Whirlwinds

trigger warning: alcoholism and one expletive

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“Today is the day I change,” I tried to convincingly declare. But it was no good. Why would today be any different than the thousands of other  times I’d said the same thing? And each time I’d said it before, I’d truly meant it. Yet, here I sat. It was totally pointless. I had begun to lose the will to even try anymore, and once that was gone, there would be nothing left.

No sooner had the thought formed in my mind and the words escaped my lips, I’d single-mindedly fished out from underneath the clothes in the laundry basket my last available option in the house. I’d stashed it mere hours before, in a weak and futile attempt to thwart my predictability. After my shaking hands fumbled ferociously to remove the last roadblock between myself and my demise, I took a deep, hard swig and willing collapsed my weight under my feet, sliding my back down the door at the threshold of the bathroom, resting my elbow on my knee and wiping my mouth with the same sleeve that clutched the heavy glass bottle. Beads of sweat had formed on my forehead, and the sting of it filled my eyes, but I didn’t care. My stomach growled with the uningratiating hunger of many days. I didn’t care. The phone rang. I froze. Could it be her? I didn’t want to care. But, I did.

I’d met her in Paris two years ago. She was wearing a beret in the ridiculous way that American tourists wear a beret hoping to fit in. It makes them stick out like a sore thumb. So, it was no wonder I’d first laid eyes on her, with her bubbly champagne demeanor and her frivolous regard for etiquette. It didn’t stop her from catching me completely off guard though when she marched right up to me, and with perfect enunciation of the local French dialect, requested directions of me. Mais, bien sûr! 

I managed to buy a little time with her by lying and stating that I was headed in the same direction, and that I’d show her the way. Turns out, she showed me the way, instead. She showed me the way to treat a lady, the way a lady reacted when treated less than her worth, and ultimately the way it feels to have your pride cost you the only thing in life that had come to make it worth living.

The phone rang seven times before the voicemail caught it. There were fifteen previously unanswered calls that had stacked up before it, making it impossible to actually leave a message. I knew that whomever had just called would be receiving the message that the mailbox was full and could not receive additional messages. 

I couldn’t bring myself to check the call log. What if it was her? How would I, how could I, attempt a go at indignation for her months of cavalier rejection? How she deigned to even call after such a hiatus was completely unacceptable, and merely proved my point, that she was much too naive, and much too immature for me. I’d accept her back, of course, after the formalities of groveling, but there’d be rules. And boundaries. And dictates that she mustn’t disrespect, or her last chance will have been spent and I will have to let her go for good this time. 

Another draw on the bottle and I felt a little better. A little vindicated. A little justified. I reached up to the sink and grabbed the phone off of the counter. I scrolled through the call log. Sixteen calls. Fifteen messages. No lifelines. I dropped the phone by my side, and cried into my hands.

He was so intelligent, and sure of himself. I felt so safe when I was with him. I had no idea at first that he was so codependent. I fell hopelessly in love with him, abandoning all good sense and ignoring red flags like I was a blind bull. And perhaps that’s the best way to describe love.

We met in Paris. I saw him watching me and thought he looked interesting enough. It was easy to assume he’d be like all the rest, rolling his eyes at the “stupide Americainne,” until I opened my mouth, and then he’d change his tune. It took me by complete surprise though, that he, too, was American. He’d been living there for a year on exchange, and had nailed down the look and the accent as well as I had. Well, at least I’d gotten the accent. Turns out television isn’t the most reliable source for fashion advice.

We had a whirlwind romance. A red flag. But I was only seeing hearts, and it was worth every moment for a while. 

The tide began turning when we’d come back to the states. He had been gone for a year, and had alienated his past American life. Other than immediate family, it was as though he was starting from scratch. At first, that seemed easier. He was able to readily just kind of fit into my life without a lot of static. But, it didn’t take long for the controlling behaviors to turn from “overprotective” and “adorable” into “stalkerish” and “disturbing.” The red flags that had once faded into the background were now pounding at the door.

I ended it soon after the last incident. I was on my way to the store. I’d gotten in the habit of walking long stretches and riding my bike, rather than taking my car, because Europeans are far less in love with their cars than Americans are. On the way, I’d run into an old high school buddy who was out getting some exercise as well. I didn’t really keep in touch with him and I hadn’t seen him for at least a year, but his current girlfriend lived a few blocks over from me, and so that particular day, I’d run into him and was happily reacquainting myself with him. Within a couple of minutes, my phone had rung. I silenced it so as not to be rude. It rang again immediately. And again. After the third time, it stopped, but five minutes later, my boyfriend was “out for a drive,” and just “happened upon us.” He kept his temper in check until we got back home, but jealousy turned to rage and by the end of it, I was brushing shards of glass from my hair. Not long after, one day while he had left for work, I packed a suitcase and left. I left a letter explaining myself. That was it. I never looked back. He tried looking for me a few times, but he never found me.  I still love him. But, I can’t ever go back to him. I know that now.

The tears mixed with my perspiration and fell like raindrops on the tile. I allowed myself only five minutes a day to weep, so I guess my time is up pretty early today. I clutched the bottle and took another deep drink. It was much lighter now, and so was I, or so it seemed for the time. And that was the attraction; the lessening of the load I carried; the escape from the pain. Why couldn’t she just see things my way? Selfish bitch.