Wednesday morning. My car is stuck in the parking lot, so I’m gonna
be late for work, waiting for the tow truck. I feel like taking a
nap, then heading downtown, checking into every restaurant and finding
the bitch. She leaves her stuff with me, and never gives me a voice,
after six years. No conversation, no nothing. Yesterday, I mailed
a letter via Chadwicks which included my 30 page narrative of
our relationship. She’ll probably never get it.
Ha! Another snow day, more time to work on this never-ending saga.
I did, however make the commute to work, and found another
‘unavailable’ number on my work phone, from 1/24, the same day that
one appeared on my home phone. I’d bet anything it’s her. Last
Monday, same thing, but with the same message on my cell phone.
Not many people know all three numbers and those that do don’t
come up as “unavailable.”
I often wonder what is the connection between writing and
depression. There has been only one happy period in my life when
I wrote extensively, namely, when I got sober for 1.5 years and
wrote my paper on Ammons, dedicated to Nancy. I think it has
something to do with a sense of control; unexpressed, powerful
emotions are chaotic, damaging, confusing. So words allow me not
to escape the feelings, but to hook them, sort of like a fish, and
reel it in. Catch and release, as always. And releasing the words
onto paper gives me some sense of order, if not control.
So how do I feel today? I feel slightly guilty because as I
re-read what I’ve written, I see that I have not emphasized my
own responsibility for what happened. By that I mean, not only my
responsibility for taking this on and keeping it going, but also
my responsibility for not handling things better, for drinking, for g
etting angry, for not handling Nancy as she needed to be handled.
I will address the former here.
What drew me to Nancy in the first place? How did she manage to
hook me at such a deeply gut level, which is the same as asking
why it’s so difficult for me to let go now that I must. Start with
this: My mother is named “Nancy.” In many ways, my Mom is the exact
opposite of Nancy; repressed, stupid, inarticulate, asexual. But
in so many other ways, they are similar: low self-esteem, fear, and
controlling. I think that I grew up in an environment where,
because of my mother, there was literally nothing I could do to
prove myself a good and successful person. Nothing was ever enough.
Beginning early on with her complete lack of trust and faith in
me. I can recall in grade school, coming home from an evening out
with friends, and this funny old lady would inevitably get out of
her bed, her hair in curlers, and squint directly into my face,
trying to check if my pupils were dilated, trying to check my breath
for alcohol. Always looking, searching for a crime that I hadn’t
committed. It disgusted me, and made me want to rebel, to commit
exactly those crimes she wanted to sniff out.
As a senior in high school, I had straight A’s, and got into
Johns Hopkins. My Mom went to the guidance counselor, without
telling me, and had a talk with him. Shortly thereafter, I was
called to the counselor’s office. He congratulated me on my success,
but told me that my Mom had come to see him. He handed me a brochure
from Hampshire College; I said, “What is Hampshire College?” He
explained that it was a “nice” school for intelligent kids who had
behavioral problems. I threw the brochure on the floor and walked
out.
I finished #2 in my class at JHU. I got into Yale graduate school,
in comparative literature. I remember calling my parents to tell
them the news. My Mom tried to persuade me to attend a school
“closer to home.” Like the University of Maine. She resented my
success, which made me want to achieve success at a high level still.
I remember in the early 1980s, writing my dissertation and working
two jobs. I received a letter from my mother saying, in essence,
this: “Carl, your father and I both know that you aren’t really in
graduate school, and this ‘dissertation’ thing is a fake. We know
that you are a heroin addict, and you play this ‘student’ role in
order to borrow money from us to support your habit.” I also remember
returning home one Christmas, and waking up to find a note on the
kitchen table. It said: “Don’t bother coming home again until you
finish your dissertation.”
