The last
three years have been some of the hardest times I have ever had to go through as
an adult, culminating in three determined walks to the Golden Gate Bridge to
jump. If I had a choice after that, I would've opted out, but I had even given
up on suicide. Then, in some zombie-like stupor, hunch backed and defeated, I
slowly pieced together some semblance of my former life. I still had no real
will to live and I felt broken. Now, however, I had a job (again) and found a
place to live. I could feel sun on my face and I could turn into it and smile
again. It was a humble, quiet, little life. I wasn't quite daring to live
again, just determinedly inching forward because, well, I had tried down and
staying still. The only direction left is back up. I still had reckless
behavior occasionally, a feeling of "fuck it, I don't know anymore and I
want to die anyway" which is so drastically different from my thoughtful
and purposeful past. It was in one of those reckless moments where I found myself scratching out the years of solitude in clear red marks on the back of a guy like a prisoner and I had him with that same aggressive violence that was having its way with me. I was hungry. I devoured him. The metal door of my fear, sorrow and shame was flung aside and I took him. And five weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
I knew him from the band days. He was a quiet, older guy, not some
flashy or loud character. You could almost miss him in a crowd if you weren’t
looking, but, his shadowy and unaffected sense of cool would snag your gaze
back. The way he would lean in to so-in-so with an open friendliness and watch
his small, strong face move from no expression to the warmest of smiles, as if
the smile had always been there and you just hadn’t noticed. Even so, I didn't
really think too much of him, other than he appeared respectful, friendly, and
like most of the people associated with the music scene, had a good sense of
music and style. He wasn't brash about it. He was an understated and
unshakeable man and I wasn't paying any attention to him in the beginning. In
fact, I only noticed he was there as I began the slow descent into my personal
hell that would hold me under for more than a year.
Oh, he had been there before; another well-connected face in the
crowd down south (L.A.) when I would climb the stage. I was one of three
singers in a Northern Soul band. This was a band that I had known about a
decade prior to joining that had reformed for a "reunion tour". When
I auditioned my hands trembled with sweat-slick palms and a buzzing would fill
my brain, but I showed up anyway and opened my mouth. I gave it my best. My hands would still shake for months and
months during every practice. As the band rolled on, I would struggle with my
own insecurities.
Sometimes, when the music flowed on
tempo, I was able to shake loose the inner conversation of criticism and
violence and instead, lose myself in my voice. The song's message would well up
out of my soul from this deep, heartbroken place inside me, and I became it,
wrapping up my anguish and delivering it to the crowd like a hard etched ravine
of compassion for their suffering. In it, it was our suffering, together, and
we were no longer alone in all this heartache life pounded into us. The song
ended, always, but it never failed to surprise and disappoint me. The applause
would hit me then, somehow cruel, taking away our/my peace. I always felt
embarrassed, and saddened that that expansive place was only a bubble to be
popped so easily.
That was when a song was going well. I was always really hard on
myself and unless it felt "in the pocket", it was shit, in my
opinion. When one of the other singers, much younger and very different
temperamentally, also started blaming her vocal shortcomings on me, (when we
were doing back-ups together), and in general, started to make my existence in
the band more uncomfortable, it sealed the end of my time with them. I'm not a
confrontational and belligerent character and I don't mix well with
manipulative or ego driven personalities. If someone is insecure and being out
of line, my first approach is to try to talk it out, but, they almost always
can't see their own behavior. If they did, they would probably act different.
Maybe we all would.
As the band dynamics tightened their noose on me (remember,
I was also deeply self-critical and struggled with my own insecurities), my
personal world also started tearing me apart. I ended up becoming homeless and
losing my car, several times. My whole life was slowly collapsing. I had not
taken a drink since I was 23 by this time because when I had, I drank too much
and often did things that I would not have done otherwise. I didn’t like what
booze did to me and the person I became. I appeared to have little control over
my consumption of alcohol. That was about 19 to my early 20s. I could have easily been spotted stumbling in
a black out at three in the morning down any Santa Cruz street toward home. I
would fall on my face over and over until only the parts where my Doc Marten
boots began remained unbruised. Under the influence of alcohol, I became loud,
friendly and rough. I would lovingly punch my friends and grab them in head
locks, tossing them around like my favorite ragdolls. I came across a group of
people, mostly Mexican, who had relocated from Fresno and together we crept
around the streets of Santa Cruz and San Francisco, mingling with bands and
bums alike.
