Popcorn, Anyone?

I sometimes forget that, about a couple of years ago or so, I sent a link to my blog to all my female friends on Facebook and asked them to read it. I was so desperate to share my story, but then I was so immediately embarrassed when I did that I stopped posting for awhile, shut down my Facebook account, and made my blog private so no one could read it. Once I had bridged the gap between Adora Fallbrook and the real me, it was scary. People knew the truth. But then...is it the Truth?

I'm constantly trying to figure out how to tell my story. I've wanted to be a writer since I was five. I mean, I have been a writer since I was five. But I didn't begin to write about the morbidity of my own life until about age 9, when I was watching my mom get pummeled and bloodied by her dick psycho boyfriend (that's the official psychological diagnosis). He was pretty shitty to my brother and sister and me, too, and writing about it was my way of surviving it. But a lot of people don't want you to think about your shitty childhood. They think, "You're grown up now; it's time to move on. Think positive thoughts." Me - I think of all the women and children out there who are still getting beaten and who can relate to a story like mine.

Catharsis.

But even my sponsor in sobriety wants me to be careful when writing about my past. Our program involves taking an inventory of ourselves, and she told me to pretend like I'm in a grocery store throwing away moldy broccoli and putting new broccoli on display. Don't rub the moldy broccoli all over your face and smell it and throw up over and over, just notice it, toss it out, and replace it (and God is in charge of the new broccoli, by the way).

So, I get it. I'm shoving the moldy broccoli in your faces and not even showing you the beautiful, fresh, new broccoli that God has made out of me and continues to grow. Sure, I could tell my story in ways that would show you that I am a triumphant, intelligent, loving, strong woman overcoming all obstacles - but instead I tend to go with the victim-ish, woe-is-me, can't-do-anything-right, guess-I'll-go-eat-worms-in-a-cave-somewhere loathsome-human-being-type voice.

And so, with so many people expressing their concern over the years, I now realize, "Oh. I see. My character is completely one-dimensional."

Before I left my husband on October 10, 2011, I had sought the help of a therapist. I've seen a few more since, but I had hand-picked that first one very carefully about a month prior to that night. I googled "therapists near [zip-code] specializing in love addiction," and found Dr. Blaine Carman (http://blainecarman.com). I wanted to save my marriage even though I felt like I hated my husband and was obsessed with the delivery driver at the pizza restaurant where I was assistant manager. 

I only managed to see Dr. Carman twice before I gave up and left Ronnie. But he did give me some advice that I'll never forget (which means a lot; I have something called "dissociative amnesia" as a symptom of my borderline personality disorder). He told me that, in the beginning of a relationship, we tend to wear metaphorical rose-colored glasses that only pick up on the good things about the person with whom we're in love. Near the end of a relationship, it's the opposite; we have melancholy-blue-colored glasses (I made that color up; he didn't give those ones a color) that make us see only the bad things about the person. So, one of the keys to a successful relationship, all the way through, Blaine said, is for us to notice both the "good" and the "bad" in balance, not blinding ourselves to either one dimension.

On this blog, I certainly dramatize and stick to the blue dimension instead of giving you the full, 3D picture, when in real life, after four years of therapy and recovery, I'm much more balanced. 

At least, more than I used to be. But I tend to write when I'm feeling either extreme, especially the down-side. That's how I heal it. I always feel immense relief after I write that stuff, even if it's only true in my head for ten minutes.

But I don't know - maybe we should all wear the 3D glasses for awhile instead.

Done with the Executive Chef - So Can I REALLY Be Done with Men for Awhile?

A lot of people tell me they're worried about me. My sponsor in alcohol recovery doesn't; she doesn't buy into the drama. She's also a mindfulness practitioner, highly spiritual, and extremely intelligent, having almost completed a Master's degree in Psychology with an emphasis on Borderline Personality Disorder.

