Saturation
A Memoir
Jennifer Place
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Copyright © 2011 Jennifer Place
Published by Jennifer Place at Smashwords
All rights reserved.
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sat·u·ra·tion
n.
1.
a. The act or process of saturating.
b. The condition of being saturated.
c. The condition of being full to or beyond satisfaction; satiety.
sat·u·rat·ed
adj.
1. Unable to hold or contain more; full.
2. Soaked with moisture; drenched
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The Order In Which Things Went Down
BEGINNINGS
1) Busted - Again: An Introduction
2) A Wee Brief History Of Me
3) Meeting Dick
4) Changes
5) Canada
6) The Big Talk
7) First Arrest
8) Detox
9) Busted - Again, (Continued)
LEGALITIES
10) Intake Takes Time
11) 'A' Block
12) Judges Don't Work Weekends
13) Trapped
14) Struggles With Shackles
15) This So Did Not Happen
16) Incredulity Can Be Dangerous Territory
17) Cornrows In The Courtroom
18) What The Cop Said
19) Fleeting Freedom
TREATMENT - 1
20) Finding My Verbal Footing
21) Inpatient - Round One
22) Introductions
23) Group
24) Little Red Bike
25) Who Has The Attitude?
26) The Game
27) Confronting Lany
28) Collage And New Beginnings
OLD PATTERNS
29) Wow. Just, Wow
30) Issaquah And A Little Juggling
31) Bada Bing, Bada Bang, Bada Boom Boom Boom
32) Perception
33) Recreating The Nightmare
34) West Seattle
35) T For Traumatic
36) Routine
TREATMENT - 2
37) Moving Out And Moving On
38) Inpatient - Round Two
39) Rough Introductions
40) Challenges
41) Calling Bullshit
42) Jordan
43) Settling In And Getting Through – Barely
OUCH!
44) Why'd I Do It? I Loved Him
45) Darkness
46) Insanity And Sorrow
47) Painful Death
48) Enroute
TREATMENT - 3
49) Inpatient - Round Three
50) Grief
51) Why Do Psychiatrists Always Wear Black Socks?
52) Forces
53) 63 days
LIFE
54) Sober Reality
55) The Disoriented Express - Location, J. Place
56) Descent Back Into Madness
TREATMENT - 4 AND THE SUMMER OF '08
57) Inpatient - Round Four
58) Down The Shitter
59) Getting To Know Cops, Hospital Staff, And Kind Folks
TREATMENT - 5 AND BEYOND
60) Inpatient - Round Five
61) Yo, God!
62) Slow Awakening
63) Craigslist
Epilogue
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ACKWLEDGMENTS
Moe Fudgie and Messy Tom, I love you both more than all the space in all the Universes multiplied by every star and then multiplied again by every grain of sand on the planet (yes, you can multiply space, stars and sand). I just did. It equals - like - a lot.
A special shout-out, hugs and juicies to all my friends, including Tata J and C.E., and family who have stuck with me through all my trials and tribulations from the beginning - you know who you are. A special thanks to my editor, Richard Sanders - a man who knows how to shoot from the hip and cut to the chase.
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****Names have been changed or nicknames have been used to protect the identity of the people named in my story. I recount it here to the best of my ability and with the help of friends and family.****
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Chapter 1
Busted - Again: An Introduction
When the police arrived I didn’t wait for them to come into the house. I gave Dick a five–minute head start while I smoked a cigarette and finished my drink. Then I walked outside barefoot with my cell phone and introduced myself to the four police officers standing with Dick next to the gate at the end of our driveway. I wouldn’t see the inside of our house again for another month.
As far as I was concerned I was being rescued. I was being rescued from Dick and I was being rescued from the part of me that reaches for alcohol. I was a puppet to my compulsion to drink and by living with Dick I was permitting them both, inviting Dick and alcohol to destroy me. I was a tragedy for it.
I was well aware of the irony in feeling that I was escaping something monumental as I sat handcuffed in the back of a police car on my way to jail for the second time in just over a month. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, my alcohol-induced anesthesia prevented me from fearing my destination. I had absolutely no idea what I was about to go through. I’d spent only nine hours in the tank the first time Dick had me arrested five weeks earlier. Had I known what I was in for this time I most certainly wouldn’t have been so appreciative for the escort.
I sat comfortably in the back seat of the police car, Indian style, and cracked the knuckles in my toes. I remembered that some police cars have a little plastic wall that divides the front and back seats. This car had a metal fence divider that I decided was more personable and intimate.
I studied my handcuffs as we drove away. They were heavy and cumbersome, which made dialing and holding my cell phone awkward. Calling Dad was no easy feat, but I managed.
Hello?” He answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Dad! I’m in a cop car. Dick just had me arrested. Again. We’re going to jail.” I said, enthusiastically.
“Who’s we?” He asked. I noticed he didn’t sound very surprised.
“Us. The cops and me. We’re all in the car. Together. We‘re driving. Just a sec.
“We’re going to jail, right?” I asked the cops.
“Yep. We’re going to jail.” One of them answered.
“Dad? Yeah. We’re going to jail.”
“Jenny, Dick just called me.”
“He did? But I just got in the car. We aren‘t even out of our neighborhood, yet.”
“He called me as soon as you guys drove off.” Dad explained.
“But it’s almost 2 a.m. there. Weren’t you asleep?”
“Yes.”
For a moment my alcoholic anesthesia lost its potency and I had to corral a small army of hostile emotions into my throat so I could swallow them. Dick called my dad before me! That asshole! Why hadn’t he called someone in his own fucking family?