After graduate school, I went to law school in Seattle. I got a
job at the second biggest firm in Maine, very prestigious. My mother
tried to talk me out of it, tried to persuade me to open a small
practice in the town where they lived. Same theme: my success
bothered her. I remember, shortly after my divorce, still
working at the firm, getting a letter from my Mom. It said: “Carl,
if you had told me that you wanted my aunt’s diamond ring, you
could have asked me, and I’d have given it to you. But you stole
it, and I want it back.” She went on to say that she was cutting
me out of her will. I wasn’t a successful lawyer with a Ph.D from
Yale; I was a lying, conniving junkie and a thief, in her eyes. And
I grew to hate her for that. I think that psychologically I both
wanted to prove her wrong (by succeeding beyond her wildest
dreams) and also to please her (by failing). So my entire life has
been defined by a drive to succeed at the highest level, and at
the same time to subvert my own success. Restated: A drive to
succeed, but not for me, only to prove a point to someone else.
Point proven, it becomes meaningless. So I screw up and find a
new goal. This is where Nancy comes in.
I believe that Nancy satisfied both of those tendencies perfectly;
add in the incredible sexuality (I had been raised in an incredibly
repressed environment), and you have a hook that reaches straight
into the inner depths of my psyche.
January 27
Wow, today was really awful. I’m not sure why. Just so incredibly
sad. I just can’t get over it.
I must have known, when I first met Nancy, that it wouldn’t work
in the long run. I should have believed her when she pointed to
her heart and said, “You can court me, but you’ll never get in here.
No one ever has.” Nancy is capable of tremendous insight, one of
the many things I loved about her. She is far more complex than a
purely evil, manipulative mega-bitch, although she is that too.
Another astounding insight from Nancy: “Carl, you’re the only man
who has ever known me, and allowed me to know myself. But I’m a
survivor, and I can’t be real and survive.” I think that although
I had achieved at a high level, none of it ever meant anything to
me; I was looking for meaning in my life, and I hadn’t found it.
I had tried academics, professional challenges, and succeeded,
but they never meant much to me, so I always threw it away. I
was bored, emotionally and sexually hungry.
January 28, 2000
I have this incredible sadness and urge to write. I would say
that I’m functioning at about 20% capacity these days. Very lonely,
very sad. I do not understand at all. I’ll try to work it out in
this journal. Perhaps I should go back to the time at which I met
Nancy. It’s just so hard to accept the fact that while I was
giving her all my love, she was using me, for six years, and now
I’m left with nothing.
January 29, 2000
I’ve reached the end of my story, but somehow I can’t help but
think it isn’t quite over yet; I haven’t been given the opportunity
to speak or listen. My incomprehension precludes me from ending.
So I’ll try to go back to the beginning once again, not as a
narrative, but as an attempt to analyze, not to analyze Nancy,
but to analyze myself, and how this started. Somehow I think that
only by understanding the beginning can I put an end to this
misery. I have nowhere to go, and all day long to get there.
When I called the agency, I had no experience with prostitutes.
I suppose I expected someone unattractive, addicted to drugs,
totally uninteresting. I was shocked when Nancy came to my door.
January 30
She was nothing like what I expected. She was gorgeous, well
mannered, very articulate and exotic (Southern Belle type, or
so I thought). Immediately, I was more interested in figuring her
out than in sex. I guess that’s why, when we went into the bedroom,
I showed her my Eric Fischl book. Fischl paints disturbing pictures.
The technique and composition are fairly conventional, but with some
strange fissures, and the themes are totally bizarre, usually sexual,
and very personal. That is how Nancy struck me; her presentation
was seamless and conventional, but I could sense that just under
the surface there was emotional chaos, expressed through powerful
sexuality. I wanted to test her, to see if she would see something
interesting in Fischl. She did. I knew there was depth in Nancy,
real depth, perhaps an abyss. Well, if I were “normal,” I would
certainly have withdrawn, because who wants an emotional abyss in
his/her life? I didn’t withdraw, I dived in headfirst, leading with
my heart. You see, I had led an apparently conventional life;
academic and professional success, marriage, etc. But I knew that
just beneath that surface, there was emotional chaos and longing
within me. It had never been expressed, and I felt that I could
test myself my own reality by opening up to Nancy. In trying
to discover who Nancy was, I was literally trying to discover
myself. Nothing, not my job, my family, my friends, was more important
than this. So I opened my heart and mind to Nancy. It was never
clear whether I was making real contact, or being exploited by her.
It didn’t matter. I was willing to risk being exploited because I
thought that that willingness, expressed honestly and with
determination, would draw from her her own honesty and character.