Other people though, they get scared I'll actually kill myself. I'll tell you right now; that's never gonna happen. I've had periods where I've legitimately wanted to cease to exist more than anything on Earth, but God didn't take me, presumably because I have a six year-old son left to half-raise. His dad is dying of congestive heart failure, so pretty soon that responsibility will fall fully on me.

But yeah, I need to stay away from guys. It's the common theme of the past over-four years since I left my husband of ten years (my son's dad). (We were together ten years and only married for the last three of those, but fuck technicalities.)

(And actually, we're still married. He does have life insurance, so I'm glad I never pushed the divorce through...)

Anyway, I just got out of yet another relationship, this time with my boss. Did I really fall in love wth him? I don't know. Am I capable of loving anyone, even myself? I don't know. Did I take his power away because he was a colossal dick at work and I had to neutralize him somehow? Damn right.

But did he try to cheat on me twice to my knowledge, stay a night in jail for a DUI, drink heavily every night, sneak around outside of work and not tell me where he was going or what he was doing, and make up stories and lies that he couldn't even keep straight? Yeah. Did he want to live in my apartment rent-and-bill-free so he could support his drinking and his smoking weed? Yeah. Did he offer my six year-old son a beer as well as provide a TERRIBLE human example to a kid who's like a sponge and started imitating him, cussing, while also telling me, "Mom, I don't like Bernard. Break up with him. I don't trust him"? Fuck, yes.

So I finally did it. I had tried a few times before; back in October when I found out about the cheating attempts through text messages on his phone between him and one of the waitresses at work, and he was pissed at me for going through his phone but he had all ready been lying to me (and it takes one to know one), I said, "You know, if you're gonna try to cheat on someone you should probably lock your phone." We had a big fight which culminated in our first "I love you"s and we didn't break up - in fact I thought it brought us closer.

But then recently he has been exhibiting the same behavior - lying about where he is outside of work (we work together but don't have the same schedule) - and I found out he had locked his phone, because one night when he was drunk he was trying to get into it, and couldn't remember his own damn password. That, and he and his buddies were talking about the other day that he hung out with them, "But don't tell Adora!" Bernard said. He didn't know I heard.

So I was just finally done.

Okay, lesson learned this time? Who fucking knows. I had been keeping the piercing fetish guy updated throughout my relationship, so when he found out about my breakup, he wanted to come over last night. I forget the fictitious name I gave him but you can check the column on the left. Vicente or something, I don't fucking know.

Before he came over, when he asked if he could, I said, "Sure, but I'm not fucking you, and no needles."

Goddamnit. We did fuck.

So what's next? Today I'm going to church, going to go see my son, and tomorrow I have to go back to work at the restaurant, although I don't have to work with Bernard until Tuesday. I informed the restauranteur of the break-up; he was worried I was going to quit and desperately texted me, "You can't quit! I choose you over Bernard! Please don't quit!" Because, again, Executive Chef Bernard is a colossal dick (even though he has a tiny one) and no one can actually stand him. I wanted to see through all of that into his precious human heart - and I did, briefly. Mostly I was swept away by his culinary skills - but you know what? 

I've lost my appetite.

The Memoir Outline: 4-6

(But first, a bit of rambling.)

I was just going back through all of my posts and "labeling" them. I have another blog, on Wordpress, with 271 followers. It's well-read, and that may be because I tag my posts on that blog. As a matter of fact, the tags are so effective that if you Google a certain word that I've tagged numerous times (I won't tell you which word), a bunch of my pictures show up in Google Images. That's pretty exciting. That, and, I think more people are interested in photography than about some chick losing her marbles and trying to gather them up again. I think actual marbles are probably more interesting than that. They are pretty cool-looking.

 

I had labeled my posts here on this blog in the past, but then I removed all the labels because I was only allowed 200 characters per "bunch of labels", and I had a hard time excluding certain ones. But, with my Google Images discovery, I decided to add labels back on to my posts here yesterday. 