“You need to hang up your phone now.” One of the cops said.
“I’m talking to my dad.” I explained.
“I know you are. I can hear you. But I’m not supposed to let you use your phone. You can call your dad when we get downtown.”
“Oh, yeah? Okay.” I didn’t want him to get in trouble.
“Dad? The cop says I have to hang up now, I‘ll call you later.”
“Okay. Hang in there. Call me when you can.”
(To be continued)
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Chapter 2
I was born in Laguna Beach, California way way back in 1969. My parents and I moved to Denver, Colorado when I was two. They divorced when I was four and my sister, Sauce, was one. Mom was granted custody. Dad married Peggy when I was six. When I was eight he fought Mom for custody and won. When I was nine Mom kidnapped us and took us to her parent‘s house in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Dad’s parents lived in Tulsa too and one day, four or five months after we’d arrived, he had them kidnap us back, in a manner of speaking. Mom’s parents helped. We were pulled out of school, I was in the fourth grade, and put on a plane. We didn’t get to say goodbye to Mom or any of our friends. I resented that.
While we’d been living in Tulsa, Dad and Peggy had moved from Denver to Cripple Creek, a small mountain town 45 miles west of Colorado Springs. Dad had taken a job there as the president of a gold mine. At first Peggy was agreeable enough, considering she didn‘t have any kids of her own, but soon after Sauce and I moved in she got pregnant. Once our brother, Hoot, was born her attitude changed.
Peggy started verbalizing that she was there to replace my “terrible” Mom who‘d since moved to California. I resented Peggy - loudly. The older I got the more she nitpicked and tried to control me. I rebelled and escaped through cycling, reading and writing. Dad never interfered. Sometimes when we fought about Mom, Dad would agree with Peggy’s assessment of her - even comparing me to her on occasion. It was never a compliment. I resented that and felt confused by it at the same time. I was in the 7th grade and miserable. How could I be just like her when I was only 13?
The summer before eighth grade Dad took a job as a Stock Broker in Denver, so we moved. My school in the mountains had been a single building. All 250 students, kindergarten through 12th grade, went to the same school. My new middle school in Denver, 7th and 8th grade only, had nearly a thousand students. I found it a bit much. The boys found me interesting and the girls found me freaky. I was a mountain girl, more interested in housing blueprint magazines than fashion magazines. I didn’t do my hair; it did its own thing in curls down my back. I didn’t do my nails or own makeup. I didn’t own skirts or pants or dress shoes. I wore tennis shoes or boots with my jeans.
Sauce and I went to see Mom during summer or winter vacations and each time we got back the tension between me and Peggy escalated. We fought bitterly on a daily basis. Finally, near the end of my freshman year of high school, I was 15, Dad ripped the rug out from under our fighting and allowed me to go live with Mom. The daily verbal warring between me and Peggy was tearing apart his marriage. I think she had given him an ultimatum - either I had to go or she would. Dad put me on a plane for California three months before the end of the school year.
Over the years since Sauce and I had been kidnapped back from Mom, she had slowly dissolved into a functioning alcoholic and pothead. When I first arrived on the scene in California I was 14 and we shared great times and partied together. My stay with her was short lived, however, and ended a couple months into my sophomore year when we got into a fight one afternoon. I threw an empty coffee cup at her, which naturally pissed her off. She backed me up against the wall with her hands around my throat and squeezed - hard. Several days later my maternal grandmother flew out to get me. I went with her back to Tulsa and finished 10th grade there.
I adored my new high school and made friends my own age. I adored my grandparents. That year with them was the most peaceful and normal experience of my entire youth. But I was too much for them to handle. I’d experienced too much hostility with Peggy and too much freedom with Mom. By the end of the school year I’d worn my grandparents out and Dad sent me back to Colorado to live with him, Peggy, Sauce and Hoot.
Peggy and I picked up right where we’d left off - except I was bigger - I‘d grown taller than her. I finally left home several months into my junior year after she and I had a spectacular blowup. I’d just turned 17. We got into a fight over a teabag I’d left on the edge of the kitchen sink. Peggy had tried to spank me and I slapped her. Dad called from work as I was packing my bags. He told me he was on his way home and that I better not be there when he got there. I wasn’t and I never went back.
A friend of mine decided to bail with me and we took off for California in my little yellow Toyota Corolla. The oil pan was cracked. Over the entire two and a half day trip I had to put in a total of about 40 quarts of oil. Our second day in, a mechanic agreed to swap me 15 quarts for my brand new record player. I’d just received it for Christmas. We barely made it to Sacramento. Not knowing where to go or what to do we agree that talking about it over donuts seemed a good idea. Between us we had less than $20. We wound up staying with a 30-something Middle Eastern guy, who worked the counter at Winchell’s Donuts, and his two housemates.
Mom only lived an hour out of Sacramento but we couldn’t stay with her because she was “busy“. “I’m sorry Jenny. I’ve just got too much going on right now.“ That’s what she said. Three days into our adventure my friend’s Dad sent her back to Colorado. Dad wouldn’t send for me. “You got yourself out there. If you want to come back make it happen. Find a job and get your car fixed.“ He said. I wasn’t too keen on staying with the Middle Eastern guys so Mom’s parents came to the rescue - again. I moved back Tulsa, got a job and lived with my grandparents for about nine months, until my 18th birthday. I moved into my own apartment the next day.
