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: 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 Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 6

"Aspiring memoirist" doesn't do a damn bit of good without any actual effort on my part. And I don't have a job right now, so what the hell am I doing? I've been scattered. Trying to start a business doing way too many things. Performing, voice lessons, tutoring, photography, editing/proofreading, publicity...and not making a cent yet.

I was just laying here on my fiancé's bed in his bedroom at his parents' house while he plays Ben Folds on his keyboard, and tears came to my eyes. "This is what I've come to...I don't recognize my life any more."

The life I recognized was with my dysfunctional family growing up, and my fervent educational pursuits as my escape. Then I recognized being in love with an alcoholic, who made me laugh and kept me up all night long, telling me stories, but with whom I also fought belligerently. Then, I recognized being a mother. All that other crap that came before...blech. But that last thing...that was what life was worth living for.

I wasn't a bad one, either. I use to take my son out every day to mommy-and-me classes, the ones where you sit around a circle with a bunch of other mothers (and a few fathers) with their babies and toddlers to sing songs for half an hour until you took your kid(s) out to the playground for a couple more hours. Those were the days of glory, where in my memory the sun shines bright like the mythical gate of some holy place and bounces off the glittering sand that I would scoop into buckets for my little guy to pour out all over the toys in the sandbox. Real-life toddler heaven, it was. Of course, home was hell. But, as they say...better the Devil you know. (Not really...I'm not being sarcastic or cynical at all in this post.)

These days, my son is four - five in August - and I only see him on weekends, sometimes only every other weekend. Any time his dad asks if he can keep him again "this" weekend, I act like I'm hurt, or sad, or pissed, or I react in some way that hides the fact that deep down I'm relieved as hell to be left to my own selfish, albeit failing pursuits. When I do get my son - when I'm not offered an "out" - I try my best to act like a mother for a couple of days until I "get" to drop him back off with the guy I never thought would be a fitter parent than I. But so it is.

So, yeah. I don't recognize my life. Somehow I'm actually worse a mother than my own was. She didn't pay much attention to us, but she was there, physically. Behind a closed door most of the time, but she was just a knock away.

No, what I've become is my father. Like his, my dedication is to an other on whom I place monumental significance, an other who isn't the parent of my child but who satisfies my need for "love" in a way only a "significant other" can. And I don't have to do all that much to take care of him, except be with him...all the time.

I stood by him during his pyschotic break last week after he'd decided to stop taking all his bipolar/anxiety/OCD/sleep/etc. meds (that's what all the stretching was, a couple posts ago, a precursor to absolute unrecognizable madness that I can't even begin to describe at the moment). Sure, he "loves" me more than anyone has since my husband, #1, and #20 (the other two boyfriends who at least said they loved me). But, I remember when I left my husband, and, when it didn't work with #1, I "knew" that "love just doesn't conquer all" (and that's why I settled with #20 for awhile, because I didn't love him, at all - but my son did, and that's the only reason it lasted as long as it did, until I just couldn't do it any more).

I'm not sure why I've put myself in this position again. I put "loves" in quotations marks, knowing full well that the true word that belongs in its place is "needs". I'm with someone who would completely lose it if I left him. (Hey, that's a song..."As long as he needs me...I know where I must be...I'll hang on steadfastly...as long as he needs me." It's from the musical Oliver! and so says Wikipedia, "It is a love ballad expressing Nancy's love for her criminal boyfriend Bill Sikes, despite his mistreatment of her.")

As a matter of fact, Jason's mental breakdown came on the heels of me packing up because I wanted to go home, just for a night or two, to get away from his all-night manic cleaning episodes. There was shit all over his room, and he was up day and night bringing more shit into it from all over the house, obsessively. Yes, it was part of his disorder gone haywire, and somewhat beyond his control (although, did I mention he's decided to stop seeing his psychiatrist, and just smoke weed from now on?). A good fiancée would stand by her man in his time of need, I guess. But not I. I had tried to get away at least three other times over the course of the week, but he begged me to stay each time. So I did, reluctantly. And so here I still am...miserable.

