The newly married Colemans settled temporarily in a trailer park in East Hartford. Dennis went to work for the Travelers Insurance Company in Hartford, and Carol got a job at the Aetna. They were doing well, and soon after Dennis was born, they bought a house in Hebron, stayed there for little more than a year before they bought a larger house in Glastonbury. There a second son, Matthew, was born.
The marriage was breaking apart, had probably been destined to fail from the start. Two sons did nothing to cement it. “I was about five. I can only remember sitting in the living room and my dad trying to talk to us and trying to explain that he and my mom weren’t getting along and he was moving out. I guess what happened was that they both just grew up. You know, they were kids when they got married and then they grew up and became different people.”
He wrote in that autobiography to Karin:
We moved into an apartment on Griswold Street with Mom. Dad moved to Meriden. First day of school … I gain the edge I’m looking for. I’m the first to spot the sign with the banana on it. My official classroom symbol. There was a teacher holding the sign, so up I ran. I got to hold the sign. To me it was an honor, to her a relief, for she no longer had to hold that damned sign. Looked more like a picket sign than anything else, come to think of it. The perfect start to a glorious schooling career.
Quickly I gained friends. By 3rd grade, I had the biggest muscles, could run third fastest and caused the 2nd most amount of trouble in my class. Yes! I was also the best soccer offensive player that Naubuc ever had, or will see.
He was also, he says, part of the in crowd, the elite group of third graders. “All my friends were the best jocks, the best with the books, all that. I fit in.” Then it ended.
Tragedy strikes! We moved to Rocky Hill. Why, I don’t know. It was all over. My reign was finished. Fourth grade—not bad. I was quickly advanced to 5th grade English. I also fell in love for the first time. If you think you are, then you are. Nicole—ah, Nicole. Strangely enough, 100% Italian. Again I became sincerely popular with my classmates. I am the third best at everything in my class behind Rick Gozzo and Mike Lopez. Good enough. Then Gozzo steals Nicole and they’re “married” at home plate during recess. My life was over. Crushed for the first time. Just to prove what a nice guy I was, I became the best man. You see—it started even then.
Their marriage wasn’t to be, however. Within days, I had them fighting. Ha-ha. Sixth grade—I jump an unprecedented 14′-6″ in the running long jump. (Most high school people can’t jump that now—even track people[.]) SUPER JOCK. Needless to say, I was on my way. After my fantastic jump I got in line to try again—never satisfied—and while there, Nicole turned to me and for the first time a female told me she loved me. I’ll never forget it. Some kid overheard her and promptly yelled it out for anyone in the gym to hear if they cared to listen. No matter. I ask her out—she says yes. Life is great.
July 12 we move and off I go to Canton. The relationship lasts because my dad lives so close by and that’s where I am on weekends.
Dennis senior had been married for a second time, to another woman named Carol Louise. Then the first Carol Louise, a single mother working and trying to raise two young sons, met a man. “She moved out to Canton with this guy,” Dennis says, “and she was going to get married, and we moved out to his house. It was a total disaster.” He wrote about it to Karin:
Canton. Again I am the best soccer player the school had ever seen, but popularity there suffered for me. Drugs everywhere and I had never been exposed to this environment before. A 7–12 grade school. The new kid on the block. Tensions were high. Then the fateful day behind the supermarket. The atmosphere in the town was such that a stabbing was no big thing. No big thing. Why did he have to ruin my life? No longer do I have the edge. I become withdrawn and alone. Empty. Why did he have to kill me? Basically that’s what he did. A lot of the “old me” will never be back now. He took everything away except my body—gasping for breath as I lie helpless, unable even to yell or cry, as the sun went down and everything turned grey. Grey. Then black. Why? I can’t forget it. I can’t take off my shirt without reliving that instant. Ever. When you touch me there, that’s what hurts. Forever. Why?
It was a nice dramatic story. Only it never happened. “The scar,” Dennis says now, “is just where I had a mole removed. I never got stabbed. I got into a fight, but nothing like that. Karin wanted to know about the scar, so I invented a story.”