All-together, it was a time of deep sorrow and struggle around my family
and personal history, of stumbling into self-efficiency, of finding exciting
new worlds of music and booze, and sometimes, of drowning to see if anyone gave
a damn. No one did. So, I put the booze down before I killed myself. This new
era of my life falling apart in my late 20s saw me reach once again for that
sweet relief in a bottle of beer.
It was towards the end of my band-life that I was drinking again. A show
in Oakland saw me (and several other band members) fairly ripped onstage. The
whole night held a wide, warm smile for me. My world was crumbling and I
didn't give a damn. My Fred Perry shirt was tight across my chest, my fishnets
were on fire and I was making friends with everyone who came my way. I was
released from my depressive bubble of sorrow and self-hate that was holding me
captive while the world was turning me inside out and ripping me apart. I was
free. Then a funny talking Texan bought me a beer. He had a broad, friendly
face and he liked me, a lot. It felt so damn good to be around people again.
Every other time, it felt like, the closer they came in, the deeper they pushed
needles into my heart. It was literally painful to be around others.
I don't remember it, that first
real interaction. Or maybe, I vaguely remember. It was an off-handed exchange
anyway, probably made during my drunken rounds. While that slow Texas drawl
occupied most of my attention, I had apparently made a point to acknowledge
this quiet, older gentleman. Was he wearing his green bomber jacket, a Guinness
t-shirt, or a slim button up? Was he in slacks or jeans? I couldn't tell you. I
remember he had kind eyes and a stubborn mouth. And I remembered his
face. I greeted him and apparently he and his friend noticed. I didn’t; I
was just making friendly drunken rounds, but I meant my friendliness. It wasn’t
insincere. I was like a starving bird storing up from self-imposed isolation. I
was just devouring everyone in a delicious, much needed bath of humanity.
The next day reminded me of what I had been missing all those years of
not drinking, namely, a hang-over. That Oakland show was only a warm up for the
real event the following night, Mr. Symarip. I spent most of that next day
lying down. I avoided any beer since I felt extremely nauseous. By the time
night rolled around I was fairly wrecked, but standing upright and not as
queasy. The Texan was at my side the whole time. Later, we would engage in a
short lived affair. He visited me and later, even bought me a plane ticket to
come visit him. There I would be received into his world with a warm magnolia
embrace like I had never experienced before. Down at Lovejoy’s, all the folks
were dressed up and dancing and everyone made a point of welcoming me. I had
never met such strong and hospitable people as I had in Texas. There was no
scene snobbery at all. Between the kindness of this Texan and his friends and
the cautious smiles from his two beautiful boys he was single-handedly raising,
it was a small oasis for me in what was shaping up to be a very cruel existence
back in California that I very nearly stayed.
Towards the end of that night in Oakland, I saw the quiet man
again. This time he imprinted himself on my memory. Down to earth and
self-possessed, in slacks, check shirt and a half smile, he was a respectful
guy and worthy of respect. Was I attracted to him then? I don't know. I thought
he was attractive but, I think I figured he was taken, because of his age, or he
must’ve been a total dog. I had little faith in there being any decent men left
on the planet. The Texan actually restored a sliver of hope in men for
me.
After that show, there were only a few more left for me, and I
finally walked away when my personal life continued to fall apart and my
kindness had all melted away for the other singer. I was getting dangerously
close to physical violence. Not in a loud way, just in that quiet simmered way
that hints at an eminent explosion. To this day, when I see her in town, I am
shocked at the extent of my emotional reaction to her, although it has dimmed
over time. I will have long forgotten all about her, the situation, even the
band. Then, I'll see her out of the corner of my eye and instantly feel the
itch to grab her hair and punch her in the face. It's an urge that almost never
comes over me. I just remind myself that I acted like a lady and did the best I
could. She probably deserved to be taken down a peg but we all reap what we
sow. She's not in the band anymore either, by the way. I would feel like I left
for nothing, except that she really wasn't the reason I left. I left because my
life really needed attending to, and it got way worse from there.
I tried recreating my life in San Francisco. I couldn't continue
my degree at the local university in Santa Cruz anymore. This was due to the
huge financial mess brought on by withdrawing one quarter when I became homeless.
