Re: THE OTHER SIDE OF EDEN: LIFE WITH JOHN STEINBECK
Posted: Fri Mar 18, 2016 7:58 pm
37. Last Straw
NANCY
John missed his plane; he had stopped for a drink in the Phoenix airport bar. Frantic, Thom called from JFK. I had to laugh. After years of mocking my consternation, he was getting a bitter dose of John's irresponsibility.
Four blackout days late, Johnny fell off the plane into his brother's arms. I heard about fisticuffs in the taxi. Someone's glasses were broken again, as Cain and Abel set off for the farm in upstate New York. When things settled down a few days later, in their drunken grandiosity they created Steinbeck Films, a production company, to develop their father's works. When John called to crow, I greeted their little wet dream with barely veiled cynicism. A batch of linen letterhead was all that ever came out of that scheme. Up to their old tricks, they were making the rounds of producers, getting their feet in the door with their name, and then getting the boot when the straight guys figured out they were all hat and no cattle. I wondered how they would ever grow up if they made careers out of being their father's sons?
John called often, in non compos blackout, repeatedly telling me how they dazzled people with their magic and power. His subtext was imbedded with chastisement because I failed to be impressed with the cultivation of his celebrity image. I knew he couldn't even board a plane on time, and he resented that. In his convoluted mind, my mistrust was holding him back from soaring to the heights of his potential. When I wasn't bored by their tomfoolery, I felt anger and disgust. I struggled to focus on myself, trying not to drown in terror because John was drinking, learning not to react like a scalded cat. It wasn't easy work. Who am I if I'm not focused on his high-wire act?
The night before he was scheduled to fly home, John called at 4:00 A.M. from the Gramercy Park Hotel. "Four guys with knives just mugged me. They stole $500 and my driver's license. I need you to wire me some money in the morning."
Afraid he had been in mortal danger, my heart raced. However, intuition guided my response. "You probably spent it on drugs. I'm not sending a dime. Ask all those people who are so impressed with your power and magic for a loan."
Alcoholics have an uncanny way of knowing exactly when their enablers are about to detach. The next morning, John called with the proverbial ''I've hit bottom in a New York hotel room, drunk and penniless." Bewildered by my cool refusal to get hooked into the mugging drama, he was casting about for the habitual tension that strung my net under his balancing act. Expecting the usual pleas for vows of self-redemption, he was ready to strike some phoney Ronald Colman pose, eyes fixed on the far horizon of movie deals. This time, he heard only silence as I let go. Shocked by my detachment, I could tell from the awkward stillness that he felt cornered and panicked. This was not the girl he had married.
When I met his plane, I saw a look in his eyes that said all the unspoken words it would take him another year to voice. I don't know how you put up with me. I am sorry I put you through this misery. I am not the man I want to be, for myself, for you, for the children. You are the only person who really knows me. You are my only source of sanity. Please give me just a little more time to shed this burden. Thank you for meeting my plane. Thank you for loving me.
My heart melted. In that look, he laid bare his struggle with the disease, with Thom's influence, with his unwillingness to practice the steps that could lead him out of the abyss. Sensing the end was near, I had to decide if I could witness it.
Upon his return to Sedona, John quickly established yet another sober honeymoon phase. He suggested we move to La Jolla. If any movie deals came through, we would be close to Hollywood. I could get the degree required for work in a treatment center at UCSD. We had been spending far too much time running interference between Megan and the deplorable drug scene at her boarding school, where the students got their dope UPS'd in from their dealers and were always dropping acid. She was uncomfortable in that environment and eager to leave. Michael's needs were simple. He just wanted to surf. We were all in accord, and I was delighted to be able to return to my native California.
We found a beautiful two-story ocean-view home on a cliff in La Jolla Farms. With four bedrooms and two offices, there was plenty of space to work on ourselves. The master bedroom had a secluded deck with a panoramic view of the coastline, surrounded by palms that seemed particularly auspicious. Nine years prior, I had a vision on the shores of Lake Louise. The frozen water and snowy banks melted into a turquoise ocean fringed with swaying palm trees. John and the children were joyously frolicking in the water. Perhaps the healing that I had been praying for would happen here. Sadly, thoughts like that never lasted more than a few, fleeting seconds. I was convinced the marriage was doomed.
