Category Archives: memories

Spooling

A is certain of the other’s existence in my life. According to him we are still together. Despite the fact that there is absolutely no indication of my being with him, or anyone else, A asks about him each time we see each other. How is he doing? What have you two been doing?

How should I know? “We two” have not been doing anything. As far as how he is doing, I don’t know. Whatever I did wrong to make him leave in the first place, I then exacerbated further while we were apart to the point where he doesn’t want to talk, and probably couldn’t even stand the sight of me. I am awful, and the worst part is, I don’t even understand why. Not that it matters I suppose.
I don’t so much mind being reminded of him. I seem to do that just fine on my own. But to have my memories probed, as if they never mattered, to be taken from me and mistreated like ordinary things, and prodded at with questions, is just cruel.
There is nothing left to conceal, but that is not the point. My memories are mine, and precious, and the only baubles I have left. You cannot violate them with your nonsense! They are not things!
A says he wants closure, and wants to understand. But he doesn’t ask about the times I hurt him, or even dwell on how often I was a wicked wife. Instead he wants to pull it out of me, to lay it bare, dissect it slowly and make it common. Because “it all makes sense.” Does it really? What exactly makes sense? Of course that man would never want to be with me. And I am the only idiot with enough self interest not to understand.
Sometimes I think A just wants to hurt me by cataloging my faults. It all makes sense if you look at it that way. Who would want any of that? Then other times I think A just wants to show me, as in, “now do you understand?” Now do you understand why he doesn’t want you? Do you see why he wants someone, anyone, else?
A asks so I can say it out loud. Yes, I see. No, I don’t see. Because I don’t see. Because to me those memories are fragile and real. Before the man made up his mind that I was this horrible thing that needed to be disposed of, it was all real. I say it out loud and then A can spool out the memories, one at a time. Out loud into reality. This all happened. It is not happening. It will never happen again.
After a few minutes the lobotomy style invasion is over. And I will have two more weeks before I am emptied again.

Talking It Over

I would like to think him leaving is his loss, but really it is mine too. There were many things about him I enjoyed, but one thing in particular I miss most. Actually what I miss most fluctuates, but right now, this is what I want.

I loved telling him about whatever I was reading, studying, teaching (although the latter is a new development and not one we discussed in detail).

I can’t explain it, except that he always knew. He probably thought I was ridiculous in my odd fascinations, yet he humored me anyway. I would find whimsy in the strangest quotes, but still, he knew.

Whatever I had studied, or was reading, he most likely already read, and had an opinion on it. I enjoyed hearing it, constantly getting me to think about something else, new, and maybe different.

I think my favorite part was making him figure it out. He would and I would squeal and giggle in delight, reading his email or text that unraveled whatever random thing I would send.

I sometimes wonder if he enjoyed it, and viewed it like a game the way I did.

There was one time I thought it would amusing to create something formatted like the reference in the title of this blog and see where it went. Pick a subject, any subject, and go from there. The end result would have been entertaining.

If we were still talking, I would tell him about my lesson planning for next week:  “on ne nait pas femme: on le devient.” He could easily figure out what/who I am teaching… but the why… especially considering my opinion on the subject…  that would be a whole different puzzle.

Well, I guess if I want puzzles, then I will have to go back to Sudoku.

The Event

I remember S. Well of course I remember S, we were together for nearly a decade. Not remembering him would require quite an extended, and rather selective, bout of amnesia.

Today, going to the bookstore reminded me of him. His guilty pleasure was the horror novel, and this book store had an entire room dedicated to them. I only passed by briefly as I made my way to the cafe. I didn’t like them then, and I don’t like them now. I couldn’t read them because I got too scared and then would be unable to sleep. I would ask that all the lights in the house be kept on at night and then, after I would fall asleep, he would go around and turn them off.

He would constantly have to take care of me. I thought it was because I was helpless, but looking at it now, I realize I was just young. I was fifteen when we met, eighteen when we got married, and he was approaching forty. He got a wife and a child all in one.

I was mature for my age, but still incredibly immature. When he would say no to something I would stomp my feet and have a temper tantrum. I would run into the bedroom, slam the door and spend an hour or two blasting Nirvana or Blondie while he patiently sat on the couch waiting for me to come out, weasel into his arms and say I was sorry.

Then he would kiss me on the forehead, all would be forgiven, and I usually got whatever it was I wanted. That is how we ended up with a pet bunny.

Even though I never became a fan of the horror novel, they stopped scaring me. He came home one day and I was sitting on the couch reading Dean Koontz. S was irritated, maybe agitated, and I didn’t understand why. I thought he was just upset in anticipation of our electricity bill going up again that night and I assured him we don’t have to sleep with all the lights on. But that wasn’t it.

I am not sure at what point, but one day I started growing up. I wasn’t a little girl anymore, and it made him uneasy. I was no longer asking for games and bunnies (although the bunny was still alive and well in our living room). I was no longer in awe of him. I loved him dearly, but I started knowing things. I was no longer helpless and dependent.

The older I got the more suspicious of me he became. He acted as if I would discover some sort of secret about life and then leave him. If it is any consolation, I have yet to discover any life secrets. But I did leave.

Curiosity is dangerous, and unfortunately I have too much of it. The angrier he got, the more I wanted to please him. So I constantly found new and exciting ways of being a good wife. They have handbooks for this, you know. I was curious as to how it was done, and I thought I had found the way.

Those who knew me then will remember the event, and the aftermath, and the years I have spent never repeating it. Men react strangely to this sort of thing.

The giant section of books today at the store brought it all vividly back. And I realized, for better or worse, for whatever it is worth and regardless of the consequences, I had within the last year wanted to repeat the event, although altered, with someone else. I guess I will never learn.