by Kim Goldman
He finally shows up at the fair, his head hanging low. We barely speak. I can’t even look at him.
I want to let go of my anger toward him, but I am feeling so unappreciated and taken advantage of. I had been so “fine” with everything in our past, but there’s no impetus on his part to make things better or different.
I wasn’t holding him accountable anymore; therefore neither was he. (You see why I rail against unconditional.) We are spiraling into a dismal existence. The rest of the day is uncomfortable and quiet.
Tagger spends most of it apologizing and expressing his sincere regret for hurting me. We agree to “let it be” for the remainder of our time together and decide to revisit it on Tuesday with Joel.
* * *
When we meet at Joel’s office, Tagger is visibly nervous. He keeps giggling, and shifting in his seat, and is very concerned for me. I appreciate the attention, but notice his odd behavior. We enter the office and take our respective places on the couch. We are huddled close, holding hands, demonstrating a strong commitment to each other.
Joel starts to speak, but Tagger politely interrupts him.
“In order for me to have an honest relationship with Kim, I need to tell you something.”
Joel and I reply “okay” in unison.
I turn my body to face him, and brace myself.
I can’t believe he is going to break up with me in my therapist’s office.
My heart starts to race a bit. I squeeze his hand a little tighter as he prepares himself to speak.
“I have a lot of shame about what happened this past week. I am deeply regretting how I treated or mistreated you, Kim. You don’t deserve that. You have been nothing but loving and kind and patient with all of my crap. I am just so fortunate to have you in my life, and I don’t know why I did that. Well, that’s not true. I do.”
He pauses.
Oh, my God, he is cheating on me. He met someone. That is what he is going to tell me. I can’t take the suspense anymore. Just say it, I scream in my head.
Tagger continues, “I am an alcoholic, and I have known this for awhile, but I have been too afraid to tell you. Last weekend I blacked out. I don’t even know how I got home. But I passed out and didn’t hear the phone. And I was too ashamed to call you when I finally woke up. My mom and brother covered for me. And on Sunday, my brother confronted me and told me I wasn’t allowed to drive his son anywhere. That’s why I wasn’t sure about bringing him to the carnival. I was lying to you, because I didn’t want you to know what happened. And last night I didn’t come over because I went to an AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) meeting.”
There is a moment of silence until I burst into tears, followed by nervous laughter.
Joel asks me why I am laughing after Tagger had just confessed his darkest secret to me.
“I am relieved. It’s not me. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t unlovable. It has nothing to do with me. I have been chasing my tail for months, trying to make this relationship work, and not able to figure out what I was doing wrong, and why all the things we have been working on here weren’t working. I am relieved.”
And then I turn my heart back to Tagger, who is sitting there, vulnerable and subdued.
I take his hand in mine and thank him for his courage and his honesty. I appreciate the trust he placed in me, acknowledging how hard that must have been.
A weight is lifted, for sure, but it’s been replaced by something bigger:
Addiction.
The next few weeks are difficult. We have numerous deep and soulful conversations, but I suddenly feel like my feelings and my experiences in the past few months don’t matter anymore, because he is an alcoholic. The disappearing acts, the night of the killer’s Las Vegas verdict, the distance, the shutting me out—all of this was because he was drunk or thinking about drinking, passed out, or blacked out.
And suddenly, I feel selfish for feeling abandoned all this time
I am working so hard to assert myself, establish boundaries, take care of me—finally—and now feel that I am being insensitive to what he is going through in his quest for sobriety.
Am I supposed to excuse all the crap that has taken place over the past few months because of Tagger’s addiction? Were my concerns invalid now? I struggled to find my compassion.
Again, I am left trying to figure out how to compromise and bend, without sacrificing my dignity and my self-worth. For the past ten months, I was competing for attention with a wine bottle, and I lost every time. And now I’ll have to compete with his sobriety. I know I’ll lose.
I wrestled with my decision, because I felt like I was delivering him the final blow. Just as he had feared—if someone got to know the real him—she wouldn’t like what she saw and would leave. I was abandoning him, and it felt like shit, but I knew there was never going to be room for me. I was not going to be—nor should I be—his priority.
But I needed to be a priority. I am ready for that, and willing to risk being alone to get there. Knowing I am walking away from someone for whom I care deeply is very difficult for me. I feel like I am quitting, but I know that the added pressure of me, Sam, and our relationship is more than he can handle right now. If we’re ever going to have a chance at a healthy relationship down the road, I need to leave it be for today.
Tagger has been sober now since 2008. We’re still friends, and probably closer now than ever, but the romance train has left the station.
I always wished he would have come back for me all these years later, but to no avail. He occupies a spot in my heart like no other man. He reminds me of the importance of self-care and self-preservation, and for that I will always be grateful.
* * *
I had forgotten that it’s okay to put yourself first. That doesn’t mean you don’t care about others; you recognize that you need to come first and be whole before you can be a part of something bigger.
