A Breakup Tale in So Many Parts
Parts 21 & 22


Part 21: 26 days... 14 hours... 37 minutes since you left me...
Today, I met with a friend for lunch and she is confident that you dig the boys.
I would very much like to jump headfirst into that belief pool, to find a reason that we had so many problems in the sack, but I can't grasp it, so I keep blaming myself.
Yesterday, you and I got into several screaming matches on the phone.
During a well needed break between arguments, you called my Mother, you big diapie baby, and greatly upset her. Now, c'mon, you know that's my job. You started bitching about the things I was asking you to do. And ,amongst other things, you said, your voice escalating, and I paraphrase, "I said 'Yes' to things I didn't want to say 'Yes' to and I'm not going to do it anymore", like suddenly you were Peter Finch in "Network".
"Everyone, everyone, listen to me, listen.... listen! Call Her Mother, say it loud and proud, 'I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to say 'Yes' to things I don't want to anymore!"
Suddenly, my Mother's phone lines are jammed! They're calling! They're calling! You slump to the floor in tears as your friends gather around you. Ya' did it, boy. Ya' did it. Now everyone's blamin' someone else, too.
Later that night, you called to (rationally- heh, yeah) discuss some things and again it turned into the tornado of hate and blame. "You did this" "You did that" We were just yelling and screaming.
"What about the lies you told people about why we weren't having sex?" I shouted.
"I never said that"
"Oh," I said, "They're lying to me?"
"Yes," you screamed, "I have no reason to lie to you now".
Yes, oh, hello, waitress, Donna, is it? Hi, Donna. Um, I'll have a tuna melt with fries, Diet Coke with lemon aaaaaaaaand, lemmmeee seee... oh, a BIG FRIGGIN’ BREAK!
There was more ranting and raving on your part about how everybody was lying but you and,

Now follow the dot boys and girls and say it along with us:

"I said 'Yes' to things I didn't want to say
'Yes' to and I'm not
going to do it anymore"
The End

Afterwards, when I hung up the phone, I stopped being mad and just started to cry.
Because I don't know why you hate me so much.
Whatever I did to you, or you think I did to you, I don't know what it is... and I may never know. But I don't know how you turned so easily into this person who hates me. I don't know what I did. It hurts me so very much.
You tell people how much you love and care about me as a person, but I don't believe you.
I don't know if you're capable of love... of receiving or giving love.
I just know it burns me to the core when that acid shoots out of the phone and into my life.
Part 22: 29 days, 11 hours, 40 minutes after you left me...

Last night, I went to this really fun gathering at Half King in Chelsea for a buddy's going away. I met some new great people, really wonderful, strong women, too. We talked for a very long time about women stuff and break ups and issues; all sorts of things. If I had a uterus, I'm sure our periods would have synced. But it was tinged with humor and cynicism and I felt really strong and empowered.
I got home around 1am, turned on my computer and, as I waited it to power up, flipped on the TV to see if I was any good on that night's "Law and Order" ( 3 scenes as public defender Lois Schwartenburg in her brown suit and dyke helmet hair). I sat down at the computer and opened my email. The first email was from an email I didn't recognize @aol.com with no subject on the heading... so I clicked on it.
"I just had to relate how proud I am of you. I watched your fine performance tonight on LawAnd Order. I keep watching for reruns of other Law And Order shows I found listed under your filmography. I also catch you on Your TV Show. Keep up the good work in your career. I read and thoroughly enjoyed "Your Book." Very funny book. I watched the video on the internet of your winning performance at The Performance In NY You Did. Very, very funny. They choose wisely. Happy belated October 16th birthday.
I read extensively of you and your brother on the internet. I saw the picture of you and him in New York when he was recently there.
Your Father."
If this were an Eve Ensler play, this is what I would write next:
"I staggered away from the computer. The memory of his footsteps echoing down the hall sang in my head. I doubled over in sickness. I cried out, "Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?"
No one knows. No one knows the pain of being abuse. 13 years, Daddy. Thirteen yeeeeears!
But I am strong, stronger than you know. I will stiffen my spine and go on with my head up to Goddess' great sky.
So, f’ you. F’ you and your angry, violating soul. I raise my voice in a cacophonous echolalia!
(Pause)
....................Vagina...................."