I went to sign up the following quarter after I found a place to live and I was
informed I now owed the school $4000. Until I paid them, I would not receive
any of my units I had earned there over the last year and half. But, they
couldn’t touch the units I came to the university with. I could still restart my
B.A. anywhere else with the 80 units I had earned at junior college. My student
loans were unaffected. So off to San Francisco I went.
I had always wanted to live there, so maybe I could rebuild my life from
the ashes it had become in a way that I had always dreamed. I found a job as a
teacher's-aid with emotionally disturbed kids and began enrolling at a private
art university. For a couple weeks I was very excited. Also, there was a tattoo
artist I was very attracted to whom I had had a couple dates with prior to
leaving Santa Cruz. He wasn't so much handsome as he was an awesomely original
and funny character. Our dates had fizzled out because his mom had developed
cancer. I understood. But, there were hardly any guys that I actually found
interesting. I found most guys really, reeeeeaaaally boring and unoriginal. No
style, no sense of self-definition, no brains. I would trade looks for some
brains in a heartbeat. This guy wasn't particularly smart, but he was fun and
interesting and had immense style. He was a great “guy”. In fact, I still feel
that way.
San Francisco, it turned out, was not to be a relocation, but a
long(er) and (more) depressing vacation than I had ever been on before. Here I
was, living in the place I had always dreamed of living and my job turned out
to be a nightmare. I couldn't find work to sustain me anywhere else. The guy I
had a crush on never reached out to me (of course, I didn't really reach out to
him) and I found myself terribly alone and more depressed than ever before. I
had jumped into one of my dreams and it felt like a horrible joke. I spent my
nights chain smoking and playing solitaire. My days were spent dreading going
to work and heaving deep sighs of relief when the work day ended, until
finally, I just couldn't go anymore. Not even weekend outings around town
could brighten the experience. The knowledge was sinking in that my last and
final effort to make something of my life was quickly turning into rotten fruit
around my feet. I had failed, completely.
After that, I tried walking to the Golden Gate Bridge to jump
several times. Each time, something would intervene. It was weird. One time, I
hopped BART and made my way on foot toward the bridge in the distance. Two
girls of Indian descent sitting by the pier offered to read my palm as I passed.
I informed them I was broke but they said they would do it for free. I ended up
reading theirs instead and fell into a long conversation with both of them. They
were struggling with their home life, pressures of early marriage, and a myriad
of other things. I listened, offered advice and encouraged them in their path. I
found it hard to continue walking to end my life after that and continued on
only half-heartedly. It’s hard to off yourself when you’re only half-committed.
I did continue walking, but I couldn't quite find the entrance to the bridge. I
quickly gave up and went back to my room and slept.
I had begun an online relationship with a man from North Ireland,
a single, part time Dad from Portadown. He was an old suedehead and had been
just another Facebook admirer of mine before, checking out the American girl in
fishnets and suspenders and a big angry sneer. He became one of the few human contacts that
somewhat sustained me during this time. He had also struggled with suicide and
depression, and he spoke with that delicious accent. That quiet man from the
Oakland show was the farthest thing from my mind at this time. I was drowning,
lying at the bottom of my own personal lake, wondering if I was ever going to swim
to the surface to again, and if I did, would it be in time?
Finally, a time came when rent came due, unemployment insurance
wasn't coming through and I was thoroughly screwed. I had always been very good
at covering my own ass and avoiding scenarios like this one. Mainly because
there wasn't anyone to lean on if situations like this presented themselves. I
was looking at the very bleak prospect of being homeless in San
Francisco.
I had an Uncle I hadn’t seen since childhood who had been paroled
out of prison about a year or so ago that had begun reaching out to me. He was
in Sacramento, my hometown, living with my Mom. Now, my relationship with my
Mom has always been hard. There's just way too much to go into here, but my
Uncle convinced me to stay temporarily with him and Mom. He even agreed to come
up and get me and my stuff. At this point in my life, with no will to live, I
was basically putty. I would've done anything anyone said and as hellacious as
it sounded living under the same roof as my Mother, it was far better than
being homeless in San Francisco, so I agreed.
I spent a shameful period of time just sucking air after that.