I just want to get back to my life. I want to open my mail. I want to clean my own room. I want to take care of my cats, instead of just buying bags of catfood and dropping them off for my aunt, with whom I (used to) live. Not only that, I want to pet my cats. And I want to have space, alone time. I want to write my memoir. This blog is just a gathering of ideas. I want to write the real thing. This isn't it. This blog is like a little girl's diary, really. It's just...there's been so much wreckage in the present that it's been hard to just write about the wreckage of the past. It started with Margaret's suicide. Then I dated again - damnit - and that's the irony - this blog was supposed to prevent me from creating any more present wreckage. At least, that was the idea, if you go back and read my first post. I keep acting like getting engaged to be married is the ultimate redemption. I find Jesus, get baptized, start dating a guy in church, have a slip and kiss someone else, so ooh, I know, I'll ask the guy I'm dating to marry me, that'll fix everything - game, set, match!

It's all wrong. I feel like a prisoner. Getting engaged to someone just so he'll "know" you aren't going to leave him and he'll therefore hopefully "let" you leave his house, without freaking the fuck out, is clearly - how shall I put it? - fucking dumb.

I should have been writing throughout the course of our relationship so I could have gotten honest with myself. I was on a roll before this one. I over-analyzed the shit out of the last guy I dated (#29).

(And sorry, I just have to take a moment to laugh about Jesus being #28. A lot of good that did me, lol.)

(Oh! PS, #29 just got married, actually. I saw it on facebook. I wouldn't have been happy with that one, either, so I'm glad it was someone else and not me.)

"Love" - I've made such a joke of the word that I can't even take it seriously any more. And yet I say "I love you so much" every day to...what's the fake name I assigned #30? Oh, Jason, I think. But when I say "I love you" to him, what I mean is, "I don't want you to freak out if I don't say it back, so I'm going to say it back and act like I believe it, so that maybe you believe it, too."

But then...when I'm away from him - when I do GET to go home - first, I feel utter bliss. But then I feel so alone that I can hardly bear it. Even with my son with me at my house, I feel empty. Like something's missing.

I guess that's that "need" again. It's apropos to say that Jason and I "need" each other.

But my son needs me, too, and that one doesn't belong in quotation marks. I'm sorry, but I need to get my shit together. Watching Californication has changed my life. I just finished Season 3. Hank Moody is a better father than I am mother, a better writer than I, too, and, he fucks a shitload of women...which makes me not feel so bad. But it's not cool what he does, and he's has frequent downfalls. His daughter is currently pissed at him, in the episodes I'm watching, for sleeping with her 16 year-old almost-step-sister. But he didn't know she was 16, and he's got a good lawyer that he's fucking, so it'll probably all turn out fine (sarcasm).

Any way, Hank is a fictional construct. But...watching him fuck so many women and and still pick his daughter up from school and out for ice cream makes me feel like a total shitbag. I haven't even fucked that many guys - many of the guys on my list, atleast #20 and forward, are guys with whom I was legitimately trying to get into the relationship to end all relationships.

But it's still fucking lame, putting relationships with men above being a mother to my now four-and-a-half year old boy. This past weekend my son told Jason he hated him, and told me that Daddy loves him more than I do, because Daddy takes more responsibility for him. Those were pretty much his exact words. I hate to say that the kid is right. After four rehabs, his dad is finally doing really well. I'm the fuck-up now. I'm sober, sure, but that hardly means shit any more. I'm not going to go drink or use, because that would make this whole thing so much worse, and there's no need for that. But I wish I could. And why wouldn't he hate Jason? I give Jason way more attention than I give to my son. Goddamnit.

I'm still holding onto the hope that I can get my act together. I started the outline for my memoir. I still don't know if I should write it as a novel, or, "truly". I feel like I'd be completely damning myself in every circle of which I am a part if I write it as a true story. But maybe that's what I deserve.

But I'm not thinking of that yet. What I'm doing now is, I'm just writing facts. I'm writing a summary of things I've done and putting them into little chapters to be expanded upon later. Not how I felt, or what I thought. (For the record, I know that's a sentence fragment, I just don't care. And know that's a comma splice. Again, I don't care.)

In my outline, there are no motives. No self-justifications or rationalizations or painting pictures of people that make me look like the victim (because I'm pretty sure I've done a shitload of that). There's no answer to "why". What is, just is.

Jason was saying, as we were watching the show together, "Poor Hank. He just gets shit on, all the time."

"No. I don't agree with that," I said. "He does it to himself. He can't just fuck everything that has a vagina and a pulse and not expect his daughter and her mom to just be cool with it. It's not about him, in the end. It's about them."

"No, it is about him," Jason argued. Jason doesn't know how much I identify with Hank. I was crying today at Albertson's and Jason asked me what was wrong. "If I told you, it would probably end our relationship."

"I'll never stop loving you, sweetheart. Nothing's that bad," he said.