I believed in the human being that I sensed was hidden somewhere in
the depths of Nancy’s being, and I committed myself to bringing it
out. I was willing to suffer greatly to achieve my goal, and I did
(suffer).
I thought I succeeded in making contact. There were many sublime
moments. There were awful moments, but those just seemed a part of
this awesome challenge, so I accepted everyone of them. I felt
that Nancy and I connected in a way that I’d never connected with
anyone. Isn’t this love? I expressed my love for her in every
conceivable way, and it was so much more compelling than my marriage,
my job, my academic successes, etc. She would say, “Carl, you’re the
only man who’s ever touched me inside and I love you; I can’t
imagine life without you. I want to grow old together with you.”
Yet, nothing I ever did could earn her trust, at times. When she
raged, she completely forgot all the good times, all the closeness;
I was the epitome of evil; she was capable of astounding coldness,
for no apparent reason. Sometimes, she say, “Hey Carl, when I get
like that, just grab me and fuck my brains out.” I didn’t dare,
because I’d been falsely accused of rape. Unfortunately, my own
drinking habits prevented me often from dealing with her rages as
I should have. I feel such regret for raging back at her. I truly,
from the bottom of my being, believe that we could have succeeded,
sober and with therapy. It could have been the most amazing
relationship imaginable, because somewhere inside Nancy is a hurt
little girl who hides, but can be healed, just as somewhere in me
there is a hurt little boy who can be healed. But neither of us
will heal by pretending to be “normal” and ignoring the issues.
I’m so sad now because we were so fucking close to making it, and
she ran. The fact that she ran from me exactly because she loved
me is more than I can bare; I’ll never have a relationship as
intensely passionate and meaningful as I had with Nancy, and it’s
gone. I care for that girl as I’ve never cared for anyone before;
but she’s chosen (apparently) falseness over truth, and her way of
doing that is to treat me like shit. It all just seems so damn
stupid, such a goddam waste. In my past relationships, there was
always a reason for the split: some incompatibility. That hurt, but
not like this, because the reason for the split with Nancy is because
we loved each other…..I think. Yet sometimes, reading the posts, I
have to believe that she never loved me at all, only used me for
her own purposes. That uncertainty is too horrible for words. Is
the reason I’m alone because we were too real, or too fake?
Later
Sleet and ice storm here. I went downtown and looked for Nancy,
but the streets were empty. One PI is willing to look for Nancy at
a flat rate of $150, which I can afford. Hell, that’s worth it.
Not to get back together, but to have my say, and give her things
back. That’s all I want, and I want to extricate myself from
this stupid game.
January 31, 2000
Woke up really tired. Due to the ice, we’re supposed to wait for
two hours before going to work. I don’t feel like going in at all,
but I will. I have to make a decision about this PI. More
“unavailable” phone calls on Friday, 1/28. Calypso is bleeding again.
So many expenses. I should not assume that Nancy is making those
calls. She knows I work on Fridays.
February 2, 2000
She called me at work yesterday, “just to say ‘hi’ and find out
how I’m doing.” I told her I was doing well at work but was very
very sad at home. She avoided the subject of us, and I told her
it was incomprehensible that after six years together, we couldn’t
have a coherent honest conversation about what happened. All
she would say is that after one night, when we argued and I asked
her to leave, she ‘lost faith’ in our relationship. I tried to remind
her of all the times when I could have lost faith after she’d
betrayed me in far worse ways. No response. She considers me to be
‘abusive and dangerous.’ I asked her for an address to write her
letters. She refused. I asked for a meeting; she said ‘maybe one day,
but not now because I’d feel uncomfortable.” I asked why. She said
she is afraid of violent confrontations. (hahahahaahha, the queen
of violent confrontations said this). She says she doesn’t want a
relationship with me any more, but a friendship. That’s ridiculous,
Nancy doesn’t have “friendships.” She has intensely sexual
relationships with men, totally focussed, and those relationships
don’t last long because Nancy isn’t faithful. Nancy is incapable
of the personal continuity that friendship or love require. I asked
her what to do with her things. She said that she didn’t care
anymore, that those very personal things aren’t a part of her, and
there is no reason for her to drag them around. It’s as if she’s
dumped her entire identity, along with me. Which makes some sort of
weird sense, because she told me many times that I’m the only person
who has ever known the real Nancy. So she dumps me and she dumps
the real Nancy, as embodied in her personal possessions. I think
she knows that I won’t dispose of her things. I think she is totally
immersed in some new sexual relationship, and called me to
check if I still remain a lifeline for her when this one ends.