That's the best I can describe it. I was just done. I smoked cheap cigarettes,
sometimes purchased by either my Uncle or my Mother and I slept. I watched a
lot of Netflix. I didn't think about how to kill myself anymore, I just didn't
want to live. Looking back now, that was probably a positive sign. I talked to
my pretend Irish boyfriend nearly every day and I got stronger. Eventually, I came
to the conclusion that, while I was saved from suicide or a life on the streets
by a spot on my Mother's office floor, I was going to spend the rest of my life
in that very spot if I didn't do something different. No one was going to help
me. I had no car, there were no bus lines close by; I had no income, no
prospects, nothing. A friend of my Mother’s paid me to deep clean his house
(and believe me, I earned that money). At first, I was uneasy in his presence.
He was after all, an ex-boyfriend of my Mother’s. It was a strange connection
for me. He was an immigrant from Africa and after we discovered our mutual love
for the reggae artist Jimmy Cliff, we quickly developed a connection of our
own. He even called me later a few times to check-up on me. I really enjoyed
talking with him. He grew up during a very important time in African history,
when the old tribal ways were still being practiced but were slowly being
infiltrated with western ideas. I called up my old job in Santa Cruz and asked
my boss if there was any work available. While it wasn’t my dream job, it was a
job that sustained me and I had always really liked my boss. He was a good man
that I respected. I then rang up one of the few remaining friends that I had
maintained contact with in Santa Cruz throughout this time and she agreed to
let me stay with her until I got back on my feet. Despite my Mother’s dismay
that I didn’t give her the money I had earned from her ex-boyfriend, I used it instead
for bus fare back to Santa Cruz.
Within a few weeks, I found myself rising before dawn for work in a darkened
room with a biting temperature of 30 degrees. The old thermometer on the wall
liked to let me know just how freezing I actually was, in case I wanted to convince
myself it wasn’t as cold as I thought it was. The house had very limited solar
power and I was highly encouraged not to use it. I was, however, given a
flashlight. There also was no heat source in the downstairs where I slept, on a
wood floor. I did, however, have a small mat, and later, a blow up mattress. There
was plumbing, however, and even a dark hot shower was still a hot shower. I
would layer on my jackets and take my flashlight with me down the dark, cold,
hour long walk to the nearest bus stop. But, I was going to work. I was no
longer stagnant. I was inching forward ever so slightly. The flashlight would
light up shards of ice in the grass alongside the road, igniting tiny diamonds
of subtle color. Sometimes, when I dared charge my ipod overnight, I would put
in my headphones as I made my way down that initial country road, turn up Ben
E. King’s “Stand By Me” and look up into this brilliant, crisp night sky heavy
with a thickened cold soup of stars. Country sky. I would look up, pointing my
cold little nose towards the heavens above my scarf and think to myself, “look
at this, aren’t I lucky?”.
And the truth was I was. I had escaped
a childhood that had taken out many a lesser individual. I had become
independent at seventeen. I had shaken some more detrimental paths and received
an education. I had recently overcome complete personal disaster and I was on
the path towards rising up again. Because of who I am as a person, despite all
my flaws and wounds and scars, I was a good person, a kind hearted person and
had made deep friendships with others, one friend whom was helping me during
this crucial time. And for the record, I have had other friends help me along
the way as well. I had always been rich in friendship. But more than this, even
in our darkest times, we are blessed. The very fact of our existence on this
planet is a blessing. Life is miraculous. There is some instinctive knowing of
this because no matter how hard things may get, we still seek to survive
another day. In each day there are a million tiny miracles we miss. The curve
of a spider’s web, the rumble of a rain cloud, the sound of children in the
distance, all these kaleidoscope-like sensorial experiences of living, this is
all we ever get, but they are what makes life delicious. Even after a long day at work, when I was
walking back, long after sunset, waving the small but powerful flashlight
behind me to avoid getting hit by a speeding car whipping around a mountain
curve, I felt more at peace than I had in months. I could smell horses and the
moon was high, coming out now and again behind the redwood trees. The street
was quiet as I went deeper into the mountain and the sound of animals and the
hum of the air held me. Why else would I be present for either the pre-dawn
crystals in the grass or the moon after sunset if I didn’t have to be? Left to
my own choices, I would have slept in and completely missed the deer and her
fawn eating up ahead on the road, or the raccoons, or any other number of
things. I was lucky.