I made it through the next six months with the help of kind friends and Al-Anon. Moving to a new city with two teenagers and a husband who soon relapsed again, while trying to establish a different direction for my own life, was torture. I was determined to save myself and any other family member who could join in my quest for serenity. When I talked to Johnny about my fears, he'd say, ''I'm not afraid we won't make it. Love is never the problem. The fear is that I won't make it."
We traveled from Sedona to La Jolla in a caravan, across the smoldering desert, in three cars holding two teenagers, two cats, and two very confused adults. Somehow, we managed to stay cheerful against incredible obstacles, simultaneously filled with dread and prayers of hope. Megan's car blew a radiator in El Centro, but Johnny and I only saw it as one of those crazy signs that velcro'd our souls. As children, El Centro epitomized the armpit of hell, the worst part of every family vacation, propelled by eccentric mothers who found a deep resonance in the desert. It held memories of orange-painted motel rooms with creaking ceiling fans, the acrid taste of burlap water bags hanging from car emblems, miles of dead scenery, and boring silence. Johnny told us a terrifying childhood story of wandering into Death Valley with Grandmother and Gwyn. Tanked on gin fizzes, they ran out of gasoline on the blistering road.
We were at the mercy of a huge Mexican mechanic named Nacho who came to our hotel at sunset and swore on the Virgin that he'd have us back on the road by morning. While John helped him, I took the kids across the border to Calexico for a taste of street tacos and border-town charm. As John and I fell asleep, we giggled at the cosmic coincidence we shared about the childhood trips to the desert. Those memories, intensely burnished in our psyches, were part of a twinspeak that never failed to amaze us. Were we the only people on earth who tasted sadness in blueberries and candied violets? The stiff little faces buried in our mothers' fur stoles, with the glossy beaded eyes, made us both feel claustrophobic. Certain shades of green were stifling, like a canvas awning baking in the sunlight. We believed our childhoods were enchanted by the same fairy godmother. Inextricably linked by a gossamer web, she was helping us valiantly master the archetypal tests of spinning flax into gold or kissing frogs in order to reveal our beloved.
We clung to each other that night in El Centro, praying our childhood fairies would rescue us. Scared of the impending darkness, we knew we were losing our way. Somewhere out there, a witch was warming her oven for us. A giant was grinding his ax and striding toward us in seven-league boots. I dreamed a leper was lying between us in our bed, his skull exposed through rotting flesh. In that dream, and when I awoke, I saw disease dripping from the ceiling.
Once we were settled in La Jolla, I began to hunt for therapists. The children would need help adjusting to their new schools, and John was willing to go back to couples counseling. Although San Diego County has enormous resources for recovery, back then the therapeutic community was caught in black and white categorizations that did not fit us. Beyond the obvious enmeshment, we were two highly creative, hot-blooded, strong-willed individuals, desperately trying to sustain a family unit. The first woman therapist claimed my childhood wounds caused me to confuse John's bizarre behavior with love. Another woman told me I should dump John because he'd never get sober and he was just wasting our time. I sensed unresolved issues in each one, along with condescension toward me and a groupie mentality about the Steinbeck name. The next one, who wrote a popular recovery book and worked with Betty Ford, told me if John ever got sober, I should stay away from him for two years, to see if he really meant it. Who comes up with these theories? If I'd listened to her, I would have missed the best years of my life and deprived the children of witnessing their father's recovery.
I wasn't looking for support to stay in my marriage. Nevertheless, I needed to hear more than "My dear, you're so sick you wouldn't know a healthy relationship if it came up and bit you." Wasn't it the sorry bite of our disintegration that sent me to their doors? A doctor would never claim that you are too sick to know you've got the flu. I decided these women were driven by sadistic greed. By telling me how messed up I was, they could string me out for years and get paid for the abuse.
I was down to the wire. Desperately wanting to move past my rage at the disease that was killing my family, I didn't need any more opinions. I needed cheerleading from someone who would nurture me through the necessary and impending breakdown, someone who would work gently with my ambivalence instead of trying to convince me that I should leave my husband in the dust, with the veneer of anger and arrogance that belies the underlying heartbreak.
"Just get on with your life and find a healthy man," they'd trumpet, as if that were so bloody easy. Just say, I'm so much better off after dumping that son of a bitch. They ignored the torture of watching a husband caught in a self-imposed trap, chewing his leg off. Who could help me come to terms with the fact that John was choosing death over freedom? Harboring anger toward men and the disease, none of those women had sustained an intimate relationship. Blind leading blindness. Where was one who had heart?
