Walking Dumpster Fire

I was sitting in my therapist’s office, and we were doing our usual dance. I was basically begging her for some sort of answer to the questions: Why am I still with this person? Why can’t I quit him? Tell me what to do, just tell me exactly how to walk away…for good. 

But therapists don’t tell you what to do. Instead, they ask follow-up questions or delve deeper into some “deep-rooted” crap. I hate deep roots. I hate them because there is no easy fix. It’s not something I can physically fix about myself. If I want to run a marathon or do an Ironman, I can, and will, and do. It’s one foot in front of the other, never stop moving. This is something I can do, something attainable. But deep-rooted shit? PASS!

Here was her analysis of my frantic questions: Sometimes we let people in over and over again, even though we know they aren’t good for us, because we are trying to heal some pretty old wounds. What wounds do you think this man is trying to heal for you?

Um, what? What kinda garbage is this? This is what I am paying for? TELL ME WHAT TO DO! Give me some fucking magic beans, because if I don’t get out of this, I am a goner. I can’t continue.

Of course, I didn’t actually utter any of the words to her. I  said, I don’t know. 

However, as with all the good questions, this one pissed me off. Then I found myself thinking about it all the time. It’s like she planted something in me that I didn’t even know existed. 

I thought about my childhood. Was there something there I was overlooking? What about my relationship had anything to do with something that happened over 30 years ago? My father was crap, but I had two older brothers who stepped in. They taught me how to shoot hoops, check my car oil, how to not take shit from men, who taught me to never let them see you sweat, and who introduced me to Tommy Boy, Dumb and Dumber, The Lord of the Rings, and Star Wars. They showed me how pistons worked, and to love the Vikings even when they bring you to tears. I didn’t need a father who was already mentally absent; I had my boys. Childhood father issues? Maybe? But, eh, I am good. 

Then I read a stupid book. My best friend sent me a book from an author she just interviewed on her Podcast, The Self-Carerapist. The book was titled “Ghosted and Breadcrumbed”.  Um, brah, did you send this to me by mistake? Ghosted? Please. Breadcrumbed? I think not, cookie.

That book broke me in the best possible ways. It was the first time I realized I might be in an abusive relationship. This had never occurred to me because 1) I am no one’s fucking victim, and 2) NEVER LET THEM SEE YOU SWEAT! 

The author, Dr. Marni Freeman, lists 21 signs your partner exhibits if you are in an emotionally abusive relationship. I nodded along to 16 of the 21 signs, including: he supplied constant put-downs, he refused to communicate, he is hypercritical, he exhibits extreme moodiness, he says, “I love you, but…” (this was so on point that I had to put the book down to catch my breath), he guilt-trips you, etc.

She also mentions gaslighting, making you feel like you are actually crazy. Did I say those things? Didn’t he say those things? When he pushed me, did I fall because I was drinking, or did I fall because he laid his hands on me? When did I allow a man who has laid his hands, not just on me, but on other women, to lay his fucking hands on me? (On our second date, we went hiking. Through the trails, he told me he had done something in a previous relationship that he wasn’t proud of. He and his ex got into a huge fight, and she was following him around the room, refusing to let him have any space. When he quickly turned around, she accidentally hit him with the plate she had in her hand. He grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall, put his hands around her neck, choking her. He ended up calling the cops on her to make her leave. She said nothing about the choking to the cops and gave back her key. Sadly, I thanked him for his honesty and told him I understood how he could get so angry when someone doesn’t give you space, plus the silly girl was trespassing. I was led to believe this fight happened years prior. However, I would discover that it happened that morning, and the fight was about me. He choked a woman that morning and casually went for a hike with me later that day, like a psychopath. What. The. Actual. Fuck.) How is this happening? Who am I? When did I become so weak?

Manipulation, done correctly, will make you into a monster. And the person who made you into the monster will still complain that you are not the monster he wants. 

A few days after reading the now-not-so-stupid book, I was rummaging through my house when I closed my eyes and saw it. The original breadcrumb. My original breadcrumb. It stopped me in my tracks. Normally, I would have put the image out of my mind and tightly closed the metaphorical box, and put it far away in a closet with my other metaphorical, deny, deny, deny, until the end of time boxes, but I knew I had to see it, to go through it; this was the wound. 

It was a bottle of red nail polish. Bright, candy apple red, with a long, slender, black top. The memory it belonged to was over 35 years old, but I remembered it so well that I could smell its chemical perfume.

My father was a semi-truck driver when I was growing up. He provided for our family, and that’s about it. He wasn’t a bad man; he wasn’t a good man. He was a man who probably shouldn’t have fathered any children. He wasn’t built for it. He was the type of man who always had his kids numbered (1-4). Someone was always number 1, and someone was always number 4. He gave me a gold necklace for my birthday one year that said “#1 Daughter”. I thought it was strange, as he had two daughters. I was number one that day. I never wore the necklace.

When my parents were still together, my Dad would call my Mom from the road and let her know when he would be home. I would get excited, get on the phone, wondering when he would be back. He would say something about a load, and my ears would perk. I didn’t know what a load was. I was five, but I knew it meant he would be home soon! He would come home, go to sleep, eat, and then get back on the road. He didn’t spend time with us. He didn’t play games, or ask about school, or inquire about our lives. I don’t remember feeling sad or ignored. It’s just how it was. Dad came home, said hi, and went to bed. 

Then one day, he surprised me with a present. A bottle of red nail polish. I lit up. I couldn’t believe it! I have a bottle of red nail polish! No one has a bottle like this. I am the luckiest girl in the world because my Dad looked at that red nail polish and thought of me! He thought of me!