Despite all the validations I get about how far I have come over the years, Joel provided me with an insight into men. You would think that being raised with two men—and with no strong female influence to distract me—I would have a better handle on the masculine brain, but I am clueless.
I never considered that I was thinking more like a woman than a man; I always believed that I was just thinking “human.” So I’d make assumptions about humans, and the way they treated and spoke to each other,
removing the genitalia component. Clearly, that was the wrong assumption to make. Joel wishes that I would learn to think more like the opposite sex; not to excuse behavior or accept it when it doesn’t work for me, but to understand where they come from. That way, I wouldn’t get so wounded when I am let down.
And this has become a constant argument between us, because I feel like I already work to keep my side of the street clean and put my best foot forward. Why should I also have to do the work for a man, too, especially when he wanders off and hibernates because he gets scared of getting close?
Apparently, according to my therapist and my emotionally stable male friends, my role as a woman is to remain open and available during these “man-adventures,” because if he is attached, he will come back.
Are you kidding me?
When a man disappears, I shut down, get pissed off, and want to berate him for leaving me high and dry.
My “compassion café” is closed!
But my male counterparts are correct: The men in my life always return. And that’s where the work begins—again.
The balance between being loving, patient, and kind—while also trying to establish your boundaries as a woman with needs and expectations—is very difficult. I am learning that men are frail, just like women, and freak out just as easily when emotions are at play. Maybe they aren’t often aware of, or don’t understand their feelings, so they’ll disappear, or pick a fight, or pull away (establishing their independence again). I am aware I am generalizing here, based on my experiences and those of all my single friends, but it’s a pattern nonetheless.
> As a result, women are left to question, “Why?”
I am left to question whether it’s me who attracts a man who’s afraid, emotionally unavailable, or a “runner.”
What I am finally realizing is, most of the time, that question has absolutely nothing to do with me.
I want to be in a relationship.
I want to be married again and would love to have more kids, if that option is available.
I am not open to casual dating or casual sex, and if I tell you this early on, this doesn’t mean I want to marry you.
If I like you, and think you are worth my emotional and financial investment (babysitters aren’t cheap these days!), then I focus on you.
Again, this doesn’t mean I am making appointments for dress fittings. This just means my brain is limited in its capacity to be romantically inclined toward multiple people.
Call me old-fashioned, but that’s me.
For some men, that honesty creates panic; for me, it’s huge growth to be able to state what I want and move through the fear of being rejected. I want to be honest about my feelings, my intentions, and my needs.
So Joel and I talk a lot about who I am, and what I want. For so long, I felt that my life had happened to me, instead of me directing my destiny.
At such pivotal times in my life, I am knocked off my perch. And just when I think I’m getting myself back in the saddle, I get a bump. So I try to stay in charge of what I can, understanding that so much of my existence is outside my control. Even when I am at my best, and living my best life, it’s not always about me.
* * *
I thought I had possibly met my match when I was introduced to a wonderful man, “Midwest boyfriend,” through a board member from the Santa Clarita Valley Youth Project. Midwest was forty-two years old, two and a half years out of his marriage, but not officially divorced, and with two kids close in age to my son.
We shared the same Midwestern values, the same ethics, and the same wicked sense of humor. He was incredibly sexy, kind, chivalrous, and a total goofball. I felt completely myself. I had no panic of when he would call or ask me out; it sounds like double-speak, but my insecurities were in a secure place.
I was vulnerable yet strong, and sexy, desirable, and unapologetic about my baggage, pushing myself through the fear of letting someone get close to me.
In the last few relationships I had, the men seemed disinterested in the “real me”—the deep parts of me that I need to have noticed and nurtured. Those relationships stayed on the surface; and even there, they felt empty.
This man, however, wanted to know more: He asked questions and he loved my stories (and my gosh, I have so many). He related to me on so many levels, making my layers easy to reveal. He made it safe to pull the veil back on things I have kept hidden for so long. And it felt incredible.
For the first time in a very long time, I felt connected. It scared me, but it also inspired me. I took a gigantic risk when I declared to Midwest, early on in our tryst, that I liked him, and that I was interested in seeing where “this” could go, but I wasn’t willing to be in an “open” intimate relationship.
This was a monumental move for me.
So when he agreed with me, I felt validated. The little bit of bile that always rises in my throat when I start my speech quickly disappeared as we talked about taking things slow.
I was so proud of myself that I took a chance, and so thankful that I received the response I did. This give-and-take was very encouraging, and reflective of the type of relationship I wanted.
But then, just like that, after ninety days—he ran for the hills.
“Kim, you are so amazing. I have never been treated so well. You are so kind and loving, but I just don’t think I can be the man you need.”
He babbles on, but I stop listening at some point. It sounded so familiar that I can finish his sentences.
I sit in complete shock, going over every detail of our short-lived dalliance, trying to figure out where I missed the turnoff.
Where did I misread the signs? When did the white flags turn red?
Was I not enough?