Eventually I found one in Dr. Peter McDade, who became Michael's therapist. He listened to the grief and pain of all the family members, and when he met John, he understood the dilemma we were facing.
"When he's sober, John is one of the kindest, most sensitive, coolest guys I've ever seen. He adores you and the children. No wonder you all love him so much." He conveyed a genuine empathy for our predicament, without judgment. Instead of telling me how sick I was, he congratulated me on my clarity and perseverance. I've often wondered if Peter could afford such generosity simply because he was a man. Women can be so competitive and bitchy.
On one of our last nights together, John and I walked along the dusty, darkened freeway across the Tijuana border. As moonlight carved the outline of distant mountains, we were flooded with the familiar rush of entering a Third World country. It was like the first time I heard Janis Joplin sing "freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose," or Dylan's "just to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free." Nothing ever compared to things like a simple border crossing with John. The earth's raw magnetism blended with his intoxicating magic. We didn't say a word. Holding hands, a moonlit glance said it all.
When we had to run across the freeway, I sensed danger. I didn't know dozens of people had been struck by oncoming cars on that stretch. John was exhilarated when we got to the other side, but I was still apprehensive.
"We made it, didn't we?" he laughed.
We're getting too old for the razor's edge. I don't want to live like this anymore. I love myself too much to endanger my life by flirting with death.
I listened with mixed emotions as John declared, "I'm so glad that after all these years, you haven't lost your spontaneity. You are still so exciting."
I remembered my guy friends in college voted me the Most Game Girl, the one you'd want to hop a freight train with. Twenty years later, I hadn't lost my spirit. Nevertheless, I was no longer attracted to licking honey from the razor's edge. My animus was changing. Whereas John's outrageous sense of adventure once mirrored mine, now I was more interested in creative and spiritual challenges. I wanted to accomplish something tangible. I sensed a seismic shift deep in my psyche as the bells of doom clanged wildly around us.
That night's border crossing severed my enmeshment. John's greatest fear had always been that I would outgrow him. I left him there, beside the freeway, emotionally and spiritually. The last fairy filament was cut. John was aligned with self-sabotage because feeling good about himself was so foreign. He was choosing defeat; I wanted victory.
A week later, after seeing Thom for "business" in LA, John returned home drunk. Wearily, I asked him to leave the house. When he refused, I went out to dinner with an Al-Anon friend. I returned to find him lying on the couch, the children tangled in his feet. I saw in their eyes. Here comes Mom, uptight as usual. She just doesn't understand us. She spoils all the fun. Later, I learned John had smoked marijuana with them. When I saw the look, I knew I had to cut his toxicity out of our lives or the kids would go down with him.
The next time John went to LA, I got a restraining order. When he called to tell me he was coming home, I said the words I had rehearsed for seven years. "You can't come within 100 yards of the house or I'll have you arrested. I'm filing for divorce. I will not watch you kill yourself. Your drinking has destroyed the sacredness of our marriage. I'm not playing anymore."
If I spoke to him on the phone after that, or let him enter the house, the restraining order would be invalidated, so I hung up quickly. No longer vacillating, I was not open to seductive reconciliations. I believed time would eventually bring me a better quality of life. Even if it felt like death, I was willing to do that time.
I enrolled in the rehab credential program at the University of California, which was conveniently close to the house. That simple act restored my self-confidence and esteem. I met other people who wanted to heal in those classes, and their support sustained me through the separation. Filing for divorce was the next step. My lawyers were concerned that I would be financially responsible for the consequences of John's drunk driving and his burgeoning debts.
Suddenly a single mother of two teenagers in a new town, with no close friends, I began to cultivate a support group of classmates and Al-Anon friends. Anytime I felt shaky, I'd pick up the phone. The long-distance bill to Boulder was enormous. Ignoring the restraining order, John called incessantly. My lawyer took him to court for harassment. Then he wrote daily, pleading for reconciliation. When that didn't succeed, he resorted to cruelty and rejection. ''I'm tired of trying to be healthy. You're not going to tell me how to live."
I made a list of all the rotten things he'd ever done. Whenever I missed him, I read it. In my shock and grief, I went over the litany of events until I could absorb the reality. I kept a reminder taped to my desk and near the kitchen sink. "At times, John stayed sober and seemed to grow in health with us. Now he is powerless over alcohol and his life has become unmanageable. He seeks drunken camaraderie with Thom because Sick Picks Sick. Michael and Megan and I will continue to recover."