She said she’d call me again, and would “think about” finding me
an address where I can write to her.
Obviously, despite my resolve, I handled her phone call in
precisely the wrong way, which is why I’m suffering now. Had I
done the right thing wish her well, express my desire not to hear
from her again, and give her until date X to pick up her stuff
I’d probably be feeling great right now. I knew what I had to do, but
within seconds of hearing her sweet voice, I reverted to my old ways.
February 2, 2000 (later)
Obviously, I had been waiting for weeks for this call, and it
disappointed me, probably because she didn’t say she wanted to get
back together and/or she said she’d call me again. I want one or the
other, but I get neither. How do I build a wall around myself to
protect my own heart from this endless, dishonest assault?
I should pick up the story where I left off, back at the beginning.
Is this narrative a circle, a path out, or a spiral downward? How
to describe the phenomenology of a dysfunctional relationship?
Well, I’ve written a letter to Melanie, which includes my
narrative of my relationship with Nancy. I feel real bad to lose
her friendship, cause she liked me, before Nancy polluted her mind.
I’ll hold onto it for a while, maybe until I hear back from the
PI and get an address for Nancy. Christ I hate my life these
days. Haven’t I earned something better than this?
I really feel it’s time for me to move on. I’ll get this goddam
fucking letter to the bitch, and that’s it. I’ll dispose of her
stuff, and forget her. Then I need to get some exercise, focus on
work and get my teeth cleaned. More bullshit. Gary, who has weed
for me, called me, but I have no money. So I call the asshole Bill
who owes me $110, and ask for reimbursement now. I am supposed to
meet Gary at the bar tomorrow, and I will. This fucking Bill won’t
call me back. So I call Dave for a short term loan. I can’t blow
Gary off like this.
February 4, 2000
I had an intensely sexual dream about Nancy last night. She was
bitchy during sex, criticizing my performance (which never happened
in real life). This is one of many erotic dreams I’ve had about her
over the last several weeks. I hate it! I wake up thinking about
her screwing some other guy, and it drives me crazy.
I left off my journal trying to get back to the beginning, trying
to figure out how Nancy dug her hook into me so deeply, how I let
that happen. That’s my mission for the weekend, along with isolating
all of Nancy’s things. Her phone call still bothers me a lot. Why
bother calling at all? One thing in particular bothers me,
and I’ve added a footnote in this regard to my letter. I asked Nancy
to write me a letter explaining in her mind what happened to us. She
said that she had tried to email me, but “all that came up [re: my
email addy] was a bunch of neo-nazi stuff.” She didn’t try to email
me at all, obviously; she did a web-search on “wombat”, which is
probably the nick of some idiot nazi person somewhere. So instead
of emailing me, she’s doing research on me on the internet, probably
trying to find some dirt. My guess is that she was looking for my
email address on some sort of “dating” or porn page, so that she
could respond to the hypothetical advertisement. It’s almost
inconceivable that after six years, she’d engage in such lying crap,
and expect me to believe it. Apparently, she feels absolutely no
need for honesty after all that we’ve been through, whereas honesty
is all that I can think about. Astounding! It’s so depressing to
realize that I wasted six years with such a person. And she expects
me to believe that she’s “working on herself” and “not seeing
anyone.” That’s why I want to send her my letter; to let her know
just how well I know her, that none of her stupid lies are credible
with me. I don’t care if she takes responsibility for what she’s
done; I only care that I let her know the truth, that I’m not just
another sucker. Because that’s the meaning of our relationship,
as far as I’m concerned. I wanted to be the first man in her life
who wasn’t just another sucker.
