Have a Good Cry

There was a time when I was doing wll. I had a husband. We lived in an rural neighborhood. I thanked my lucky stars every day. I liked my life. I had a job. He had a job. We had a church family and a blended family. Howard a child from his previous wife, and a stepdaughter. They are adults and live in Missouri. I wanted to meet them. I invited them to visit. I was charmed by the idea of being a step grandmother. I had no wish to compete with his previous wife, the mother of his children. She looked like a pretty lady. At fifty, her face is rosy and unlined. I look at her picture on MySpace and wonder if she would like me.

Suzan, as she spells it, is a detective. She finds lost children. She hunts down people who have been kidnapped by their non custodial parent. I find that ironic. Howard told me she had taken their kids, years ago, without telling him where she was. Howard said a lot of nasty things though. I found out later that weren't all true. He is an addict. An addict will say what ever needs to be said in order to create what they wish to create. He wanted sympathy. He wanted me to feel sorry for him. He liked being a victim.

Have a good cry.

It is possible she took those kids. Lord knows if my husband was a using addict, driving them around while he was loaded would push me over the edge. Any way it wasn't a custody issue. He could have called the police if it were. There was something fishy about the whole story. Like maybe she HAD told him where she was going and he just didn't remember. Or maybe they weren't really married, or maybe those weren't his kids. Its hard to know.

What I know for sure is that he walked out on me. Told our church was a bad person I was. How I wouldn't support him or give him his stuff. Although I did store it, for free, for one full year, he never thanked me for it. I waited for two years to see if he would get sober. I imagined having a cup of coffee with him when he was clean. I imagined being able to talk to him and ask him questions. I imagined the smell of his skin and the rough touch of his hands.

Have a good cry.

I wrote him once a month. I wished he would help me. I wished he would care. What was I supposed to do with all the bills he had created in both of our names? Most of all I wished he wanted to live. If he had left me for another woman at least I could understand. I can't understand why he would rather be dead than interact with me. I can't understand what's so great about being loaded, about being useless, about being trashed.

Have a good cry.

I found him on MySpace. He had written to his kids, "friended" them all. The picture of him showed an aging alcoholic. His nose was bloated. His skin looked parched. His sense of humor was back. I wasn't the only person looking for him. His niece in Ohio had posted, although there was no evidence that he had replied. He was busy now, in his new life. Apparently living with those grown kids in Missouri. He had posted he hoped God would send him a wife as beautiful as his daughter-in-law, Jennifer. Ouch.