Grief was not the only texture. If the best revenge is living well, I accomplished that. I found solace in my beautiful home, walking my private trail down the cliffs to the secluded beach below. I especially enjoyed the psychiatric classes at UCSD. My teachers and peers were interested in what I had to contribute and I was maintaining an A average. The kids and I got along much better without John's triangulation. When I look back, it was John's attempt to label me as the mean mommy that broke me. It is so boring being seen as a punitive mother by a man with whom you have been passionately in love. He hated his own mother. How can you expect him to support motherhood when he's drinking? The man would try to undermine a snake when he's in that state.
Often I was seized by a debilitating fear that John was lying dead in some gutter. I had no idea how close it came to that. He was making rambling late-night calls to our friends, beseeching them to convince me to lift the restraining order. He mistakenly saw it as punitive, whereas to me it was a life raft.
The time of greatest stress is always in letting go. I felt as if my limbs had been amputated. My skeleton caved in to protect my broken heart. Nevertheless, a sense of timeless security came from the familiar sights and sounds of my childhood, the ocean's soothing pulse, the smell of eucalyptus, and crunch of ice plant. I loved La Jolla's spectacular beaches and elegant homes. My bed faced the curving northern coastline, toward Los Angeles. At night I would look at the twinkling lights, wondering if Johnny were even alive. I said the Serenity Prayer like a mantra, like counting sheep, to quell my nightmares. Maybe he'd been knifed in the back behind some liquor store. Robbed while sleeping in his car. After he got sober, John always prayed passionately during AA meetings when they take a minute of silence for those who are still "out there." Grateful for the grace that finally descended upon him, he knew of no lonelier spot on earth. It was to that spot that I sent my love and prayers every night before I fell asleep. Why are you giving in to the disease? Where did all your goodness go? You always wanted me to think of you as a stand-up guy. You've become a coward. Why are you letting this tragic flaw conquer you? It breaks my heart that we can't be together.
The words he'd whispered hundreds of times echoed in my heart. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead from boredom. You are the only person I can really talk to. Why were we losing each other? Who were we becoming?
NANCY
John missed his plane; he had stopped for a drink in the Phoenix airport bar. Frantic, Thom called from JFK. I had to laugh. After years of mocking my consternation, he was getting a bitter dose of John's irresponsibility.
Four blackout days late, Johnny fell off the plane into his brother's arms. I heard about fisticuffs in the taxi. Someone's glasses were broken again, as Cain and Abel set off for the farm in upstate New York. When things settled down a few days later, in their drunken grandiosity they created Steinbeck Films, a production company, to develop their father's works. When John called to crow, I greeted their little wet dream with barely veiled cynicism. A batch of linen letterhead was all that ever came out of that scheme. Up to their old tricks, they were making the rounds of producers, getting their feet in the door with their name, and then getting the boot when the straight guys figured out they were all hat and no cattle. I wondered how they would ever grow up if they made careers out of being their father's sons?
John called often, in non compos blackout, repeatedly telling me how they dazzled people with their magic and power. His subtext was imbedded with chastisement because I failed to be impressed with the cultivation of his celebrity image. I knew he couldn't even board a plane on time, and he resented that. In his convoluted mind, my mistrust was holding him back from soaring to the heights of his potential. When I wasn't bored by their tomfoolery, I felt anger and disgust. I struggled to focus on myself, trying not to drown in terror because John was drinking, learning not to react like a scalded cat. It wasn't easy work. Who am I if I'm not focused on his high-wire act?
The night before he was scheduled to fly home, John called at 4:00 A.M. from the Gramercy Park Hotel. "Four guys with knives just mugged me. They stole $500 and my driver's license. I need you to wire me some money in the morning."
Afraid he had been in mortal danger, my heart raced. However, intuition guided my response. "You probably spent it on drugs. I'm not sending a dime. Ask all those people who are so impressed with your power and magic for a loan."