As Dennis said, the move to Canton was a disaster. The prospective marriage never took place, the relationship ended badly after a short time and Carol and her sons moved back to Glastonbury, to the condo at 8 Butternut Drive. Dennis was nearly thirteen then, halfway through seventh grade.
Only a few remembered me and no one cared. By the end of the year, my only friend was Kevin Miller. Eighth grade was better. I formed various crushes on certain girls. I met the Hish [a fellow student who became a close friend] and everything was getting better, but I was still very much a loner. My grades, I found, were shot and gone for good. I wasn’t first, or second, or third, or anything best at anything. I didn’t even try.
Freshman year. The worst year of my entire life. Nicole and I finally broke up and I literally failed every class I took. I thought about suicide many times and began sincerely wishing I had died behind the stores. My emotions were so strong I almost died from them alone. Everyday I would come home, go to the basement and stare at the ceiling. I kept myself from crying and vowed never to cry again and never open up again. I just couldn’t climb back up. It was over. I was beaten, but as will happen with prideful, young teenagers I refused to act it. Two of me formed and every second of my life I used to analyze myself. That is scary. My mind never stopped and I drowned in a sea of contradictions. Nothing fit.
The next year, in early March, Wheatley introduced me on a blind date to Denise Chicoine. Blonde, blonde hair though mutant. We had a good summer, but in the end I guess my inability to open up to her killed us. In September (the 19th) we broke up “When you’re lying awake … go ahead and cry. I love you.” In December, I went to her birthday party at her house and ended up “with” her best friend on the couch. I later learned that she wanted to get back together … until that. What can I say? It just came that close again. I, again, fell apart. Music became my hobby and I wrote 11 songs and about 200 pages of notes to her during January.
Among the songs, the lyrics, he wrote for the departed Denise was this:
Shifting sands of time
Erasing all the pain
Blowing winds of change
Bring on tears of rain
Tides will rise and fall.
Waves will crash the shore
Understanding will now see
What the waves ignore
The depth of the mountains
The height of the sea
The darkness of what’s around us
Creating light to see …
The light in my eyes blinds me like dark
In one letter to Denise he wrote:
Hi. Please don’t tear this up. I just wanted to say hi. I also wanted to say that I’m sorry for what happened way back when. I did once, but I kind of took it back by the way I acted. I’m angry when things don’t work out for me. It gets hard for me to relate to myself. This is actually the fourth letter I’ve written you. The first was back around Christmas and in it I apologized. The next became a warning and the third was just downright obnoxious. I didn’t have the heart to send any of them though. Those who know about them think I sent them. I never really told them I didn’t. I had to protect both my pride and my image.
I said above that I didn’t have the heart to send those letters but in my mind I’m conditioned to say to myself that I can do anything. The other guy is always wrong. I can always find some way to come out looking better, or save my pride. If a teacher says, “I don’t like the way you did this, please try it again,” I say, “Fuck you. I did it the way I thought it should be done. I co
unt, not you.” The teacher gets pissed and I cop an attitude and fail the class. It always seemed like a game—but now it’s gotten out of control and I find myself living it. I don’t really regret it, but it does force me to change. You see that. That’s why you broke up with me.
It got out of hand because I found new friends. The elite of our class. You saw me the other night with Chris, but that’s the first time I’ve even talked to him in about a month. He got involved with Debbie and I split. They make me sick. With these new people you really have to be like them. To be like them I had to change, but it got out of hand and now I’m living in their world not mine. I underwent a change the same as I did last summer. For some reason I do that every six months or so. In between I’m an all right person, but during the change I’m an asshole because I feel insecure. I don’t feel whole and I do feel vulnerable so I try to keep everyone out. Everyone. That combined with rumors added up.
Well anyway, that’s why we broke up. I tried to think of a million excuses. That’s what I do best. Well almost. Some things remain intact. In this letter I want to admit to all of my excuses. I was wrong obviously. There’s a reason for everything, but sometimes just reasons aren’t enough. Other things count too. To me you counted. I hate to admit it, but I still think of you everyday. It hurts to think of what I did. It still hurts to think of all the people I hurt. For you the hurt was the last thing you felt, but I hope I brought enough happiness to make up for it. I’m sorry.