In so doing, of course, I had to read through each post again to find keywords. And when I read them, I was more than a little embarrassed, and more than just a few times, I just wanted to skim over the incoherence and delete the post entirely in disgust. I dunno, maybe it's a good thing I only have one follower here. (But thank you so very much, you loyal follower, you.) 

I didn't really stick to my original plan for this blog, at all. I wanted to write about relationships I've had, from childhood through now. But there are many posts where I'm ruminating and trying to “make sense” of "everything" in a sort of "diary" or journal-istic kind of way. Begrudgingly, I've decided not to delete anything – who wouldn't want to keep a record of her own insanity? (That's only half sarcastic.) But now, I'm finally working on the real thing. The word is memoir (n.): account, biography, history, chronicle, record – those are some of its synonyms. I believe a memoir answers the question, “What happened?” Further details provide answers to who, when, where, and how, but as for the why – if I don’t have the answer to that myself, perhaps I oughtn’t tackle that question. At least, not yet. Or maybe I’ll leave that to the readers’ interpretations entirely.

I still appreciate my inventory - it was a good start. But, instead of picking men with whom I’ve been involved at random about whom to write (the word “random” here modifies the “picking”, although it could certainly modify the being “involved”, in plenty of cases), my goal now is to chronicle – chronologically – the who, what, when, where, and how, in a coherent fashion. I’m reducing each “chapter” to such minimal elements. I'm not interested in superfluous, mellifluous, figurative, and whatever-other-adjectives-make-for "intelligent"-sounding language. I’m interested in the clear facts, subject-verb style. I think of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, and maybe a bit of Stephen King (I always hated King’s style – such simple sentences got on my nerves). And of course Brad Land - I'm throwing quotations marks out the window for now, to save time (but I won't throw out periods or capitalization, most likely).

Ultimately, my hope is to get help with my writing at some point, and I think the best way is to start with nearly nothing, leaving room for plenty of notes. I prefer building slowly upon a foundation to repainting, remodeling, or downright unmerciful demolition.

I'll be adding much. I'll expand, expound, describe. I’ll have places in my outline where I’ll say, “Ooh, this will be a good place to go back to add a scene from my childhood.” That's what all the "good" memoirs seem to do.

But now that I've superfluously expounded upon writing, here's some more actual writing (again, bare bones, subject-verb style). Here's my memoir outline, 4-6, draft 4:

4

Evan and I have been having sex for two weeks, since the night I left Ronnie. I’ve been seeing Lyle back at the apartment every day and still working. I lie to Ronnie and say I’ve been going between my aunt Jessie’s and my friend Rochelle’s. I don’t tell Ronnie about Evan. I can’t live at Evan’s parents’, so I’ve decided to live with my aunt Jessie. I’ve been getting things from the apartment and out of storage and taking them to my aunt’s. Clothes, books. I used to live there in high school.

I’m in Evan’s car. We’re kissing. I love you, I say. Don’t use those words, he says. I’m sorry, I say. I guess I’m just so used to saying that, I say. Don’t worry about it, he says. We kiss some more.

Evan goes to work and I go back to the apartment to see Lyle and to get more things. I get in a fight with Ronnie. He takes the car keys away from me. I put a bunch of my CDs in a bag and sling it over my shoulder and I go out walking.

I go down Ammunition and turn left down Main St. I walk about a mile-and-a-half.

The Irish Pub. There’s a band playing. I go inside. It's The Clovers. I recognize the piano player. It’s Jennie. She and I were in the music program together at Mira Costa Community College, where I sang and she accompanied me. I drink a few bloody maries and listen to them play. I talk to some people I recognize from high school. Aaron Simpson wants my phone number but I don’t give it to him. I have a boyfriend, I say. I call Evan to come pick me up.

5

I go back to the apartment to get bill stubs for the dissolution paperwork and to spend time with Lyle. Ronnie lets me in, like he has for the past two months. Lyle and I watch Barney together while Ronnie asks me questions.

