only child, their son, had met "a nice girl from Canada".  Both of Asshole's parents have done things for me over the years to let me know how much they wanted this to be a good thing.
Each week I went through the Help Wanted section of the Philadelphia Inquirer and applied for jobs asking for "social worker wanted".  After all, with a Bachelor's in Social Work, that's what I was supposed to do next, right?
I applied for and was hired by a Nursing Home in the Germantown section of Philadelphia.  I was assigned to an office on the second floor where I met and got to know Ms. Myra.  Ms. Myra was a 60+ year-old black woman with a graduate degree from the University of Pennsylvania who had literally seen and done everything.  She was my very own personal Yoda.  Myra would hold court in her desk chair, leaning way back with a satisfied Buddha-grin and tell me the most amazing stories of her life, her past jobs and share her wisdom with me.  Myra's famous line was "Honey, God don't like Ugly".
My commute back and forth from the Nursing Home to Asshole's parents' home in the Woods took over an hour.  I came to love that time.  I relished the time on my own, in my own car, listening to NPR on Philadelphia's WHYY.  It felt good.  
Things at home with Asshole were more than a bit stressed.  Asshole and his mother seemed to be at eachother all of the time but in the next moment they were conspiring together against Asshole's unsuspecting father.  I'm sure that these family dynamics had been in play since the beginning of their little family but I certainly didn't have a place in them.  I didn't really want a place in them either.  I think I withdrew myself during that time.  I remember not fitting in, feeling alone and missing my family.
I hadn't lived at home in three years, having stayed away after leaving home for college.  I knew that there wasn't really a spot for me at my parents' house but this life wasn't quite right either.  I remember missing the fast-pace, dog-eat-dog dinner conversations from Home where my brothers teased my poor sister mercilessly.  I missed the loving teasing between my Mom and Dad. 
What I told myself, however, was that this was what I was supposed to do.  I was supposed to be starting my own life, my own family routines.  I told myself that I just needed to adjust to this new life.
And much of this new life was ok.  I really liked my job.  I loved the fast pace, interacting with other disciplines.  I was a quick learner and could pick up a process, understand it and start to make improvements in short time.  And home life was ok, sort of.  It was different, but different isn't always bad. It's just different.
We were all trying very hard to make it work.
That's important to say.  We really were trying.
Sometimes even our best effort isn't enough......

What comes after the Ring?

Ok, true confession time.   That last post was easy to write (it sort of spilled out of me) but tough to digest.  I really thought that after all this time, this stuff wouldn't affect me anymore.  I was wrong.  I was raw nerves, jumpy, and emotional after I wrote that.  I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't that.
Here's how my life is different than 15 years ago.  Instead of stuffing all of it away or sticking my head back in the cool, quiet sand, I shared that post with a few good friends.  While gauging their reactions and fearing rejection of that stupid girl, I was given a a gentle reminder that people who care about me aren't running away because of my ugly stories.  I don't know why, but that's a lesson I need frequent booster shots of.  I seem to need so much reassurance from my loved ones.  (I have always been that way ~ there's clearly something there that needs to be dealt with.)
I shared that last blog post with my good friend, Bea, at work.  She sits next to me and we have grown close over the past year and a half.  Bea is very astute and not just because of her clinical degree and years as a therapist.  She's more intuitive than analytical.  Sometimes she can just sense something that I had struggled to find a name for.  Bea's reaction to my story opened my eyes to what I believe is my next task in this whole mess.  She read the story, looked over at me and said, "I know why Asshole still tortures you.  I know why he tries to control everything still, even after all this time?"
I said, "it's because he's an asshole.  That's all there is to it."
Bea said, "no, that's not it.  I knew there was more and now I know what it is."
I said, "fine.  You are smart.  What is it?"
Bea paused but then answered me. "He is terrified because you are the one person on this earth who knows every ugly, repulsive, and embarrassing thing about him.  You could expose him.  He tries to control you because he can't stand that you have this over him.  Your job will be to show him Grace."
I was stunned but instinctively I knew that Bea was right.
When Bea says that I need to show Asshole "grace", she's not talking about some religious, "Sunday-only" version.  She means it in the everyday, "it really sucks but here it is", way that you treat someone who definitely doesn't deserve it.
I'm sorry Bea, but I'm not totally there yet.  Maybe soon though.