I still knew quite a few people around town and through friends I met my oldest son’s daddy who was a senior at my old high school. I’d since taken my GED and was enrolled in community college. He moved in with me several months before graduation and a year later we were pregnant with my oldest son who was born at home when we were 20. My oldest, Moe Fudgie, has had that nickname since kindergarten. One day, after he got in from school, I asked him about his day and he said it was good because the class had had a substitute teacher - Moe Fudgie. The name stuck. Moe is 21 now. He‘s a charismatic, gregarious, adventurous spirit, a seasoned certified scuba diver and a business major at a university in Chicago.
Moe Fudgie’s dad and I never married and we didn’t work out, but we did move from Tulsa to Boulder, Colorado which is where I continued my education at CU and met my youngest son’s daddy, Lelo. Lelo and I both worked at the hospital. I was 24 when we married and our son was born at home, like my first, when I was 25. My youngest’s nickname is Messy Tom or Messy T. He earned his name during kindergarten as well. One day after school I asked him what he’d had for lunch - “a Messy Tom” he said -meaning a Sloppy Joe. Messy T is 15. He’s messy. He‘s also an inquisitive, playful and contemplative black belt in TaeKwon-Do, a junior diver and a popular sophomore in high school.
Moe and Messy T both own an impressively tenacious and muscular willpower - shocking at times, the both of them.
Lelo and I divorced when Messy T. was four, remarried when he was five and divorced again when he was seven. Lelo left us for the east coast when Messy T was seven and he never returned to Colorado, though both boys went out together to visit him frequently. Lelo and I have maintained an odd, yet mostly friendly connection to this day. There’s an old familiarity between us - older than our lifetimes I believe.
My relationship with Mom dissolved over the years. She didn’t even meet Messy T until he was five. Our relationship remained very spotty up until 2010. Today, I don’t have a relationship with her and neither do my kids.
Dad became a very successful businessman and retired when he was 60. He was always very fond - still is - of both boys and they visited him - still do - and Peggy in Denver often.
Hoot was only seven when I finally left Dad’s house, so he and I haven’t had much one on one time together. He’s married now and I can tell you this - do not let him hear you blaspheme the Denver Broncos.
My sister, Sauce, and I maintained a close relationship up until my early 30s, when my relationship with alcohol became more of a priority. Today we get on well, but there is still a small splinter in our relationship. We never had spats as adults like some sisters do. But Sauce experienced something, which I address in my story, when she came out to visit me once when I was 38 and I think it changed her a little bit. Some traumas leave permanent scars. I’ve always loved her very much.
I learned when I was 27 that alcohol could be used for a purpose - to self-medicate. But I took my time with it. I was always a very fit, outdoorsy person. I walked several miles almost every day when I was pregnant with both Moe and Messy T, and in Boulder I got very excited about hiking and cycling. Until I started seriously relying on alcohol when I was around 30.
When I was 29 I became involved with a man, ‘V’, who lived in Cardiff, Wales. He was my Greek adventure, but it didn’t last, and our separation seemed to both ignite and pull something from me - something valuable. When I was 32 I became involved with a man, ’J’, who was a recovering alcoholic. He relapsed while we were together, and the demise of that relationship introduced me to the agony of the death of a relationship in its entirety. I hadn’t experienced it with Lelo or V in the same capacity and fullness that I did with J - or maybe my grief was the culmination of numerous losses, I don‘t know.
Several months after I asked J to leave I turned up the volume on my drinking. Over a period of about a year I went from drinking an average of five bottles of wine a week to drinking around 14 bottles of wine a week.
My relationships with people, men especially, have always been heavy. I tend to enforce plenty of space between me and most folks now days. I find relationships curious and exciting, but also wearing. I’m still learning.
I met Dick, the man in the first chapter, when I was 35. That’s when I took my relationship with alcohol to a level I couldn’t have imagined possible. My story begins there.
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Chapter 3
Meeting Dick
I'd been drinking an average of two bottles of Chardonnay a day, every day, for a couple years when I met Dick. We met through an online dating site. I found out through his profile, and then through correspondence that he worked as an IT tech for a major airline, had never been married, had no kids and was an avid skier and cyclist. He was 46 and I was 35.
His main profile picture on the dating site didn’t impress me much, but another picture of him standing in the ocean with a surfboard did. He looked healthy and I liked his smile. He had straight teeth. His love of cycling also attracted my attention. A couple weeks into our online chats and emails, I finally agreed to meet him for a sushi dinner in downtown Boulder, Colorado, where we both lived.
I arrived buzzed, on time and asked to be seated outside on the patio. I draped my light jacket over the back of my chair and sat facing the street musicians. The warm autumn night brought out scores of people. Families with young kids, groups of students and couples made for the perfect distraction if Dick should fail as a satisfactory conversationalist. The waiter had just delivered my second bottle of sake when I noticed Dick cross the street.
He was 15 minutes late and hadn’t bothered to call. Had I been sober I wouldn’t have waited. I wasn’t sober. He looked older than he did in his pictures and he had terrible posture. We greeted each other and as he sat down he took off his glasses, folded them slowly and placed them near the edge of the table next to the patio wall. As he did this, he apologized for being late, said he forgot his cell phone at home, and said he figured I might be late too. Only after he finished speaking did he look at me again.
Curious.
It was a warm, busy night, and I was too drunk to take offense. Alcohol numbed my judgment and my integrity, like Novocain numbs your gums before a dental procedure. I felt great. So what I said was, “No worries.”