I get the bill stubs out of the closet and start putting them in a box. Ronnie comes in and starts taking them out of the box. You aren’t taking anything with my name on it, he says. I put them back in the box. Yes I am, I say. He grabs the box. I grab the box. He grabs my arms. Lyle comes in. I go to pick him up but Ronnie picks him up first. I punch Ronnie in the face. Lyle is crying. I grab the box and I leave.

6

I take Lyle out to the park on my days off. I go to pick him up.

Ronnie’s mom comes down the steps and I roll my window down. She hands me some papers, stapled, and walks away. I start reading. It’s a restraining order. I have to stay away from Lyle and Ronnie. I can’t contact Ronnie at all.

I scream and cry and beat my steering wheel and I plead with God. I turn the ignition, put the car in reverse, and then I drive to the courthouse, crying.

There isn’t anything I can do, they say. Just have to wait for the court date in three weeks, they say.

The Memoir Outline: 1-3

1

Family outing to the Oceanside pier. In preparation, Ronnie drinks.

Instead of going to the pier with us as planned, Ronnie has me drop him off at the Headhunter Saloon. I take Lyle down the pier for a milkshake and fries. Sunset, pelicans, surfers. We race and I pretend to lose. He wants to take off his shoes, but I daren’t let him. Too many fishermen. And splinters.

We go back to pick Ronnie up. He’s standing outside the saloon in a circle of people, smoking. He doesn’t want to come with me. I get money out of the ATM and give it to him and tell him to take a cab home.

I take Lyle to Chuck E. Cheese and wait for Ronnie’s call. They’re open late. I play games with Lyle. 20 minutes, Ronnie calls. They kicked me out of the bar, he says. I need you to come get me, they’re calling the cops, he says. I say too bad, and I hang up on him. Lyle and I play some more. He calls a few more times. I don’t answer. He calls again. I answer and I tell him we’re on our way.

I pick him up and take him to Weinerschnitzel to get some food in him. At the drive-through window he says, please don’t be mad, but I kissed two women at the bar.

2

Ronnie’s drunk. He’s banging against Lyle’s bedroom door. Lyle and I are inside. I’m holding Lyle close to me and reading him a book on the other side of the room. Ronnie kicks the door in and breaks the door frame. Get away from us, I scream. I’m calling 9-1-1, I say. He takes my phone. I pick up Lyle and get by Ronnie but he grabs my arm and pushes me and gets in front of us and blocks the front door. You’re not going anywhere, he says. He puts a hole in the wall with his fist. He walks towards us. I take Lyle into my and Ronnie’s bedroom. We’re both crying. Ronnie is banging on our bedroom door.

Ronnie stops banging and yelling. I sing and rock Lyle to sleep. Lyle falls asleep. I open the bedroom door and Ronnie is passed out on the floor in the hallway.

3

Ronnie and I are fighting. He’s drunk. We’re going to the courthouse tomorrow morning to get a divorce, he says.

I get my phone and my keys and my purse.

Fine, I say. Actually, fuck you, I’m leaving right now, I say. I fucking hate you and I hope I never see you again, I say. I go over to pick up Lyle out of his high chair. Lyle’s crying. Ronnie gets to him first and grabs Lyle and picks him up. I try to pry Ronnie’s arms loose. He won’t let go of Lyle. I stomp on Ronnie’s foot. He doesn’t let go. Lyle is crying. I’m crying. Ronnie is yelling. Thank you for the worst ten years of my life, Ronnie says. You’re not taking Lyle, he says. You’re insane, he says. If you’re leaving, then leave, he says.

I leave Ronnie and Lyle.

I go to my car. I’m crying in the drivers’ seat. I turn the ignition and put it in reverse and I start backing up, then I put it in drive and start driving down the apartments’ parking lot.