I still couldn't tell him. I couldn't say, "Do you know you're number 29 (not counting Jesus) in a long line of guys I've been with in some capacity since I left my husband? Do you know I don't even truly know if I love you or if I'm just with you to numb my pain? I don't even know if I'm capable of loving anything. I don't even love myself."

Cheating on him and breaking up with him in the beginning didn't work. So I'm not going there again. But I'm in fucking deep, here. We go to the same church; the pastor announced our engagement to the whole congregation a few weeks ago, at both the 9 am and 10:45 am services.

So now what?

"I believe in you, baby," he just said to me. He knows I'm writing, but he doesn't really know what about. I did tell him I'm writing my memoir. I told him earlier, at Albertson's, that he may not love me so much when I'm done.

The truth will set you free, they say. We'll see.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 5

I'm watching Californication right now and thinking about my own "status" as a fictional character. I know I'd have a wider readership if I posted as myself. But tear the covers off? I'm just not ready.

I'm also reading Writing the Memoir by Judith Barrington. Why do I think my stories are worth telling? Well, they're shocking - at least to me. I find myself telling them to people one at a time. One person at a time, that is. Which stories I tell depend on the person and the amount of time I have, and where and why I'm telling them (the stories) in the first place.

I met some chick the other night who was brought to my fiancé's by her boyfriend Noah. Noah was supposed to record a song - my fiancé is an audio engineer and has a recording/mixing studio in his room. Noah brought his guitar, his girlfriend Megan, and a bunch of beer. I don't drink, and I was trying to work, myself, but because he brought her, I ended up having to entertain her while the two of them smoked weed outside.

Megan offered me a beer and I found myself telling her why I don't drink, or smoke, for that matter. Sometimes I just say, "No, I'm not drinking tonight" - but for some reason, this time, I took it upon myself to describe my entire downward spiral, post-separation/intra-bedlam. Those two phases are mutually inclusive, but, I don't know if I would cite either as the cause of the other. That's...more complicated, and to be saved for another post.

Which brings me back to Californication: this guy who has one successful novel can afford a house in L.A., and, women throw themselves at him, every episode, including women who don't even recognize him as the writer of said novel. Hank Moody "exudes" sexuality. I wish I could relate to the former of those descriptors, but alas, it's the latter that's apropos. Even now, as secure in my relationship as I am, hardly a day goes by that I don't get that second-take out there - that, you know, "I'm just turning back to look for an extra second here to see if you're at all interested, because you kinda look like you could be," and I, carefully, have to not smile too blatantly, for too long. Mine is, "Shit, I see you looking at me, again, so I better look away now before you get the wrong idea...even though I like it."

Unfortunately, though, no amount of blatant "exuding" on my part has been able, tonight, to get my fiancé to detach himself from his hours-long stretching routine to come "do" me. He's OC with plenty of other D's; he spent two days cleaning his room, putting every little thing in their perfect little places, and now it's been a full day of stretching. Stretching. I wish I was stretching in writing this.

I hope getting married isn't so close to suicide as being a "permanent solution" to a "temporary problem." The solution is the part that sounds good, of course, which is why people kill themselves, or, get married. I guess it isn't funny, but those were seeming to be the two alternatives back in January when I set out to try and nab this one last guy, or, maybe just be shit out of luck and, maybe just not "do this" any more.

Well, Californication's over. I'm turning in. He's still stretching, and I'm pretty damn annoyed, but there's a bit of karmic comedy in it all. I guess I want feel wanted all the time in every way that I want. I'm a little selfish that way. What I should be is grateful. This is better than the alternatives. Either one - being dead or being alone. He does love me more than anyone I've ever been with, besides my son - and that's a pretty nice feeling.

The First Molestation: My Brother (1987)

I had a habit of rushing over to my brother's room after I woke up every morning when I was four. He was seven and knew how to show a girl a good time. First, we'd climb up and jump off the jagged bricks on the back of the living room's chimney onto his bed. Then, after a few rounds of "good guy versus bad guy" with his Transformers, Ninja Turtles and other action figures, we'd play Connect Four; Hungry, Hungry Hippos; Chinese Checkers; and regular Checkers; notwithstanding his constant attempts at taunting: "King me! King me! Na na na na naa naaa!" Granted, he mopped the floor with me every single time, but I didn't care. For a four year-old, this is what the world was made of.

Of course, after he asked me to play with his "little man" and put it in my mouth with the blanket over us one morning...I stopped running to his room to play.

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.