So, I was working again. I
was back on a slow, slow crawl upward. After about a month it was time to move
on from my friends place. Not because of her, but because of her
step-grandmother whose house it was. I didn't have enough money saved up yet
for a first/last/deposit on a new place so I interviewed for a halfway house or
as they call them on the west coast, a "sober living environment". I
had some history in the past with alcohol struggles during my early twenties
and with being sober for a long period after that so I kind of fluffed my way
through it. Honestly, it was a bed and a roof over my head that I could get
right away that was closer into town. The trade-off was, I couldn't drink while
living there, which I wasn't doing anyway because all my money was going to
getting a place. I shared a room with several other women. All drug addicts. I
had never liked drugs, even pot. The harder substances had been around me when
I was a child. My mother had been a teenage runaway with a drug addiction and
my father had been a drug dealing biker. You’d think this was a match made in
heaven, and perhaps during the time when my older sister was born it was, but,
they were separated before I was ever born. According to Mother, he had a
tendency toward violence. What I can say from knowing him is that he certainly
had a tendency toward a loud and belligerent party-mentality. His nickname was
Bear, for good reason. I remember she loved telling me about how he kept
accidently peeing in odd places in a drunken stupor, thinking he was in the
bathroom. She also liked to tell me how she escaped, pregnant with me and that
he “put a contract out on her head” after that. I had seen them, separately, in
their relationship with meth and it was very clear to me what that world was
all about. There had never been any allure for me. I had tried it a couple
times, along with marijuana, since both were easy to obtain from my older
sister, and I didn’t like either one.
While living there, I kept pretty much
to myself. I did my chores, paid my rent
and worked. Several of the girls were very young and had very strong (and
likeable) personalities. One of the girls was a rather sultry character, a
college student, whom, despite having a heroine background, still didn’t really
think she had a drug problem. The other, a vivacious and wiry brunette, even
younger, whom had been raised a bit rougher, readily admitted to a drug problem
and abstained from all drugs. She had an audacious but humble sense of humor
and had come to the place in recovery of willingness that comes to so few
addicts. I ended up getting along with almost all of them, even the house
manager, whom had escaped a long abusive marriage and was also, like me, trying
to recreate her life. I dutifully peed in my cup to prove I wasn’t drinking or
doing drugs, although I had never peed in front of anyone; that was a new (and
highly unsettling) experience. To which the house manger replied “Well, don’t
ever go to jail!” Good point! I hated living there, especially as the other two
beds in my room filled up, and the rules and house meetings began to interfere
with my work schedule. By this time in my life I had developed the bad habit of
lying in bed and watching Netflix for hours, so if I wasn’t working, and I wasn’t
hanging downtown with friends, I was hiding in my covers watching Netflix on my
smart phone. It could have been worse.
I walked to and from work and socked my money away. Finally, I had
enough after a month or two to start looking for available rooms. Several were
offered to me and I chose one with a roommate (younger) in a little converted
Victorian unit. It was perfect, with a lovely sunny room, bay windows, and
close to downtown. I acquired some furniture and borrowed my friend’s truck and
moved myself in. Only once did I struggle hauling a large dresser up the stairs
by myself and a passerby actually assisted me in bringing it into my room.
During this time, the guy whom I had crushed on back in San
Francisco had found a girlfriend. I didn’t realize it then, but as time went on
and I reconnected with old friends, I found out he had apparently done quite a
bit of dating in the Santa Cruz area. He was a bit notorious and I was thankful
that, as much as I had liked him, I hadn’t slept with him. I have never
regretted not sleeping with a guy. Thank God I’m old-fashioned that way. I have
to add, however, that the tattoo artist was a good kisser!
I must admit, I was kind of upset
about it at the time. In a small fury of activity, I put out a line to several
men whom I felt were attractive and I knew were single as a reaction to this
news. I obviously, was in no position in my life to be dating. With nearly all
my belongings still in storage in my Mother's office closet back in Sacramento,
and the smallest scratch at a new life beginning in Santa Cruz, I was not ready
for any sort of anything, and certainly not with the type of man I would be
interested in pursuing, but, I felt rejected and I needed to get on the horse
again.
One of those men was the quiet man from the Oakland show. I had posted
some pictures on Facebook awhile back and a comment from him had me poking
around on his page and sussing out his single status. I had remembered that now
as I cast my lines out. He was a little short of stature, an inch or two taller
than me with a head of salt and pepper hair, and a calm, easy demeanor. It was
a clichéd Facebook interaction: a comment, a few message exchanges, blossoming
into phone texts. No live conversations; that would be so 2000.