I pull out on Mission Rd. I don’t know where to go. I’ve been texting my co-worker Evan a lot lately, complaining about Ronnie. At work last week he said I should leave Ronnie.

I text Evan while crying and driving. I did it, I say. I left Ronnie, but I don’t know what to do, I say. Come over here, he says. I say, I can’t, that’s too scary. Then let’s get to the scary part, he says. I say okay.

I drive over to Evan's mom and stepdad’s house where Evan lives. He meets me on the steps in front of the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen him not in his uniform and cap. He’s wearing a button-up plaid, long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and his hair is flat against his forehead.

I park and walk up to him, slowly. He kisses me. He lifts me up. He carries me into his house as we kiss. He takes me to the living room and he starts taking off his clothes. I take off mine. We have sex on the recliner. Then the couch. Then the floor.

When we’re done, we get dressed and he cooks salmon, collard greens and mashed potatoes. He pours me a glass of wine, and him a glass. After I drink my glass, I try to put the cork back in the top of the bottle. I don't usually drink wine. Evan laughs. Usually when two people open a bottle of wine, he says, they drink the whole thing. I laugh and pour myself another glass. I don’t like to drink much, he says. It hurts my stomach, he says. I finish off the wine. We eat the food and talk.

We go upstairs to his bedroom and we have more sex.

The Sex / "Love" Inventory

(Updated September 23, 2021 at 9:56 am)

 

"A business which takes no regular inventory usually goes broke. Taking a commercial inventory is a fact-finding and a fact-facing process. It is an effort to discover the truth about the stock-in-trade. One object is to disclose damaged or unsalable goods, to get rid of them promptly and without regret. If the owner of the business is to be successful, he can not fool himself about values." -Bill W. (whose friend I became on January 19, 2012)

 

Pre-Husband:

Born (March 1983)
First Molestation (1987)
Second Molestation (1987)
Third Molestation (1988)
Parents' Separation (1991)
Fourth Molestation (1992)
Fifth Molestation (1992)
First "Crush" (1992)
Many, Many "Crushes" (1992-2001, 2008*, 2011-2013)
First Boyfriend (1992)
Sixth Molestation (1993)
Seventh Molestation (1994)
Eighth Molestation (1995)
First Date (1995)
Second Boyfriend (1995)
Ninth Molestation (1995)
Daily Masturbation (1995-2001)
Third Boyfriend (1999)
Fourth Boyfriend (2000)
Fifth Boyfriend (2000)
Sixth Boyfriend (2001)
Seventh Boyfriend (2001)
Second Date and First "One-Night Stand" (2001)
Second "One-Night Stand" (2001)

Husband ("Ronnie": Met in May 2001; Entered into Relationship on January 28, 2002; Broke Up in May 2008; Became Engaged in July 2008; Married on January 28, 2009; Had Child on August 6, 2009; Separated on October 10, 2011; Dissolution Filed on December 5, 2011; Dissolution Still Pending as of December 2015; Widowed January 22, 2016)

Post-Husband:

1. The Pizza Delivery Boyfriend ("Evan"): October 10, 2011 to December 2012; July 2013 to August 2013; September 2013; December 18, 2013 to January 1, 2014