I am certain that at some level Nancy knows this but can’t admit
it to herself. It really bothers me that she has told all of our
mutual acquaintances a bunch of lies about me, and that they believe
her. Well, they won’t believe in her for very long, that I can
guarantee. For example, Nancy told me that Melanie had called her
after my visit with Melanie. Nancy reported that Melanie had said
that I came into the restaurant, drunk, and bad-mouthed Nancy in
front of a bunch of people. Who’s lie is that? Melanie’s or Nancy’s?
I suspect the latter. Obviously, she’s poisoned Melanie’s opinion
of me, because Melanie lied to me (“I haven’t seen or heard from
Nancy in weeks.”) Melanie now believes that I am a drunken, abusive
asshole. Another potential friendship down the drain. The truth is,
when I went into Melanie’s restaurant, I ordered a glass of wine,
and calmly expressed my concern for Nancy’s legal problems. There
was no one around us to listen (the place had just opened). I gave
Melanie my phone number and asked her to call me if she heard
any information about Nancy’s situation. Then I left. So why make
up all this crap at this point? Nancy has always done this to me,
namely, report to me some slanderous crap that so-and-so said about
me, so that I have no way of proving it wrong. That puts Nancy in
the position of “judging my credibility” and finding me lacking,
which is total horseshit. Of course she knows I tell the truth;
so why now, after six years, play this stupid game with me? It
seems to me that upon breaking up after six years, we ought to
have an honest conversation and part as friends. Why isn’t that
obvious? What an ugly, superficial world she must live in;
it’s beyond my comprehension. Yet she always manages to put me on
the defensive, to make me feel guilty. A moment of honesty from
her: “Yes Carl, I fell out of love with you;” or, “I found another
guy.” That would be all that I need. But I’m not going to get it.
Just more games, more bullshit, because that’s the only way
she can justify her own actions. During our conversation, I asked
her: “Did you say to me that I’m the only man who’s ever known you,
and that you’re a survivor and in order to survive, you can’t be
real.” She responded: “Yes, I probably said that,” but she turned
it against me. She went on to say that “I’m a survivor, and
I can’t survive with an abuser.” I think that she has actually
convinced herself, no doubt with the help of her deluded friends,
that I am a horribly abusive asshole. I can just imagine her
sitting in some bar telling her friends horror stories about me;
he current man comforting her, asking her if he should come to
my place and beat the shit out of me, etc. I know that’s what’s
happening. Her friends say, “Leaving that asshole is the best
thing you ever did, Nancy. Here, let me buy you a drink, you poor
girl.” Absolutely no concern for my feelings, for my reputation,
for the reality of what happened between us for the last six years.
But I know exactly what will happen. She’s reverted to her actress
mode. She’s good, but even great actresses can’t remain convincing
for too long. That’s why she has no lasting friendships. They’ll
figure it out, eventually, although it may take her man a bit longer,
because he’s enthralled with her sexually. But she won’t be faithful
to him, as she was to me for most of the time. With him, she’s
just performing, so it means nothing to her to betray him, and she
will. When you’re fake, nothing really matters, because it’s all a
game, a game of survival. You just move on to the next performance.
But I’d like to know if she ever thinks about what will happen in
the long-term. Her ability to be convincing rests in part on her
physical beauty; she’s 34 now, and it won’t last. What then? Why
would she choose short term fakeness over long-term reality? See,
I blame myself for that. That was my mission, to compel her, via
my own reality, to choose the latter, and I failed. That’s what
kills me. I can’t help but see it as a failure on my part.
I think she realizes her age, and will probably try to marry some
guy with money. That way, she can divorce him and get enough money
to continue her act on her own terms. That could well be what’s
happening now. She met some guy with money, and is playing her
victim act. He’ll propose and she’ll accept. Then she’ll take him
to the bank. Who knows? Maybe it’ll work for her. I actually hope
it does. My worst fears for her are that she ends up in the gutter,
or back as a prostitute. I think she’s totally given up on ever
having a loving relationship. I don’t think there are too many
guys like me out there, and I don’t think she wants a guy like
me anymore.
Later
Wombat's Journal Continues Page 5
as of December 11, 2003 (on this site)
Moved from Soul's Self Help Central on December 11, 2003