Over dinner we talked and shared sake. The more I drank the more I decided Dick wasn’t entirely unattractive. I gave him a small handful of points for being a so-so conversationalist. He was clearly educated and he certainly seemed interested in me. Had he been a complete dolt I would have finished dinner and wished him luck on his future dating endeavors. Whether I’m sober or not I normally have little patience for adults unskilled in the art of social decorum and discourse.
Of course, Dick didn’t know I was drunk. My social graces were impeccable in light of how I would have fared during a complex field sobriety test. He could not have guessed I'd already downed two bottles of wine before our date. I didn’t look drunk or sound drunk because my tolerance for alcohol was ridiculously high.
As the sake began to flirt with his brain I’m sure I began to look more curious and gregarious to him. I know how to make people feel interesting, especially when I‘ve been drinking. We ate, talked and shared a few laughs for maybe an hour and a half. After we said good-bye the impression he made on me lingered until I walked into the nearest liquor store, a three-minute drive from the restaurant.
Out of sight, out of mind.
He called a couple days later and said he‘d like to see me again. I said, “Okay”, not because I was excited by the idea or moved by him in any way, but because I couldn’t think of a reason not to. It was that simple. A few days later when he asked me out on another date I agreed again for the same reason. I don’t remember what we did either time.
This was the beginning of our relationship back in 2005. I think what drew me to him was his handiness. He always made himself available. We also fucked - a lot. At first he was like a useful robot, well programmed, but lifeless, though on occasion I did appreciate his wit. I made a point to drink openly around him. I had to. I knew I acted buzzed sometimes, and if I didn’t have a glass of wine in my hand and half a bottle on my kitchen counter he would know I’d been drinking anyway. I wanted him to think I was buzzed on my second glass of wine, not my second glass of my third bottle.
It served him to overlook my relationship with alcohol, whatever he thought it might be, because he soon realized he couldn’t compete with it. If he wanted me in his life he had to take me with my wine. I made this very clear several times early on in our relationship, when I had to correct him after he suggested I might prefer tea or a glass of water with dinner instead of another glass of wine.
Preposterous!
Sometimes, because I found him so aggressively boring and not even in my inebriation could I convince myself he was good company, I would turn him down for a date, or tell him he couldn‘t stop by to say hello. I might say, “No, I don‘t want to see you tonight, I have to clean the toilet.” He wouldn’t suggest we go out another night or offer another idea or even say, “Okay, I‘ll call you later. Have a good night.” He would complain, press me to reconsider and use creative measures to try to convince me I actually did want to spend a few hours with him.
He was completely serious and it really cramped my style. I didn’t understand why he thought I could be so easily convinced to do something I just said I didn’t want to do. I found his disregard intensely offensive, yet instead of refusing to acknowledge him ever again, I felt challenged by him and rose to the occasion.
I’d respond with something like, “You’re hilarious. Congratulations on being the first asshole in my life ever to try and convince me I actually want something I just said I don’t want. Like I don‘t know what the fuck I want. No, you can‘t come over. I’ve got a glass of wine in one hand and the toilet scrubber in the other, now piss off.”
Click.
Amazingly, that wouldn’t discourage or even insult him. It only cemented his resolve to see me again, and that blew my mind. He was encouraged and challenged by me, not put off. Instead of simply breaking up with me for being an obnoxious, drunk bitch, he would call me the next day and try again. I became something to conquer.
In hindsight, I see now how quickly he learned to say, “Hey! I want to see you tonight. Can I come by with a bottle of wine?” Of course, that would get my attention because even if I didn’t want to see him, increasing my liquor supply was always a priority, so I‘d usually allow him to stop by, with the clear understanding that his visit would need to be kept short. Several times he showed up empty handed; like I wouldn’t notice.
Wrong.
“OFF TO THE LIQUOR STORE, YOU!”
That’s how we both learned we could get what we wanted from each other; we used alcohol as currency. Part of me found him entertaining, like watching him trudge out to his car in a late-night snow storm just to buy me wine, yet I was repulsed by him at the same time, for the same reason. Something ugly in me felt empowered that I could get him to do something so ridiculous. I found his insanity amusing.
In just over two short months I became aware of how unhealthy his attachment to me had grown. And I allowed it. I participated. We became like two sick spiders intertwined in a foul emotional web. Why he was so attracted to me, I can‘t say. But I do know that once he acknowledged my relationship with alcohol his determination to spin his emotional web became fierce - almost as though he was competing with the alcohol.
I was well aware that we were very wrong together, but I simply didn’t care because 10 glasses of wine a day made me apathetic. The more Dick attempted to extort support and love from me the more I verbally attacked him for it, which did absolutely nothing to discourage him - it fueled him. His blatant need for emotional and psychological coddling disgusted me, but because I was always drunk, I indulged him with insults, which he welcomed because any attention from me was better than none.
This foul dynamic between us blossomed into a weed of colossal and hideous proportions. His disregard for my contempt for him and the lengths I went to insult him entertained us both and sometimes we laughed about it together. Our nauseous chemistry attracted us to each other like two confused magnets. He’d become as addicted to me as I was to alcohol.
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Chapter 4
Changes
I was rarely predictable. My moods fluctuated depending on the amount of alcohol I’d already consumed, the amount of alcohol within my reach, and the amount of alcohol I needed to buy. My life revolved around alcohol. On a daily basis I was drunk, rude, entitled, cheerful, gregarious, hungover, angry, destructive or enigmatic. Sometimes I managed to pull off several opposing emotions simultaneously, confusing others and myself. Not once did Dick break up with me.