A little later, in another letter to Denise, he wrote:
I’m not sure if you know anything about me, or what I’m doing now through various sources. Even if you do, I’ll tell you anyway. I’m doing just fine thank you. The band is going well, my job got even better, although I’m still at Frank’s [the store where he worked], and socially I’m peak. No problem.
Truthfully I know nothing about you now. I haven’t been keeping tabs I’m afraid. Life and death struggles, heroic acts, and general citizenship have left me rather preoccupied lately. Such things as concerts, work, football games, ski club and everything. The little things in life.
I have a question. Why was I such a jerk last summer, like during August especially? I remember you wrote something about “I can look back now and smile when I think of” etc.… something like that, but all I can do is look back and say, “Oh god, what a jerk.” Something like that. I’m sorry for being such a jerk. I already told you that though. Oh god, what a jerk.
You should come to one of our football games. I’m cheerleader (work permitting). Kind of cheerleader. It’s keen. If it wasn’t for work I’d be starting on the team. Problem is, I have to work. And rehearse. Oh well. My life as a jock. Working sucks, doesn’t it.
Here’s something you might appreciate. Through no fault of my own I am sustaining at least a “B” average in every class. Of course I have no math or English, but respectable all the same. I haven’t even tried yet. I haven’t done any homework yet in fact. It makes me wonder what I used to find so difficult. Maybe things will get back to normal soon.
As for my personal life which I’m sure you might, probably don’t care about. I’m seeing a girl from work. She’s twenty-two. I’m not so sure “seeing” is the right word exactly, it’s more of a “give/take” relationship. She’s quite acceptable. For now. There’s another girl I think I may decide to like more who’s nineteen. I know—through sources—she likes me. I’m, quite sure you don’t have any info of that sort coming to you through Scott or anyone. No one really knows about it.
Wheatley is still a blow off. Debbie dumped him and now hates his guts. He doesn’t know that yet though. Oh god, what a jerk. Did you see my name in the Courant, twice. I’m famous. Something about working a few (3 I think) sixteen hour days until 2 A.M. to get Frank’s West Hartford store back in operation after the storm. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Guess who’s up for another raise. I got paid double time for most of it. The article wasn’t about me of course, but mine and the manager’s names were the only ones mentioned. You probably think I live for that store. Wrong. I just needed a $250 paycheck at the time. I’m an opportunist. You know that also, regrettably. Oh god, what a jerk.
As for the “revenge.” I guessed you, at least, found it amusing. I’m sorry we can’t get together, but I understand that we shouldn’t. You get nostalgic? Our prom was on April 27th—ring a bell?
As for the “peer pressure.” I’m sorry everyone else hates me so much. What I did was stupid, not unforgivable I think, but stupid. I certainly don’t expect forgiveness. Please tell everyone, especially Theresa, that I’m sorry for all of it. All of it. Sometimes things can make a person insensitive. And as for your worst flaw—it’s only understanding. For that I thank you. It was much more than I feel I deserved. Your letter touched me and even brought a tear to my eye for the first time since June. I also thank you for that. I guess (hope) we are better off with just some memories. I’ll never forget what I’ve done, and never understand why. I’ll always regret it. If you ever need someone to talk to, a guy’s point of view, write or call please. For friendship’s sake, how can people be friends if they don’t communicate? Need feeds emptiness—the emptiness of being alone. Take care of yourself. There are still people that will always love only what they shouldn’t. It’s a hobby of mine. I do still love you. I never stopped.