We had a few missed connections. He was driving up to see Cock
Sparrer in San Francisco and I wasn’t going. Then, as I was co-miserating with
a friend on the steps of my favorite coffeeshop, a guy got out of his car and
walked up to me and asked if I wanted to go. Was this guy coming on to me? Of
course I wanted to go. I looked him over. Was I willing to go with him? He
seemed alright. Not too shabby. Then he informed me that his wife was in the
car and he had two tickets and he couldn’t go but he wanted to give them to
people who would appreciate them. It does pay to have a Chelsea cut, ladies!
Even if the rest of the population thinks you’re a lesbian! So I was going and
my friend was driving us up there! Oh yeah, and that strange guy ended up looking
like the most beautiful thing I had ever seen!
But that failed to produce any results
between the quiet man and me. Through a series of phone texts and Facebook
messages, we failed to be at the same place at the same time despite him trying
to come find me. I did, however, get to see Cock Sparrer for the first time,
even if they were nosebleed seats, and it was glorious.
There were a few guys who responded to my little rebound fishing
moment, but the quiet man was the only one worthy of responding to and the only
one I got excited about. He had a super cute little face and obviously loved
his daughter more than anything (from a former marriage). Add good taste in
music and a solid sense of personal style to the mix and I welcomed the idea of
him coming to visit me, even in my new, very sparse place. (Although to this
day, there is a picture of him in a lovely, red tonic suit that screams for a
good tailor which tells me he is, after all, still a guy). I still was in no
place in my life to date but I definitely needed some entertaining distraction
from the drudgery that I was thankful enough to have mustered up into an
existence and call a life.
When he came up I was so nervous I had to drink a beer before he
ever got to my door. He called before coming over, (a gentlemanly warning after
an eight hour drive) and it was the first time I had heard his voice since
seeing him in person. I had thought it was Oakland that I had seen him last,
but there was another time after that I would not quite remember until he
reminded me later.
There had been a later show in Long Beach and the band had not set
up sleeping accommodations. It was a big band, complete with a full horn
section, totaling 11. We got divvied up amongst several generous people, and I
went to stay with Gregory Nicolle and his wife. They were good people and I
instantly felt comfortable around them, a rare thing, usually triggered when I
get an innate sense of grounded humbleness, despite the fact that they owned
their very nice Long Beach house. It was obvious the couple had worked hard to
be where they were in life and their temperament made it easy to love them.
Also, it was entertaining to see them both were very drunk that night, with
wide silly smiles and talkative, friendly demeanors. The next morning didn’t
see an end to their friendliness, however, and I still found myself liking them
both very much. Another couple I instantly felt comfortable with from that area
was a guy I only knew as "Boxer" and his wife. Both of them were
intelligent people, also very friendly and easy to be around. I remember being
pleasantly surprised by these couples and the absence of ego scene-snobbery I
had come to expect from people I met through the band.
After the quiet man reminded me, long
after that night, and long after that first real solo-date weekend, I
remembered. He had also come back to Greg’s place to stay over too. The living
room had smart, mod-vintage furniture and an old juke box opposite the
fireplace. I sat on a reclining single chair and he sat on the opposite side of
the room on a loveseat. He was wearing his green bomber jacket and was decently
buzzed. He had work rough hands with leathery freckles across their backsides,
and an alcohol easy look in his eyes and smile. He had been a charmer as a boy,
that was obvious, maybe even had dimples as a kid. I didn't really pay him any
mind then as we all chatted in Greg’s living room except that he seemed like
another friendly face in this strange town where people were nice and had good
taste in music and style. And he was cute, with his little smile.
So there he was, on my new doorstep.
Alone and in the flesh. I had always had a hard time dating. I am very picky
and very shy, and after the last three years, not really wanting to invest in
anything. In fact, cuddling up alone to a long British series on T.V. is
immensely more appealing than going through any string of dates, probably
ending in a lot of unnecessary emotional turmoil and still being alone cuddled
up with my Netflix account, but by then with another notch of defeat and
disgust. It's easier to just cut out the middle parts.
But he surpassed all my picky
excuses. And there he was, on my door step after an eight hour or so drive. I
couldn't gain an emotional upper hand with a lack of interest, because I was
interested. It's easy to hide in that if I don't really like the guy. I mean,
there's no risk if you aren't interested. I can be so confident, funny, outgoing
and, fantastic, really if the guy doesn't move me. I mean, this guy rescues
endangered animals for a living, kind of a girl's wet dream. Well, a girl who's
into that sort of thing. If he worked that angle he could probably get all
kinds of ladies! He could say "Hi, nice to meet you. I'm a scientist and
rescue baby birds. Wanna have sex?"