I never broke up with him either and within about five months of our first date I moved in with him. I started drinking more and I started drinking his expensive vodka. Occasionally I’d taunt him. “You know you‘ve never seen me sober. I haven’t been sober for two minutes around you since the day we met. You know you can’t possibly love me. How could you when you don’t even know me? You have no idea who I am. Have you ever bothered to ask yourself just what the fuck you think you‘re doing with me?”
Mostly I said things like that to him because I was always impressed by the insanity of his answers and I wanted to hear him repeat them. He’d say something like, “I can imagine who you are and what you’re like when you’re sober, and that’s the woman I love.”
It’s important to note here that Dick was not an active alcoholic. He was a diabetic. He drank no more than three or four drinks a week, though I believe he wished he could drink more. He’d told me stories of a past relationship where he and his ex would polish off a bottle of wine each, every night. That was before he became a diabetic. That’s what he told me anyway.
About a month into our new living arrangement I decided Dick needed to make some changes. For all the wine I drank before he got in from work, I was never drunk enough to muster the patience to listen to him complain about his job, which he did, without fail, every night. So, I finally told him to quit his job and to find a new one in Seattle, Washington.
Something else was going on with me as well, something I didn’t share with anyone - not even myself in a one-on-one, self-talk, sort of way. Until my relationship with Dick I’d managed fairly well as a high functioning alcoholic. When I moved in with him I took my drinking to an entirely new level. My kids became privy to seeing and hearing things from me they‘d not seen nor heard; specifically my uncontrolled rage. I became someone they didn‘t know - a stumbling, slurring, aggressive alien.
When I was very drunk and moody they’d tell me I was grouchy. I’d tell them I was just tired, but they knew better. I believe I decided on an unconscious level that I had to protect them from me.
The first time I went to Seattle I was 21. I’d gone out to visit Mom. I learned then that it’s possible for a person to develop an emotional attachment to a location. I developed a connection to the waters and mountains of Washington like a devotee does with a spiritual leader. Fourteen years had passed since that visit and I hadn’t gone back to visit once.
The morning after I told Dick to quit his job he gave his two weeks’ notice. Just like that. We’d never discussed moving across the street together much less to Seattle. He’d never even been there. Three weeks later he landed a contract position in Vancouver, B.C., Canada.
I could not have been more thrilled. Vancouver is only a two hour drive north of Seattle. I didn‘t care so much about the city we were moving to as much I cared about the environment. All I believed was that I needed to be surrounded by the energy that saturates the Pacific Northwest. Everything fell together without a hiccup.
Every decision I made was made under the influence, including my decision to marry Dick. In May of 2005 my parents, and his mother and sister witnessed us exchange vows on a bluff in Mendocino, California. Moe Fudgie and Messy Tom didn’t attend. I refused to allow them to take part in a ceremony based on emotional corruption. Dick moved to Vancouver later that same week to start his new job and I stayed in Colorado with the kids until they finished the school year. A week after school let out I hugged them good-bye and sent them to live with their fathers.
I hadn’t asked them how they felt about being separated from me and each other. I hadn’t asked them how they felt about me marrying Dick and moving to Canada without them. I told them I would fly them out for visits and that I expected to move them out in a year after Dick and I settled. I disassociated completely from what I thought they might be experiencing and feeling. I disassociated from myself, too - all of it, through alcohol.
Today, I consider my decisions and departure during that time emotionally and psychologically violent. I was merciless and utterly selfish in my intoxication.
Both boys settled into their lives with their dads. Moe already lived with his dad part time in the mountains so his environment and friends stayed the same for the most part. Messy Tom had to adjust a bit when it came time to start school. But he settled in easily because like his big brother he was, still is, very good-natured and approachable, and he made new friends quickly.
In other words, both boys were set up in supportive, loving and familiar environments. Knowing that did nothing to relieve me of my guilt and shame. I was their mother - they were my responsibility and I’d surrendered them. I left the fucking country without them.
I envisioned Dick and me settling into some kind of manageable living arrangement and that we’d send for the kids within a couple months - by August, right before the start of the school year. Well, it turned out I’d be busy in August and wouldn’t see Moe and Messy T again until the following December. But I digress.
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Chapter 5
Canada
I flew to Canada the same day I put Messy Tom on a plane for the east coast. Dick had been living in an extended stay motel in downtown Vancouver and I immediately began searching for a house to rent. Within a week I found one in a tiny waterfront town about half an hour north of Vancouver.
After Dick and I signed the lease we flew back to Colorado, packed our things and drove the 1500 miles back to our new house with our two dogs. Yes, I drove drunk the entire trip from Colorado to Canada - a three day ordeal. I even hit a bunny rabbit one night, the only thing I’ve ever hit while driving, but it wasn’t my fault. Seriously. Somewhere between Butte and Missoula, around 2 a.m., we encountered what appeared to be about 14 truckloads of spilled bunnies all over the highway. I’d never seen anything like it - not even with frogs in a rainstorm.
I’d slowed down to maybe 10 mph trying to navigate around them. Dick was ahead of me in the moving van and kept calling me every three minutes, yelling at me to speed up and to forget about the rabbits. They were everywhere. Like a fool I listened to him, sped up and promptly ran one over. I pulled off to the side of the road and sobbed. I was still heaving remorsefully after Dick gently coaxed me to keep driving for another hour. I’d never seen him look at me with such confusion before.
“It was a rabbit, Jennifer. A rabbit. I’ve probably hit about 20. You can’t avoid them. They’re all over the fucking road.”