Alcoholics have an uncanny way of knowing exactly when their enablers are about to detach. The next morning, John called with the proverbial ''I've hit bottom in a New York hotel room, drunk and penniless." Bewildered by my cool refusal to get hooked into the mugging drama, he was casting about for the habitual tension that strung my net under his balancing act. Expecting the usual pleas for vows of self-redemption, he was ready to strike some phoney Ronald Colman pose, eyes fixed on the far horizon of movie deals. This time, he heard only silence as I let go. Shocked by my detachment, I could tell from the awkward stillness that he felt cornered and panicked. This was not the girl he had married.
When I met his plane, I saw a look in his eyes that said all the unspoken words it would take him another year to voice. I don't know how you put up with me. I am sorry I put you through this misery. I am not the man I want to be, for myself, for you, for the children. You are the only person who really knows me. You are my only source of sanity. Please give me just a little more time to shed this burden. Thank you for meeting my plane. Thank you for loving me.
My heart melted. In that look, he laid bare his struggle with the disease, with Thom's influence, with his unwillingness to practice the steps that could lead him out of the abyss. Sensing the end was near, I had to decide if I could witness it.
Upon his return to Sedona, John quickly established yet another sober honeymoon phase. He suggested we move to La Jolla. If any movie deals came through, we would be close to Hollywood. I could get the degree required for work in a treatment center at UCSD. We had been spending far too much time running interference between Megan and the deplorable drug scene at her boarding school, where the students got their dope UPS'd in from their dealers and were always dropping acid. She was uncomfortable in that environment and eager to leave. Michael's needs were simple. He just wanted to surf. We were all in accord, and I was delighted to be able to return to my native California.
We found a beautiful two-story ocean-view home on a cliff in La Jolla Farms. With four bedrooms and two offices, there was plenty of space to work on ourselves. The master bedroom had a secluded deck with a panoramic view of the coastline, surrounded by palms that seemed particularly auspicious. Nine years prior, I had a vision on the shores of Lake Louise. The frozen water and snowy banks melted into a turquoise ocean fringed with swaying palm trees. John and the children were joyously frolicking in the water. Perhaps the healing that I had been praying for would happen here. Sadly, thoughts like that never lasted more than a few, fleeting seconds. I was convinced the marriage was doomed.
I made it through the next six months with the help of kind friends and Al-Anon. Moving to a new city with two teenagers and a husband who soon relapsed again, while trying to establish a different direction for my own life, was torture. I was determined to save myself and any other family member who could join in my quest for serenity. When I talked to Johnny about my fears, he'd say, ''I'm not afraid we won't make it. Love is never the problem. The fear is that I won't make it."
We traveled from Sedona to La Jolla in a caravan, across the smoldering desert, in three cars holding two teenagers, two cats, and two very confused adults. Somehow, we managed to stay cheerful against incredible obstacles, simultaneously filled with dread and prayers of hope. Megan's car blew a radiator in El Centro, but Johnny and I only saw it as one of those crazy signs that velcro'd our souls. As children, El Centro epitomized the armpit of hell, the worst part of every family vacation, propelled by eccentric mothers who found a deep resonance in the desert. It held memories of orange-painted motel rooms with creaking ceiling fans, the acrid taste of burlap water bags hanging from car emblems, miles of dead scenery, and boring silence. Johnny told us a terrifying childhood story of wandering into Death Valley with Grandmother and Gwyn. Tanked on gin fizzes, they ran out of gasoline on the blistering road.
We were at the mercy of a huge Mexican mechanic named Nacho who came to our hotel at sunset and swore on the Virgin that he'd have us back on the road by morning. While John helped him, I took the kids across the border to Calexico for a taste of street tacos and border-town charm. As John and I fell asleep, we giggled at the cosmic coincidence we shared about the childhood trips to the desert. Those memories, intensely burnished in our psyches, were part of a twinspeak that never failed to amaze us. Were we the only people on earth who tasted sadness in blueberries and candied violets? The stiff little faces buried in our mothers' fur stoles, with the glossy beaded eyes, made us both feel claustrophobic. Certain shades of green were stifling, like a canvas awning baking in the sunlight. We believed our childhoods were enchanted by the same fairy godmother. Inextricably linked by a gossamer web, she was helping us valiantly master the archetypal tests of spinning flax into gold or kissing frogs in order to reveal our beloved.
We clung to each other that night in El Centro, praying our childhood fairies would rescue us. Scared of the impending darkness, we knew we were losing our way. Somewhere out there, a witch was warming her oven for us. A giant was grinding his ax and striding toward us in seven-league boots. I dreamed a leper was lying between us in our bed, his skull exposed through rotting flesh. In that dream, and when I awoke, I saw disease dripping from the ceiling.