The weekend was a drunken mix of emotions. It was clear to
me that I liked him. And also that his nature kind of irritated me. He was so
damn quiet. I couldn't tell if he was having a good time. Was he just hung
over? I certainly was. Should I stop talking? Talk more? Am I annoying him?
What the hell is he thinking? I had no clue. His quietness put me on alert. If
I could only convince myself I wasn't digging him it would be so much easier.
In the end, I figured I was in no place in my life to date.
There were lots of other ladies in the scene that were better connected and in
better positions in their life than I was. Even some we saw on that date. I
remember one girl even catching his eye. He was too much of a gentleman to
pursue it in front of me but it was there. She was a pretty type, a little
older than me, talkative and stylish. This was the same girl who later, after I
broke the news that I was pregnant, asked if the father knew and equated
pregnancy with being in prison. It takes a certain amount of selflessness to make
the sacrifices for a baby, both in utero and afterwards. Not all mothers do it
but all mothers who care do. Self-centered people have a hard time being
parents because parenthood is the most selfless thing a person can do, and is
required to do well.
Screw it. He, no doubt, needs some superficial broad at his side. Not
me. What I know about myself is that I bring an uncommon set of characteristics
to the table and it takes someone equally developed to see it. Many don't, and
particularly not in the last couple years where I have been buried in a sense
of defeat.
I have met very few people in my life who have walked an
overall road as rough as mine has been. I say that without knocking the path
and pain of others and certainly without any victim-mentality on my part. It's
just the hand the Universe dealt me, and thankfully, I was also dealt what I
needed to overcome it, again and again. I am a person who accepts everyone
because I have been etched deep enough to know we have all been warped and
shaped by the hardness of life. I know life is hard, but it is also beautiful.
My nature and perhaps my experiences have shaped my world view to see beyond
myself and my perception, over and over. Life fucks us up. It just does. But
the sun will still shine down on you if you remember to see it anyway. We don't
get anything more than that. The moments.
So, I had written this guy off. He had said he had a good
time but who could tell. Yes, he was cute but so what. He no doubt was going to
find some other chick, a simple, skinny little twit that was far less
complicated than I was. Less etched. And he would probably be very happy. She
probably couldn't cook a turkey dinner like me or love as deeply as me but most
guys don't need/want/seek that anyway. In fact, just as many women like the bad
boys, many men like the bitch. The ball busting, abusive bitch. I'm not that. I
like giving back massages.
Well, time went on. And I started getting some strange, very
small signs that perhaps I wasn't going to be able to ignore this guy and run
like I wanted to. Not because of him. He texted from time to time, but this had
nothing to do with him, but what he might have left behind.
I had an inkling, despite never having been pregnant before that
something was amiss. Just a feeling. Every time he texted I thought about it. I
had always been either very responsible or very abstinent. In fact, I was a
notorious dust-crotch amongst my friends. None of the guys in Santa Cruz did
anything for me with their perpetual Peter-Pan douche bag syndrome. Guys in
flip flops and smelling like weed are a total turn off to me. I like guys that
had their shit together; that worked hard to be somewhere in life. That did
something for a living that made them feel good (what that was I didn't care as
long as THEY loved it). Someone who had their priorities straight and valued
family. Someone who knew what being a man really was. This is the exact
opposite description of most of the men in Santa Cruz, and I would venture to
say, in California, maybe men in general, although that's a bit harsh.
My father spent his life being "mister tough party
guy" and none of that impressed me. A guy who was a good father, that
impressed me. A guy who could show up to his responsibilities, that was sexy.
And a guy who could do that with style, taste and intelligence, well, now I'm
drooling. All I need to swoon is to couple that with a confident male-ness tempered
with a deep ability for human kindness and I’m in love. A nice package and
cute butt doesn’t hurt either.
I made an appointment to get a pregnancy test at Planned
Parenthood. The night before my appointment, he texted me wondering if I would
come down to see him this time. I thought, "Oh Lord. Let me answer that after
this appointment" because this could mean.... oh hell.
By the way, I was responsible during that weekend. I even
bought protection and we used it. Except that first time. That very drunken first time. It was just once. And what can I say except his boys most
assuredly can swim. The test came back positive. I was pregnant.