“Yeah, but…“ I pleaded for us to stop for the night and head back to a lonely motel we‘d just passed, but he wouldn‘t hear of it. He was trying to avoid a tornado one state over and figured he’d be safer in a town with a population of at least 200. He didn’t stop until we reached Missoula.
We eventually made it back to our house in Canada and Dick went straight to work the following morning, leaving me to unpack and organize everything, which I managed to do in two days. I’d moved a lot before I met Dick and I could throw a house together in no time.
I desperately wanted to get out with my dog, Pooh, to explore the town and wilderness that surrounded our house. That meant I had to cut back on my drinking some, which I was more than happy to do. Every time I moved I spent a fair amount of time getting to know my new environment and this place definitely wanted me to get to know her. Our new town was tucked away against the base of a mountain to the north and protected by the Burrard Inlet to the east. Forest and water were not only visible through our monster living room windows, they were within walking distance.
Pooh and I discovered hiking trails, beaches and woods, and stayed away from the house for hours every day during the first two weeks we lived there. The entire area was absolutely magnificent. Dick liked the area too and he repeatedly invited me to spend time with him outside, to which I always said “No”, unless we were going out to eat. If he wanted to go out to eat then I was game because I could always order wine.
We went out to eat a lot at first and I was agreeable company. We got along because we were both excited to be somewhere beautiful and new. But Dick became increasingly annoyed when I refused again and again to do anything with him that didn’t involve drinking, and he felt much freer in Canada to share his disappointment and irritation with me than he had in Colorado.
Friday nights were the worst. Friday nights meant Dick had the next two days off and he‘d be around the house. What made it more gruesome was that he always had a plan for us. He always wanted to go on a day trip together and take the dogs. We’d argue and insult each other until he’d finally leave. He’d venture off with his dog for a day and I’d hang close to the house with mine.
By the end of two weeks the newness of the area and my excitement dissolved into depression. For all its exquisiteness, we might as well have been in the desert - my kids weren’t there. I missed them more than I thought I could. I dove headfirst back into drinking both wine and vodka. My tolerance gradually increased and I maintained a steady Tasmanian Devil spin into alcoholic oblivion.
The hikes I’d been taking with Pooh were tuned down to a walk around the neighborhood or a quick drive to the water where he could run with other dogs for a few minutes on the beach. I played with him indoors and stuck close to my computer. Getting online and attempts at writing became my escape from Dick and the house.
On the weekdays Dick would leave for work around 8 a.m. after walking the dogs. I’d get up, still drunk from the night before and pour myself a drink. My drinks looked like a ten ounce glass of lightly colored vitamin water - vodka with a splash of cranberry juice. My capacity for alcohol had nearly doubled since we‘d left Colorado and I guessed the low Canadian altitude had something to do with it. My alcohol intake had increased to the point that I was going through withdrawals when I woke up every morning.
During the month of June I drank, surfed the web, played with Pooh and wrote. I tried to write about why I thought I needed to move to the PNW with Dick in the first place. I tried to write about why I allowed myself to marry someone I couldn‘t stand. I tried to write about why I believed I’d done the right thing by leaving the kids with their dads. I tried to write about what it was like to be extremely intoxicated and I tried to explain my withdrawals. I tried to write my way into feeling better about my decisions and situation, but I couldn’t. I felt like a clogged toilet.
Meanwhile, Dick was becoming exceedingly domineering, needy and opinionated. He continued to push me to do things with him. He wanted to have sex all the time. He tried to engage me in conversations about the weather or his job or my writing or the names of the bushes that surrounded our house or the particulars of Canadian discourse. I mostly remember saying, “What the fuck? Fuck you and fuck off.”
*******
Chapter 6
The Big Talk
In late June a girlfriend of mine from Colorado flew out to visit. Dick had asked her to come. He wanted her to convince me to go into treatment.
Jamie and her husband had been neighbors and friends of mine for years when I met Dick and he had tried eagerly and unsuccessfully to attach himself to our friendship. They found him offensive and I enjoyed explaining this to him, but he dismissed me, deeming my opinion inconsequential because, according to him, everything that belonged to me, including my friendships, should be shared with him whether anyone agreed or not.
Jamie and I had been drinking buddies and we picked up right where we left off as soon as she walked through the front door. Dick tried in vain to partake in our catching up session, even pouring himself a drink. He didn’t take kindly to my suggestion that he grab a couple mini carrots and a bottle of lotion on his way to the bedroom for the night. He finally left us alone when Jamie reminded him why she was visiting in the first place.
We drank and talked into the night and didn’t get up until late the next morning. We found the house quiet. Dick had taken the dogs on a hike. I told Jamie to shower first and that I’d put on a pot of coffee. While she took care of her business in the bathroom I headed to the bedroom closet to take care of mine.
As I gulped from a bottle of vodka I kept stashed under a pile of sweaters I took a minute to acknowledge how close Dick’s things hung next to mine in the small space. That image used to be one of my favorite things about couplehood - sharing a closet. I loved the image of my man’s dress shirts hanging next to my skirts above our shoes. That image was right up there with holding hands and sharing a toothbrush holder. But Dick wasn’t my man and I hated seeing our things together.
After I drank enough to quell my withdrawals, I put on a pot of coffee. After my shower I found Jamie out on the back deck sipping coffee, staring up into the enormous trees that hovered over the massive deck.
“God, it’s gorgeous out here. Let’s make breakfast and eat out here” She said.
“Yeah, right. And be here when Dick gets home? No.” I had no idea when he left and I had no intention of being home when he returned so I suggested we go out.