What really happened was: I stared at the email for a while. Then I began to hyperventilate. It has been ten years since I communicated with my father. At that time, I sent him an email, confronting him about the abuse. He called my Mother and said, "Do you know what she said?!!?" and my Mother said, "Yes, and I believe her" and hung up.
Since then, my father has written letters to my Mother, emailed my Brother (who just closes them), sent pictures to my Mother, but he has never tried to contact me, ever. And I fine with that. I used to say to you, "As long as he doesn't contact me, I am fine".
BIG problem: You were the only person who I had trusted with everything on the subject of my father. You knew every detail as I remembered it. You understood as best as anyone could.
Aaaaaaaaaaaand you hate me.
So, I was sort of heaving, still in my John Fluevog boots, thigh high tights, thong invading my ass space, skirt, dolman sleeve top, full makeup and jewelry from this party... whimpering and staggering (all Eve Ensler-like). I suspect I looked like a crack whore who just got off Superman- The Ride! at Six Flags Great Adventure in New Jersey. I grabbed onto the edge of my desk and then grabbed onto the wall. I had vertigo. My phone was in my purse. It was 1:15 or so, but I had to call someone. I'm not one to ask for help, but I didn't want hysterical blindness that night. Really. Not after a night of looking hot in my 'Vog's.
I get my phone and get to the couch and, silently, tears are running down my face. So, now I'm Carrie (They're all gonna laugh at you, they're all gonna laugh at you!).
First, I called my therapist. Left a message. Calmly.
I was avoiding calling you.
Then I called my good friend in NYC. Left no message.
Avoided you again.
Called my friend in LA. Left no message.
Called you.
I didn't know what I was going to say. I didn't know if you were going to care. I just knew that you understood.
You understand that I take 5 different medications every day because of what he did to me. You understand that I had an abortion at 17, 13 surgeries and a hysterectomy because of what he did to me. That I have had hysterical blindness, suicide attempts beginning when I was 12, gone through rehab 3 times, been with abusive men, slept with more than 50 guys, can't remember half of my life because I've blocked it out, don't know what reality is, that I get so tired of being called strong and brave that my head feels like it going to explode because people don't know that it is a struggle every day for me to stay alive... and all kinds of other bullshit that I can't write because my fingers will fall off... because of what he did to me.
You understand that he never hurt me. His footsteps never echoed down the hall because we had carpet. He never hit me. He loved me. I loved him. I was never scared of him. He was my world. I never hated him. And part of me misses him very much.
You understand those things are the worst of all.
I wanted to talk to you because you understand why all of that threw me into whimpering, slight convulsions last night and the room was spinning.
I finally called my HS Sweetheart and he talked to me, even though he was in the middle of a little sumphin, sumphin (Hay-yay!). God love him, he had no idea what to say and has no point of reference for this sort of thing, but he was so there for me and just kept saying, "Things will look better in the morning"... and they did. I love him to death, that one.
I was 4 when he started. I’m 38 now.
Today, I just feel like, no matter how hip replacements he's had or angioplasties he's had, he's not suffering enough. My Mother says he'll suffer in hell, but that's not soon enough. My friend's say he's suffering in his own way, but what way is that?
I have to wake up every morning and decide whether to get out of bed and live the day knowing something may or may not remind me of something that did or didn't happen to me... that is suffering by itself. I have chosen to take what happened and the results of that horror freakshow called my childhood and laugh about it to break the stigma and let other folks know that they aren't alone and it's okay to say, "Are you flipping kidding me?" when life shits on you one more time!!!
Some days, you wake up, and you know that the best you're going to get that day is a good sandwich.
Talking to you today, as a friend, really would be my good sandwich.