Once we were settled in La Jolla, I began to hunt for therapists. The children would need help adjusting to their new schools, and John was willing to go back to couples counseling. Although San Diego County has enormous resources for recovery, back then the therapeutic community was caught in black and white categorizations that did not fit us. Beyond the obvious enmeshment, we were two highly creative, hot-blooded, strong-willed individuals, desperately trying to sustain a family unit. The first woman therapist claimed my childhood wounds caused me to confuse John's bizarre behavior with love. Another woman told me I should dump John because he'd never get sober and he was just wasting our time. I sensed unresolved issues in each one, along with condescension toward me and a groupie mentality about the Steinbeck name. The next one, who wrote a popular recovery book and worked with Betty Ford, told me if John ever got sober, I should stay away from him for two years, to see if he really meant it. Who comes up with these theories? If I'd listened to her, I would have missed the best years of my life and deprived the children of witnessing their father's recovery.
I wasn't looking for support to stay in my marriage. Nevertheless, I needed to hear more than "My dear, you're so sick you wouldn't know a healthy relationship if it came up and bit you." Wasn't it the sorry bite of our disintegration that sent me to their doors? A doctor would never claim that you are too sick to know you've got the flu. I decided these women were driven by sadistic greed. By telling me how messed up I was, they could string me out for years and get paid for the abuse.
I was down to the wire. Desperately wanting to move past my rage at the disease that was killing my family, I didn't need any more opinions. I needed cheerleading from someone who would nurture me through the necessary and impending breakdown, someone who would work gently with my ambivalence instead of trying to convince me that I should leave my husband in the dust, with the veneer of anger and arrogance that belies the underlying heartbreak.
"Just get on with your life and find a healthy man," they'd trumpet, as if that were so bloody easy. Just say, I'm so much better off after dumping that son of a bitch. They ignored the torture of watching a husband caught in a self-imposed trap, chewing his leg off. Who could help me come to terms with the fact that John was choosing death over freedom? Harboring anger toward men and the disease, none of those women had sustained an intimate relationship. Blind leading blindness. Where was one who had heart?
Eventually I found one in Dr. Peter McDade, who became Michael's therapist. He listened to the grief and pain of all the family members, and when he met John, he understood the dilemma we were facing.
"When he's sober, John is one of the kindest, most sensitive, coolest guys I've ever seen. He adores you and the children. No wonder you all love him so much." He conveyed a genuine empathy for our predicament, without judgment. Instead of telling me how sick I was, he congratulated me on my clarity and perseverance. I've often wondered if Peter could afford such generosity simply because he was a man. Women can be so competitive and bitchy.
On one of our last nights together, John and I walked along the dusty, darkened freeway across the Tijuana border. As moonlight carved the outline of distant mountains, we were flooded with the familiar rush of entering a Third World country. It was like the first time I heard Janis Joplin sing "freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose," or Dylan's "just to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free." Nothing ever compared to things like a simple border crossing with John. The earth's raw magnetism blended with his intoxicating magic. We didn't say a word. Holding hands, a moonlit glance said it all.
When we had to run across the freeway, I sensed danger. I didn't know dozens of people had been struck by oncoming cars on that stretch. John was exhilarated when we got to the other side, but I was still apprehensive.
"We made it, didn't we?" he laughed.
We're getting too old for the razor's edge. I don't want to live like this anymore. I love myself too much to endanger my life by flirting with death.
I listened with mixed emotions as John declared, "I'm so glad that after all these years, you haven't lost your spontaneity. You are still so exciting."
I remembered my guy friends in college voted me the Most Game Girl, the one you'd want to hop a freight train with. Twenty years later, I hadn't lost my spirit. Nevertheless, I was no longer attracted to licking honey from the razor's edge. My animus was changing. Whereas John's outrageous sense of adventure once mirrored mine, now I was more interested in creative and spiritual challenges. I wanted to accomplish something tangible. I sensed a seismic shift deep in my psyche as the bells of doom clanged wildly around us.
That night's border crossing severed my enmeshment. John's greatest fear had always been that I would outgrow him. I left him there, beside the freeway, emotionally and spiritually. The last fairy filament was cut. John was aligned with self-sabotage because feeling good about himself was so foreign. He was choosing defeat; I wanted victory.