“My favorite restaurant is a ten minute walk to town and it’s right next to the water. It’s straight down that way. My treat.” I said, pointing down a road that seemed to dissolve into an impenetrable network of tree limbs and leaves.
Unfortunately, due to my withdrawals, even after the vodka I’d just tossed back, I was in no condition to take a ten minute walk anywhere so I used menstrual cramps as an excuse to drive.
We grabbed a table on the patio. Jamie hovered over her menu while I people watched. All the boat activity on the water captivated me. Big boats puttered by slowly while small boats raced by in the background. Kayakers and canoers were either heading out or in, and managed to steer clear of the swimmers who appeared to be exercising.
“Man, I want to drive a boat. I‘ve never driven a boat.” I said, more to myself than to Jamie.
The restaurant sat next to a kayak rental place and a large group of people talked excitedly as kayaks were brought out, one by one, by the employees. The park between the restaurant and the water teemed with families and dogs. Frisbees and footballs passed each other airborne, kids were flying kites and chasing each other around the playground equipment while adults lay on quilts talking or reading.
“WHAT? Are you serious?” Jamie screeched. “You‘ve never driven a boat?”
“No. Is that a crime?” I looked around at the other diners.
“We‘ve got to rent one!” Jamie didn’t suffer subtlety.
She began orchestrating a lively interaction between everyone on the patio about where to rent a boat. I had a hard time believing what I was seeing. Everyone’s animation caught my attention. Everyone was astonishingly friendly. They weren’t just friendly to Jamie, they were friendly with each other. And it was genuine. I was terribly impressed.
I vaguely remembered being aware of Canadian’s friendly dispositions while out and about, but I never thought much about it. I might have said to myself, “Gosh, these Canadians sure are friendly!”, but I never took the thought home with me and considered it.
As I observed everyone I remember wondering how many experiences I must have missed due to my drinking. I might have made several new friends in Canada had my relationship with alcohol been anything other than what it was. I decided I wanted to be friendly like Canadians. I was nowhere near as friendly as them and I wanted what they had! But what did they have? I figured it wasn’t vodka. I was hardly a seasoned world trekker, but I’d never encountered more pleasant people anywhere.
Jamie and I didn’t bother to drive home for swimsuits and towels. After brunch, which lingered as we engaged the locals over other fun things to do besides boating, we walked to a small market across the street and picked up a few snacks. On the way out of town I stopped at the liquor store. We were about to spend the next four hours, at least, on the water. I couldn’t go that long without a drink. Alcohol maintenance was crucial to my ability to function, and I’d learned how to plan ahead.
The boat yard was full and quiet when we arrived. We were the first customers of the day. I browsed boats while Jamie worked out the rental details with the owner of the shop. I interrupted them just once when Jamie settled on renting a boat for four hours. “Make it eight, I’ll pay half.” I offered. The Inlet became our playground for the rest of the day.
“Why haven’t I ever done this before?!” Jamie had just handed me the wheel. I made sure to steer wide of any traffic and land because I knew I was drunk. Sunlight decorated the choppy water like flashing white Christmas lights in front of me and I raced forward to scatter them with the boat. The wind in my face and hair reminded me of being on a motorcycle and I sped up. Occasionally we passed other boaters and we all exchanged happy waves and greetings over the water. It was fantastic.
I zipped up the Inlet and explored my skills at jumping the wakes. Oh, I was good! Finally, after about an hour I slowed down and pulled off to a far bank several miles north of town. The beauty of the woods, islands and water surrounding us completely captivated me. I was ready for a swim, some wine, a snack, a smoke and some sun.
I knew that Dick had asked Jamie to come out and I knew why, so I told her to open some wine while I tested the water. I dove in and immediately wished I’d stuck my toe in first. I swam fast to warm up, did forward and backward summersaults and then treaded for a minute. I’d never swam drunk before. It was a little tricky at first. My brain and legs weren‘t used to working together under such circumstances and I realized I must have looked like I was trying to run. I slowed down a little, got everything synchronized and then started thinking about sharks.
Two seconds later I was back in the boat. “Alright. Start talkin’. I know Dick asked you to come out.” I said, fluffing up my long, flowery skirt for something soft and absorbent to sit on. Jamie handed me a tall plastic cup full of wine.
She looked at me for a second. “I told Dick I‘d talk to you about your drinking.” She conceded as I lit a cigarette. “You drink too much and you need to cut back or stop. If you can’t and you need to go to treatment, I’ll help you. Your family will help you. Okay? Now I’m done talking to you about your drinking, but I‘m not done talking.”
“Of course you aren‘t. Launch.” I said.
This was going to be good. We’d always had really intense and stimulating conversations. We’d had some pretty decent sized blow ups too. When I told her I was going to marry Dick she unloaded the most awesome ass-chewing I’d ever had and I‘ll always hold her in high regard for it.
She hadn’t come to my wedding because she refused to support my decision to marry someone she knew I didn‘t love. She knew my relationship with Dick was sick. She nearly ended our friendship over it. No friend of mine had ever bothered to risk her comfort level or our friendship like Jamie had when I told her I was getting married and I could tell by the look on her face that she was about to risk it again.
“I let Dick think it was his idea for me to come out here.” She began. “I let him think he talked me into it. I’d already planned to visit, anyway. Do you know why he called me?“
“Is this a trick question?” I asked. “He thinks if you can convince me to stop drinking, or go to treatment, our marriage will improve.”
“Yeah, but there‘s more.” She said. “He really believes you love each other and you‘re destroying his fairy-tale image of a future with you.”