Then he stopped, and Denise was the past. He explained to Karin Aparo:
One year later, I met Brenda. The most gorgeous perfect person I had ever known. I was a junior and she was a senior. Oh god … I fell in love with that girl. I was absolutely, and utterly hers. She went with me to my Junior Prom and quite honestly every guy there was in total envy. I had gotten the edge back. At last. I just may owe her my life. Everything in my life changed. All my friends I dropped. She, though, didn’t want to have that much to do with it all. To put it shortly—we’ll never talk again. My fault again. Now I had no friends. Except Kevin Miller. Not to be a fag, or anything, but I love that kid more than a lot of things. The thought of not seeing him again makes me just cry. Not much can do that. It’s all over now, though. They’re all gone forever. Well anyway, Kevin and I threw my party last August and about 300–400 people showed up. Even the most popular good looking girls in the class who are usually never to be seen. I was pleased and it really set up my senior year. This last took an upturn and now my life is good again. At last. Oh god, don’t leave me. I’ve lost everything I’ve ever had, including myself. Please don’t go. Ever.
16
Amid all the passion and hyperbole, in all the dramatics and overblown elaborate phraseology of that long autobiography written for Karin, in those letters, and lyrics written for Denise, in other letters to others, something was wrong.
All his life Dennis Coleman had been searching desperately, not for something he had once had and lost but for something that had never been his, an essential ingredient in the creation of a personality. Perhaps it was because of the friction and incompatibility in his home in his earliest years, perhaps it was because of something in his psyche, but psychiatrists later said that he had never bonded, not with his mother or his father. He had been a difficult baby, had been difficult all the time he was growing up, refusing what comfort his mother offered, refusing even to let her take care of him, turning aside all her attempts at solace, all her shows of affection and caring. After a time both his mother, with whom he lived, who tried as best she could to tend him and his brother, and his father, with whom he spent weekends, turned into pals rather than parents, trying to spend time and do things with him as equals. Though he refused affection and bonding from them, he craved them from someone, as all children, as all people, do. As his letters clearly demonstrate, when he grew into adolescence, the usual crushes became not puppy love soon shed but intense and clinging attachments that sent him into despair and depression when they ended.
He was what the renowned Viennese psychoanalyst and theorist Helen Deutsch described in a classic groundbreaking study in 1
934: an “as if” personality.* Deutsch wrote:
The individual’s whole relationship to life has something about it which is lacking in genuineness and yet outwardly runs along “as if” it were complete.…
The first impression these people make is of complete normality. They are intellectually intact, gifted, and bring great understanding to intellectual and emotional problems; but … without the slightest trace of originality. On closer observation, the same thing is seen in their affective relationships to the environment. These relationships are usually intense and bear all the earmarks of friendship, love, sympathy, and understanding.… but [i]t is soon clear that all these relationships are devoid of any trace of warmth, that all expressions of emotion are formal, that all inner experience is completely excluded. If is like the performance of an actor who is technically well trained but who lacks the necessary spark to make his impersonations true to life.…
Consequences of such a relation to life are completely passive attitude to the environment with a highly plastic readiness to pick up signals from the outer world and to mold oneself and one’s behavior accordingly.…
The same emptiness and the same lack of individuality which are so evident in the emotional life appear also in the moral structure. Completely without character, wholly unprincipled in the literal meaning of the term, the morals of the “as if” individuals, their ideals, their convictions are simply reflections of another person, good or bad.… A second characteristic … is their suggestibility.… Thus it can come about that the individual can be seduced into asocial or criminal acts.
They matched. They fitted, Dennis Coleman and Karin Aparo. Each had what the other craved, what the other needed. It was not just the hidden yearnings and demands. There were all the surface things, too.
They both were smart, with IQs that put them into the special realm of the intellectually very superior, yet in school both were underachievers, doing adequately sometimes, poorly at others, nowhere near as well as they should have. Dennis, says one of his closest friends, “never did homework, never studied. He was the average student as far as grades went, but he never tried. He made out just because of his intelligence. Like, we had a Newsweek course, where the text was the magazine. Dennis never subscribed to the magazine, and I don’t think he ever read it, but he aced the tests because he knew what was going on in the world. It was like, if he was interested in something, he was about the best, and if he didn’t give a damn, he just kind of squeaked by.”
Beyond Obsession Page 17