All I wanted...

          When you are hurting, sad, or depressed, what helps you feel better?  Where do you go? What do you do?  What about when it’s your children who are in pain?  In her essay, “Bombs Bursting in Air,” published in a The Longman Reader, Beth Johnson discusses the dilemma parents feel between the desire to protect our children from the inevitable “bombs” in life and the need to teach them how to handle these unwelcome explosions.  How do you do that when the devastation is something that both parents and children face together?

Part One:  All I wanted…

          My ex visited our daughters during the first part of spring break this year.  The first I’d seen him in over two years, and the first time I’d seen him since our divorce was final in December, I did not handle it well.  I was a live wire of pulsing raw energy.  He was all smiles and political politeness, as if saying, “Hey, isn’t it so great now that we are divorced and we can be best friends and everyone’s happy.”  As if the world approved of his actions and smiled down on him.  Usually not much of a drinker, all I wanted was to pound a beer.  Either that or pound the smile off of his face.  I needed something to take the edge off and didn’t know what to do.  After arming myself with makeup and my best outfit, I drove to meet them at the Avenue.  It was the only night we planned to hang out together as he’d just arrived in town after not seeing the girls since summer and I wanted to see the Hunger Games with the girls the first time too. 

I’d encouraged them to start dinner without me.  On the way, I dialed my best friend who said, “The only thing that works for me is a shot of tequila straight up.  Or valium.”  So, I took a deep breath and walked into Pizza Gallery, and there he was.  He looked exactly the same and yet somehow different…maybe more at peace.  They were all three eating pizza.  Beth had saved a slice of the gluten-free, dairy-free for me, and Devin had ordered me a cup of chicken Tuscany soup.  All I wanted was a beer.  I sat down and greeted everyone.  The girls glowed from fatherly attention, though Devin looked a bit anxious.  Nervous tension vibrated throughout my body, so I excused myself and went to the bar. 

My anxiety spiked until we were all sitting in the theater, spread among a few aisles.  I thanked God for the huge turnout.  Even though we’d arrived thirty minutes early, the room was packed, and we were lucky to find seats for Beth and her friends to sit with M and Devin and our friends to sit with us.  The movie enthralled us, and I was happy to lose myself in the story for a couple of hours. 

Afterwards, I just couldn’t do it anymore, so I decided to forgo Redberry’s frozen yogurt and told them I’d meet them at home.  I’d offered for the girls to stay in the hotel with him, but they weren’t ready to that night.  For whatever reason, they wanted the comfort of their own bedrooms.  For me, that meant my ex in my house when he dropped them off.  For me, it meant prolonged torture of the hammering energy.  The girls showed off their cats and rooms.  Finally, he left, and the girls talked to me about the excitement of seeing their dad again, about the intensity of the movie, about the confusion of their dad being in what has been only my house, my town.  And, Devin also expressed some anxiousness about opening up to her dad only to say goodbye again in a few days.  After listening to them and helping them work through their emotions, I fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning he arrived early and came in to wait while the girls finished getting ready.  I decided on a good night’s sleep over the armor of makeup, and I felt naked. Thank God I’m not married to her anymore with her lounging around the house like that.  Beth packed the lunch I’d bought her, and I took my morning vitamins.  Devin dressed in her room, and he paced the hallway across the bar from us.  Thank God I’m not married to her anymore; look at the Craig's List furniture and hand-me-downs.  I handed Beth her vitamin drink, and she made a face while drinking it.

“Why are you making that face?” He asked her.

“I don’t like it.”
“Then why are you drinking it?”

“Cause Mom’ll be mad if I don’t.”

Thank God I’m not married to her anymore; she’s such a mean bitch and tries to control everyone and everything.  Like the narrator in Edgar Allen Poe’s ”The Tell-Tale Heart,” I could hear the ticking of the “heart” of our 19-year marriage—I could hear the noise, building louder.  Louder.  Louder.  Thank God I’m not married to her anymore; she’s so big.  Faster.  Faster.  Faster.  Thank God I’m not married to her anymore; she takes all my money. The ticking increased.  Louder, louder, louder. Thank God I’m not married to her anymore.  It was all in my head, in my body.  A chaotic mass of throbbing pressure that all equaled me:  unwanted.  Discarded.  Not enough.  Nine o’clock in the morning, and all I wanted was a beer.  

To be continued...

(Check back tomorrow for the next part!!)