She dove off the boat. From the water she continued talking, yelling actually, at me. “Under the guise of asking me to come out to help you he was really asking me to come out to help HIM. He doesn’t want you to stop drinking for your benefit, he wants you to stop drinking for his.”
She swam out a ways and disappeared under the water. When she resurfaced a couple minutes later I yelled “I already know that! I know he‘s using me! We use each other!”
She swam back to the boat and floated on her back.
“Do you honestly believe that love is behind marrying you and moving you away from Colorado when he knew you had a drinking problem within the first two weeks you started seeing him? You’re his possession, Jennifer. You’re his wife. A drunk wife, granted, but he’s trying to change that under the fantasy that you actually love him underneath all your drunkenness.”
She climbed back into the boat and poured herself a glass of wine. “So, why are you using him? What are you getting out of being married to him? What are you doing here? Do you even know? Where do you think you’re going to be with him in another year? Are you still going to be downing a fifth of vodka a day? What about your kids, Jennifer? You know you can’t bring them out here. Have you thought about any of this? No. You can‘t. You‘re never sober.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it again before a word could escape. She hadn’t finished. I reached for an unopened bottle of wine instead.
“I want to attribute your decisions to catastrophic judgment due to your drinking, but I can’t because I actually think you forced yourself to drink more just so you could get through your wedding and the move out here. I think you believed, for whatever reason, you had to do those things. Am I right?”
Bitch. I pressed my lips together and raised my left eyebrow at her.
She stopped talking and looked out towards the water. I’d never seen her cry before and I watched a tear run down her cheek. Her chin quivered for a second. I offered her a cup of wine and sighed heavily. The size of the sink hole that had opened in my chest felt bottomless.
I cleared my throat and tried to explain. “I don’t think I can explain myself. I don’t really know why I’ve done what I’ve done. I have no excuse for marrying him. Over the last six months I’ve made a series of decisions and followed through with each one. That‘s all I can say.”
She looked at me, expecting more - so I gave her more.
“Everything has just fallen together. Except for saying good-bye to the kids, nothing about any of it was difficult.”
That pissed her off. “What Bullshit! All of it was difficult. Jennifer, looking at Dick is difficult! And you don’t just have to look at him, you have to live with him and call him your husband! You’re thousands of miles away from your kids - that’s difficult. You’re alone here without your friends and family - that’s difficult. You share a house with a narcissistic prick - that’s difficult, and you drink like you’re dying of thirst because you’re not handling the difficulty!”
She was good. That’s why I loved her and I hated her.
I wished I could help her feel better about my decisions. I wished I felt better about my decisions. How could I explain to her that I felt like I was following something? I could only explain it as an internal pull, like a magnet inside me being drawn to something, but I didn‘t bother because I knew she wouldn‘t understand.
“I never tried to fool myself into thinking I could escape my drinking problem by moving, but maybe I knew deep down that stopping drinking wouldn’t be so simple for me. I never had concrete ideas about any of this. It was always a knowing that became an action and gathered momentum.”
Jamie looked miserable.
“Part of me feels like I’m trying to follow something. I can’t explain what that something is. I don‘t know what I‘m supposed to be doing, yet, but I know I‘m supposed to be here.” I blurted.
For half a second I thought she might push me out of the boat. “NO, YOU DON‘T!” She yelled. “What’s going to happen to you when I leave?! This whole situation is about to explode! Nothing good is about to happen!” She paused for a second and took a breath. “You’re killing yourself, Jennifer. Come back to Colorado with me. Everyone’s there. We’ll help you if you need the help. I‘m serious.”
That’s what I’d been waiting for her to say. I’d been dreading it. I pressed my lips together and shook my head slightly. I couldn’t go back with her. I didn’t know my immediate future, but I anticipated something big. I could feel it ballooning up inside me.
Jamie left the next morning confused, hurt, angry and disappointed. I failed to convince her that I knew what I was doing even though I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I understood why she felt afraid for me. I felt slightly alarmed myself.
*******
Chapter 7
First Arrest
On 5 July 2005, Dick and I had been married for two months. That’s around 86,400 minutes; a freaking eternity in other words. Unbeknownst to me, he’d been planning to celebrate our anniversary together that night. I’d been sitting, for the better part of that afternoon, in front of our tall living room windows sipping vodka and watching the sunlight and waves chase each other over the Inlet. All the glory before me couldn’t compete with my dismay.
“This is all wrong.” I thought to myself. “I shouldn’t be here. Ooooh boy have I fucked up.” I was in a bad way.
I detested the taste of vodka and my attachment to its effect on me. I detested my tolerance for it and that I could remain at all coherent with almost half a gallon of it inside me. I detested the enormity of my withdrawals and that I could remain at all coherent through them. Most of all I detested the feeling that I’d somehow tricked myself into imprisoning myself with alcohol.
When Dick walked in from work that night I was completely shit faced. That was nothing new. What made the evening particularly notable was that I was sitting on the living room floor with blood trickling down my arm from a tiny ’X’ I’d carved into my left shoulder. It was about the size of a pea. I’d cut myself with a blade I’d torn out of a shaving razor, and I allowed him to find me that way.
That wasn’t my first or worst cutting incident. I’d been upfront with Dick in the beginning about my scars. I’d explained my inclination to cut myself on purpose after I’d been drinking during times of extreme stress. I’d explained that cutting was a form of release. It was actually more like a way to scream, but I hadn’t told him that. He understood that I’d never been suicidal and hadn’t seemed particularly moved or interested.