Every insecurity that I have scurried to my frontal lobe and set up camp. How in the heck did I find myself here again?
That night, I cry myself to sleep, not because he told me he couldn’t go the distance, but because it nudged awake that little person deep inside me who is yearning to be loved, accepted, revered, and sought after by someone other than my father, my kid, and my friends.
And after a few days of sitting in my shit, and after some good ol’ “Why me?” tears, I realized that it wasn’t time for us; Midwest was an intermission in the matinee of my life.
* * *
I needed to stay focused on how authentic I had been with him, and how open and empowered I felt in the few months we dated.
For the first time in a long time, I wanted the love to stay, and I was willing to take myself to another level to see what I would find on my journey toward intimacy and partnership.
In a short period of time, with a stranger, I had moved successfully through some of my own fears of revealing layers of myself that I had kept protected. I hadn’t dated anyone since Vegas, who was sincerely interested in knowing those shaded areas of my core—the ones I keep hidden, safe, and untouched.
I’m not entirely sure if it was Midwest’s warmth and kindness that allowed me to open my very own Pandora’s box, but I raised the lid while I was with him. And just like in the ancient myth, I found hope resting inside.
I am getting closer to having the relationship I am deserving of. I am working toward that outcome, and I will achieve it. I can feel it. I know.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“It is impossible to strive for the heroic life. The title of hero is bestowed by the survivors upon the fallen, who themselves know nothing of heroism.”
—Johan Huizinga
* * *
Over the years, people have praised me for my “strength.” I am never sure how to respond.
Most say, “I would never have been able to handle myself the same way you did and do. How did you manage?”
A shrug of my shoulders is usually the response they receive. Honestly, I am uncomfortable with all the acclaim around my perceived strength. I manage some days better than others, just like other people. Public accolades don’t mean that I am further along, more equipped, or superior in the grieving process.
I am just walking my own path—
Humble pie aside, I am a fighter. I am a survivor. And I have learned some incredible techniques along the way that have helped me steer clear of risky behavior, and from taking a less- than-positive approach toward the obstacles and trauma in my life.
I’ve been fortunate to have three distinctly different males in my life, all of whom earn the title “hero”: my father, my brother, Ron, and my son, Sam. Each one has presented me with such deep and profound teachings about the human spirit, I am continually and forever shaped by each of them. This trio has served as my personal trifecta—making me feel like a big winner in life’s lottery.
Simply put, the definition of hero is, “A person of distinguished courage or ability, admired for brave deeds and noble qualities. A brave person; a champion.”
First and foremost, I credit my father for being a constant in my life. He has an uncanny knack for knowing when I am hurting, when I am needing a hug, and when I am needing him just to listen.
The listening took some time for us to perfect. Despite how independent I am, I am still daddy’s little girl. It’s a natural, knee-jerk reaction for him to want to fix me and make it all better. It’s very hard for him to see me suffer, and he has an extremely difficult time sitting still while I heal by myself.
But he trusts me enough to know that I am learning to request help when I need it. My pride has gotten in the way before when it comes to reaching out, but as I get older, I am too exhausted to do it all on my own. So asking for assistance now comes a tiny bit quicke
r than it once did for me. But to ask for help outright is still not my first line of defense; I need to be a martyr first, and put myself through the wringer before I finally cave in and ask my support team to rally.
As a parent now, I have more respect for my dad than I ever had before, which is a huge compliment. I always thought the world of my dad; to me, he could lasso the moon and the stars. Now I realize that he was also the master of life’s mundane moments. He was able to chase away the clouds and dry my tiniest tear. He could, and does, do it all. My father is my idol, and I would be lost without his guidance, his love, his respect, and his loyalty.
My father has lived a courageous and noble life. The sacrifices he made for Ron and me when we were young, up until the present day, continue to inspire me.
He is steadfast in his commitment to pursuing justice and honoring the memory of his firstborn. My dad is kind, humble, brave, and exudes class; a quiet, humble dignity emanates from him. My father is the truest example of integrity and a family patriarch. He is my true best friend (sorry, Denise) and my role model, in hundreds of ways.
I don’t how he did it, but my father created an environment where we could tell him everything. My brother and I were too naïve to keep things from him. And even though my dad was a strict disciplinarian, he had the softest heart and the warmest soul. He was absolutely committed to my brother and me, no matter what. And he would spend his life—doing his best—to compensate for what we didn’t have from Sharon.
Perhaps it’s “TMI” (too much information), but my dad took me to get my first bra when I was a mere teenager. When I invited him to come into the dressing room, the saleslady freaked out.
As we shuffled past her, thinking she was the one being ridiculous, my father helped me pick out the perfect white padded bra, with a pink flower in the middle. He still has a piece of the box that the bra came in. I rolled my eyes then, but now I wipe away the tears.
One day, when I was about eleven years old, my dad sat bravely when I appeared before him, totally dumbfounded when I found blood after going to the bathroom one day.
* * *