I kept that fucking nail polish for years. Rarely actually using it, because that’s not what it was for. It wasn’t for looks. It was a symbol. To remind me that he does acknowledge me. That he cares and loves me. 

Ooof. There are times when I want to go back and just hug baby Carrie so hard. You matter, baby girl.

Those times he missed my recitals for no real reason, who cares! Nail polish! The time he came home piss-ass drunk, pounding on the locked door while screaming. My Mom was so frightened that she had my 14-year-old brother hold a baseball bat next to the door for protection. It’s all good! I got red nail polish! Those times he was forced to go to events of mine because my Mom told him to, and he would sulk the whole time like a fucking child. (I say plural events, but I only remember one, a Daddy/Daughter dance, that he did not, in fact, dance at.) No biggie! Nail polish to the rescue! The multiple times he used me as a pawn through his divorce, whispering in my nine-year-old ear that my Mom is a tramp, while she stood behind me. That’s cool! Nail polish!  I don’t remember when I threw it out. But I am sure thoughts of love were long gone by then. 

When I heard he died, I looked at my partner and said, “Huh, my Dad just died.” After processing, which took me all about ten minutes, I called my Mom and asked the question that I knew if I didn’t ask would haunt me forever, and his death seemed the perfect time to ask, “Why didn’t he love me?”  She answered in the most affectionate, Mom-like way, “Oh, honey, he loved you, he loved you very much, he just didn’t have the tools to show you.”

“Sometimes we let people in over and over again, knowing they aren’t good for us, because we are trying to heal some pretty old wounds.”

I opened my eyes and immediately started to dry heave. 

Jesus Christ, how did I not see this? How much validation did I have to beg for to realize I am dating my fucking father?! 

Now granted, when you are with someone who is 26 years your senior, the father issues stuff is pretty much out there, right? Like, it can be assumed if you are looking at us, me, 34-40 years old, and him, 60-67 years old, I might be dealing with some Dad crap. And, yes, I have always acknowledged that I might have some father-adjacent issues. But this? Literally dating someone because I require their permission to exist? Just once, you need them to say, “I love you,for exactly who you are”. To get excited about something I am doing. Hell, to get excited about anything. To receive a gift that says, I thought about you. To not have them list 18 reasons you need to change about yourself in order to get a ring. A ring you know you will never get, because every time you cross a number off that list, he just adds a new one. Not a single version of myself is good enough for him. No one is good enough for him.

How many breadcrumbs would I eat before I admit I will never feel full? How many plastered smiles would I have to wear before I admit how unhappy I was? How many events will he ruin before I see him for who he really is: a coward in a lion’s costume? How many times will I have to call my friends through sobs and ask, “Am I worth it?”, before I realize I am worth everything? Turns out, a while. But I finally did. 

I remember the last time he looked at me and said he loved me, and that he would always love me. I looked past him and said nothing. Not because I didn’t want to, or to hurt him. I didn’t say it back, because I no longer loved him. I saw this for what it was, a little red bottle of poison dressed up as love. 

I will never know the truth, if he really loved me. Maybe he didn’t have the tools, like my own father. Maybe, like my father, he wasn’t a bad man, but wasn’t a good man. I would like to think he did love me, but I don’t know if he is capable of it. I think he had been broken for too long to exhibit those kinds of strong emotions. I don’t think he ever felt unconditional love. Conditions were constant. I will also never know if he knew what he was doing. Was his gaslighting intentional, or an extreme reaction to his own insecurities? After seven years, I never saw him truly happy. I never saw him get excited about anything. How does that work? But I never saw my own Dad happy, and certainly never got excited about anything. 

Luckily, I walked away from whatever father-figure shit that was, finally, for good. Guess my dick was just bigger. 

In the process of grief and acceptance, I did find someone incredible. Insecurities aren’t his jam. He is a lover of life and happy pretty much all the time. He loves my wit and can actually keep up. He can take it as much as he can dish it. He gets just as excited about buffalo wings as he does about going on wonderful adventures. He matched my son’s Disney-wizard ears on our trip to Disney World and wore them all day, looking like a big kid without a single care. My smiles are genuine, and there are a lot of them. God, this dude. 

And for the first time in my life, I am loved by a man, for exactly who I am. There is no list. There is no waiting for a small red bottle of cheap polish to know I exist with him. I don’t have to make a phone call to one of my best friends and sob into a phone to hear someone say, “Yes, you are worth it.” I have never been told I said something when I didn’t. His large hands are used for good. He acknowledges when he is wrong. We fight. We talk. Real talk, and I am heard. 

I am still a work in progress. I know it’s not as easy as finding the right person and having everything fixed. I am stubborn, and sometimes it’s hard to get out of my own way. On hard days, I can still hear his voice, telling me I am not good enough. Telling me that I will ruin everything. Telling me that his love was real, because it was big love, even when it was painful. But I know these are just phantom pains. 

On really hard days, I lash out at my partner, my worst fears and insecurities seeping out of me. The fear that one day he will also say these words to me. That I am not enough. And the rational part of me knows he won’t. He knows he won’t. But that other part of my brain, the cagey-rabid-feral-animal part, is so used to it, she almost convinces herself it will happen. My worst thoughts are rattling about. My therapist asked at what point I stopped thinking I didn’t deserve happiness? I still don’t know that answer; it might take another book, or more insight into the deep-rooted crap. 

What I do know is I fucking hate the taste of breadcrumbs. Also, never buy me red nail polish.