A week later, after seeing Thom for "business" in LA, John returned home drunk. Wearily, I asked him to leave the house. When he refused, I went out to dinner with an Al-Anon friend. I returned to find him lying on the couch, the children tangled in his feet. I saw in their eyes. Here comes Mom, uptight as usual. She just doesn't understand us. She spoils all the fun. Later, I learned John had smoked marijuana with them. When I saw the look, I knew I had to cut his toxicity out of our lives or the kids would go down with him.
The next time John went to LA, I got a restraining order. When he called to tell me he was coming home, I said the words I had rehearsed for seven years. "You can't come within 100 yards of the house or I'll have you arrested. I'm filing for divorce. I will not watch you kill yourself. Your drinking has destroyed the sacredness of our marriage. I'm not playing anymore."
If I spoke to him on the phone after that, or let him enter the house, the restraining order would be invalidated, so I hung up quickly. No longer vacillating, I was not open to seductive reconciliations. I believed time would eventually bring me a better quality of life. Even if it felt like death, I was willing to do that time.
I enrolled in the rehab credential program at the University of California, which was conveniently close to the house. That simple act restored my self-confidence and esteem. I met other people who wanted to heal in those classes, and their support sustained me through the separation. Filing for divorce was the next step. My lawyers were concerned that I would be financially responsible for the consequences of John's drunk driving and his burgeoning debts.
Suddenly a single mother of two teenagers in a new town, with no close friends, I began to cultivate a support group of classmates and Al-Anon friends. Anytime I felt shaky, I'd pick up the phone. The long-distance bill to Boulder was enormous. Ignoring the restraining order, John called incessantly. My lawyer took him to court for harassment. Then he wrote daily, pleading for reconciliation. When that didn't succeed, he resorted to cruelty and rejection. ''I'm tired of trying to be healthy. You're not going to tell me how to live."
I made a list of all the rotten things he'd ever done. Whenever I missed him, I read it. In my shock and grief, I went over the litany of events until I could absorb the reality. I kept a reminder taped to my desk and near the kitchen sink. "At times, John stayed sober and seemed to grow in health with us. Now he is powerless over alcohol and his life has become unmanageable. He seeks drunken camaraderie with Thom because Sick Picks Sick. Michael and Megan and I will continue to recover."
Grief was not the only texture. If the best revenge is living well, I accomplished that. I found solace in my beautiful home, walking my private trail down the cliffs to the secluded beach below. I especially enjoyed the psychiatric classes at UCSD. My teachers and peers were interested in what I had to contribute and I was maintaining an A average. The kids and I got along much better without John's triangulation. When I look back, it was John's attempt to label me as the mean mommy that broke me. It is so boring being seen as a punitive mother by a man with whom you have been passionately in love. He hated his own mother. How can you expect him to support motherhood when he's drinking? The man would try to undermine a snake when he's in that state.
Often I was seized by a debilitating fear that John was lying dead in some gutter. I had no idea how close it came to that. He was making rambling late-night calls to our friends, beseeching them to convince me to lift the restraining order. He mistakenly saw it as punitive, whereas to me it was a life raft.
The time of greatest stress is always in letting go. I felt as if my limbs had been amputated. My skeleton caved in to protect my broken heart. Nevertheless, a sense of timeless security came from the familiar sights and sounds of my childhood, the ocean's soothing pulse, the smell of eucalyptus, and crunch of ice plant. I loved La Jolla's spectacular beaches and elegant homes. My bed faced the curving northern coastline, toward Los Angeles. At night I would look at the twinkling lights, wondering if Johnny were even alive. I said the Serenity Prayer like a mantra, like counting sheep, to quell my nightmares. Maybe he'd been knifed in the back behind some liquor store. Robbed while sleeping in his car. After he got sober, John always prayed passionately during AA meetings when they take a minute of silence for those who are still "out there." Grateful for the grace that finally descended upon him, he knew of no lonelier spot on earth. It was to that spot that I sent my love and prayers every night before I fell asleep. Why are you giving in to the disease? Where did all your goodness go? You always wanted me to think of you as a stand-up guy. You've become a coward. Why are you letting this tragic flaw conquer you? It breaks my heart that we can't be together.
The words he'd whispered hundreds of times echoed in my heart. If it weren't for you, I'd be dead from boredom. You are the only person I can really talk to. Why were we losing each other? Who were we becoming?