2. The Acapulco Parking Lot (Angel): November 25, 2011

3. The Sexophone Player ("Rico"): May 2008; November 26, 2011; October 2013

4-7. The Band in the Van: November 26, 2011

8. The 10-Year High School Reunion Guy ("Jorge"): November 26, 2011; December 2011

9. The Marimba Player: December 2011; December 2012; April 2013

10. Il Divo d'Opera: December 2011

11. The Obsessive Sexter: December 2011

12. The Organist / Accompanist: November 2011 to January 2012

13. The Old Black Bloody Mary Karaoke Man: January 18, 2012

14. The Young Drunk Mexican "in Love": January 18, 2012

15. The Hip Hop Producer: February 2012; March 2012; November 2012

16. The Crush from 4th to 12th Grade ("Rick"): March 2012

17. The Indian Guitar Player: November 2012

18. The Poetry Slam Emcee ("Edwin"): December 2012

19. The Hillcrest Prostitute ("Gary"): December 2012 to January 2013

20. The Hmong Literature Major ("Bruce"): January 2013; May 2013 to July 2013

21. The Black Jack Dealer ("Ryan"): February 2013; October 2013

22. The Fresh Ex-Con: February 2013

23. The Nuclear Engineer Navy Vet: February 2013 to April 2013; November 2014; April 2015

24. The Christian Airplane Mechanic: May 2013

25. The Shakespeare Connoisseur ("Deniro"): June 2013 to October 2013; October 20, 2020 to February 2021

26. The Alcoholic Asshole / Sweetheart: August 2013

27. The Propane Truck Driver ("Sterling"): January 2012 to October 2013

28. Jesus Christ: November 15, 2013 to April 17, 2015; April 04, 2021 to May 1, 2021

29. The Satellite Communications Engineer ("James"): November 21, 2013 to January 1, 2014

30. The Berklee School of Music Singer / Songwriter ("Jason"): January 19, 2014 to October 1, 2014

31. The Love Addict from SLAA: February 14, 2014

32. The Tech Support iPhone Guy: October 10, 2014 to November, 2014

33. The Christian Latino Music Student ("Carlito"): October 2014 to November 2014

34. The Atheist Latino Music Student ("Rodrigo"): November 2014 to January 2015; February 2015; March 2015; April 2015; May 2015; July 2015

35. The "Photographer" Rapist: April 17, 2015 (Rape)

36. El Bailador de Bachata: May 2015

37. The Dom Rope Artist: May 2015

38. The Existential Psychology Grad: May 2015 to July 26, 2015

39. The Executive Chef ("Bernard"): August 13, 2015 to December 23, 2019

40. The Gen-X Christian 'Tog: February 02, 2020 to May 18, 2020 (and a little bit of June-July)

41. The Retired Airline Captain: July 2020 to August 23, 2020

42. The 60 Year-Old Christian Construction Worker: February 2021 to April 03, 2021

43. The Drummer Who Married Me ("Matthew"): April 06, 2021 to Now

Introduction

If I had known that, after leaving my husband of ten years, two years ago, I'd somehow become romantically/emotionally and/or sexually involved with 27 men in 24 months, I - perhaps - would have tried a different solution to my marital problems. I'd equate what-I've-done to hitting myself on the head with a hammer - 27 times - to get rid of a headache. You guessed right - it didn't work.

I find myself now completely demoralized and devoid of identity, wondering what the hell just happened. So, I'm going to write about each of these relationships to figure out just who I've been and where I've gone wrong (and who the hell I really am, and should be). Thankfully, I have stopped this insidious cycle, though by no temporary moment of sanity on my part -- I just happened to jump off the last horse on the carousel because riding it may have left me with something unpleasant between my legs. Thanks for telling me before I got on, jackass. (But I'll get back to this in #27: The Propane Truck Driver. I know, he sounds like a real winner.)

Someone said Einstein said something about insanity being something like "doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results". Well, amen to that, with a few hallelujahs. What was I expecting? Prince Charming. What did I get? 27 bad apples. This one will be different. This one doesn't live with his parents. This one's not an alcoholic. This one's fully employed, and a father. This one's a spiritual guru...ad infinitum. Well, I mis-use the phrase, because there was finality, thank goodness; I should say, "...ad nauseum". I'm suffering from a nasty bout of indigestion right about now.

In my next post, I'll start with my very first relationships -- my relationships with my family -- because doing so will shed some light on how I got here. I suppose it's cliché to start with childhood -- or maybe it isn't, and J.D. Salinger isn't God. But don't tell that to guy #1: The Pizza Delivery Boyfriend. Holden Caulfield was his idol.