Ok, back to my story.  When we left off, good readers, the scene was set in a tiny studio apartment in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood.  Having returned from that disastrous dinner, our heroes (now newly engaged) sit staring at each other wondering what to do next.
Asshole was flying out on Sunday but today was only Saturday.  We did some sightseeing and there are even a few pictures of the two of us.  I'm shown in these pictures with a diamond ring on my important finger and a sincerely stressed out smile plastered on.
There were no other temper tantrums on Saturday although Asshole broke into a sweat each time we were confronted with an elevator.  He started to avoid elevators that day.  I hadn't noticed this behavior before.  When did this start, I was thinking.  We walked up and down alot of stairs that day. Not a big deal but strange, nonetheless.
On Sunday, we rode Chicago's Metro system back to O'Hare where my betrothed was scheduled to depart and fly back to Philly.  Asshole had a complete melt-down just before the boarding call.  He was hyperventilating and his nose was running.  He couldn't stand still or sit still.  He was a mess.  (text book example of a panic attack, but what did I know back then?)
He called his father from a bank of payphones (remember those?) and his father tried to calm him down.  I was shocked to overhear him tell his father that there was no way in the world that he could get on the plane.
His father offered a solution and Asshole hung up the phone and told me that we were going back to my apartment.
The details and timeline are fuzzy here but I remember that his father ended up FedEx-ing several Ativan tablets to his freaked out offspring.  I don't remember how many extra days he stayed or what we did during that time..... I have literally blocked out those memories.
I do have a sharp recollection, however, that this was a nightmare for my roommate. 
Our studio apartment was the size of an average walk-in closet.  There was no room for an overnight guest but she agreed to that weekend visit because she is really one of the nicest people on earth and knew that Asshole and I didn't have another option.  (how about a hotel Asshole?  that probably would have been perfect.)
When our house guest stayed an extra few days, it was a terrible strain on an already bad situation.  From my spot in the sand, I was oblivious to this and did not do a thing to protect my relationship with this girl.
I regret this so much.  I was completely ignoring my relationship with her.  I had my hands full with Man-Boy's crazy moods, his neediness and panic attacks.  No excuse though -- I ignored what that weekend did to her.
He eventually made it onto a plane and got back to Philadelphia.
I was in Chicago, going to classes and doing my work-study program at a Children's Residential Treatment facility. 
I loved the city.  I loved taking the "El", seeing the sights, and walking through Lincoln Park's (free!) zoo.
This part of my life was ok  I liked the work and was learning from very bright and experienced people.
I had daily phone calls with my fiance.  We started to plan a wedding.  That's what you do, when you are engaged.  We were going to be married in my hometown, in the church I grew up in.
We fought frequently.  Our fights were usually comprised of him accusing me of something and me trying to defend myself until I eventually gave in, compromised and apologized for making him doubt me.
This was clearly not a healthy, happy relationship.  I was already completely giving up myself.  We established that pattern nice and early.  He had all of the needs, and I was there to try to meet them.  When I couldn't or wouldn't meet his needs, there was a price to be paid.  I gave up my preferences, my tastes, my plans, my everything.
In such a short time, I completely lost myself.
I worked hard to keep up appearances -- denying there was anything wrong, making excuses for Asshole, covering up for his crazy decisions or statements.
It is unforgivable that I did all of this from the very beginning. What was I thinking?  Why didn't I stop this madness?  Why didn't I get out before it was too late?
Here's why..... last time I told you about the lies we tell ourselves when we are young and stupid. "I can change him.  He can change and he will change." "Things will get better."  "These are just hard times." "I need to stick by him."
yuck. While noble as that sounds, it is total crap.  Not once did I have the nerve to look myself in the face and say "what the FUCK are you doing?"
It wasn't self-sacrifice that resulted in me losing myself for a decade.  It was pure insecurity.  I could not look at that girl -- she was too scared, too needy.  Too stuck.

There was one moment when I could have stopped it all from happening.  I had just returned from Chicago to graduate with my class.  Following graduation I went back to my hometown.  The plan was for me to stay in my hometown for a month to pack up and move to Philadelphia.  I had my shiny new Bachelor's degree in Social Work and was sending off cover letters and resumes from Canada in response to Help Wanted ads from the Philadelphia Inquirer.
Still communicating by phone, things with Asshole were still rough.  He was anxious about finding a teaching job and my belief is that his mother was driving him completely crazy (as if he needed help in that department).  After a particularly brutal fight over the phone where I again did all of the compromising and apologizing, my mother stepped into the room.  She had been listening from the hallway. She stepped in the room with an expression of all-knowing awareness.  She asked, "are you sure about this?"
She didn't even need to say anything else. I knew that she meant "are you sure about everything?" She was saying "are you sure about him? about the wedding? about moving 9 hours away to Philadelphia? about making a life there? away from us? Are you sure about YOU?"
No Mom.  I'm not sure about ME.  I don't know where I am. I don't know where to look to find myself.  I can't even look myself in the eye.
What I said that day was, "Mom, you need to trust me. Things are going to be ok.  He's just (whatever excuse I made, it was lame and predictable). Please don't worry."
She didn't bring it up again but she never stopped worrying. She kept on worrying from that day until April 25, 2005 when I told her it was over.
I moved to Philadelphia a week later.  I drove myself there with my belongings in a tiny car.
I left somewhere safe and took a risk.
Bad move.  Hindsight sucks.  Seriously.