Apotheosis: Part 6a
(Split into two entries because of length.)
I fell in love with my best friend, and she with me. It would be impossible to determine what point either of our minds truly turned from friendship to romance; it simply happened, it was. Love is not a series of marks on the side of a doorframe, indicating height year by year; it is not quantifiable to the point where you seize your partner and celebrate, "Sweetheart! We reached 3 feet of love this year! Let’s go to Kyoto!"
Love simply is. The most we can measure is the degree to which someone fulfills the needs we expect/desire them to fulfill. And yes, sometimes when love comes up a few dollars short, it’s the need that’s the thief lurking in our midst, time and again stealing from love and rendering it bankrupt, cold.
Our needs evolve as we grow. They don’t change, per se, because although there are a hundred paths our evolution can take, there’s a nexus within our mind. We all have our idea about enlightened relationships, and I certainly have my opinion about what is healthy or not–but even so, I realize that I shouldn’t judge those who can exist contentedly in relationships despite their cornucopia of unhealth. If two people are happy, so be it. I wish them luck, even as I shudder inside and say, Jesus, I don’t know how the hell they can stand to be that way.
Being open-minded doesn’t mean I lack strong opinions. For example, I’m all about partnership, togetherness, the team mentality, but I dislike codependency, and think it’s inherently unhealthy to subjugate yourself to another person or be unable to act/perform/live without their participation or approval. Our two lives making a third together is nowhere near my life becoming your life–yet I’ve known people like that, who have no identity but through their partner. For a few significant and unfortunate years, I was one of them. That came much later than Laura.
Love is love, in its pantheon of forms, and when two people find something genuine, it should be cherished.
Laura and I did cherish it, simultaneously wide-eyed and terrified. Friends for years, we’d finally opened our eyes to each other, and saw.
If you’re destined to meet further down the road, does it matter who arrived first? No. The converse, however, does: Knowing what causes one of you to leave–and twenty-three months later, I did.
At the start, and for over a year, our relationship was what one might have expected. We took our time, adjusting to our new status with one another. She was my best friend, but as our friendship walked alongside our love, it took on new depths and hues in reflection. She was my first lover, but we were gradual in that as well, letting it happen naturally and nervously and beautifully. It felt like she was my destiny, and perhaps she was, until by choice I derailed my life.
The world was sweetness and light. There’s a phrase I picked up from Prozac Nation: "gradually, and then suddenly." How better to describe the patterns of my life? Having reached a turning point with my depression, I had striven towards the sun; rather than the harsh sun of the desert, leaving me parched and empty, it was encouraging, almost fertile, a light I could bask in rather than cower from. Considering I have at times mistaken love for salvation, it’s particularly meaningful to me that my epiphany preceded our relationship. It made it stronger, it sealed it, it made it mine, I owned that moment. I’m not sure what would have happened if Laura hadn’t re-entered my life. Perhaps I would have carried Janica up with me; perhaps I would have moved beyond her and continued to yearn for love, yet been denied it, and fallen back to earth like Icarus. Perhaps I would have consoled myself with half measures and compromises.
There is no way of knowing. I found comfort, love, friendship, trust, and intimacy. Laura, recovering from her own pain, took my hand, and we guided each other. As it should be, as it should always be. This was a relationship formed on equal ground.
Describing a happy relationship is admittedly boring. Joy is often freedom from drama, but as our entertainment choices demonstrate repeatedly, it doesn’t sell tickets. As such, I have no way to accurately portray the months of our togetherness. Memory is a fickle mistress, who comes and goes as she pleases. You remember the peaks, you remember the valleys, but what about the plateaus of happiness or sorrow that largely make up our existence? That’s why it’s sometimes hard for me to describe depression. It’s like looking at a spectrum and attempting to figure out just when the light has finally become more blue than green.
It’d be nice if we could engage in a memory exchange program, something out of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I can think of a few I’d rather forget, and a few I’d like to remember–photographs that aren’t merely faded, but have curled up and nigh disintegrated so that only the barest particles remain.
There are a lot of piles of dust when I think of my dealings with depression, and there are also many when I think of my time with Laura. I don’t mind losing the former, but the latter? I wish I had some of them back. I retain a number of the exceptional ones, the peculiar ones. Like, years later, when we were friends and carpooled to work downtown, and she had an appointment at the car dealership to have her car looked at. So, I was taking my car as well, to drop hers off. About two blocks from the dealership, my engine seized. Car dead, boom, kaput. So, we called, replaced her appointment with mine, and she drove us to work, with almost no inconvenience at all. Exciting? Nope. Strange? Yes.
Cars remind me of the car accident, too, where she almost killed both of us, late at night in her Dodge Daytona, not realizing only our direction had a flashing red light, pulling out in front of a pickup truck traveling 40 miles per hour. I remember being turned in my seat, talking to her, and how she moved forward, and I started to say something, perhaps "Look out", perhaps "Honey?", perhaps "Oh no", because I saw the truck driving straight towards us and all I remember was seeing headlights through the driver’s side window, and then I remember the car being wrenched sideways so hard that my glasses flew off my head–but they didn’t fly off my head, see, my glasses stayed put, and the rest of the car, of us, revolved around that impact point, and I remember how the front left wheel had been smashed so hard it was horizontal instead of vertical, and most of all how, if she’d accelerated just a little bit faster or if the truck had been going a few miles per hour slower, it would have impacted the driver’s side and probably seriously injured her, if not worse.
Yeah, I remember that.
I’ve digressed.
There is so much dust, and perhaps that’s part of why I’m writing, to collect what remains of it while I can.
Many of the memories are social. We were an outgoing couple, and the majority of our friends were shared; after all, we’d met originally in the BBS community, and by now you know about Offworld. Gryphon and Mongoose were Super Couple (and no, neither of us coined that term, if was given to us.) If we were an afterschool special, we were The Two Everyone Knows Are Going to Get Married, The Two Most Likely to Succeed, The Two Lucky Bastards Who Found True Love Early. It was hard not to get caught up in the accolades. We were popular and well liked. Her parents loved me; my parents loved her–in fact, my mom still would receive emails from her as recently as a few years ago, just saying hello.
I never felt as if our identities were submerged by the extreme adoration bestowed on us by various friends and acquaintances. We were constantly together, but this was long before my vision darkened once more and left me fumbling my way through the miasma of insecurity and loss. It was more like she was my right arm; I always knew she was there, where she was, what she was doing–not in a negative sense, but just because that was our life together. I might go upstairs, she might go downstairs, we’d mix and mingle with different acquaintances and friends, but we always had that sense of one another next to us.
This unity persisted even while I was away at college. We visited each other often, but not constantly; if I recall, it was mostly biweekly, alternately who visited whom. We had a healthy relationship both together and apart. We had no doubts about our future.
Of course, that can get you in trouble.
Long distance relationships, despite their inconvenience and occasional frustration, are fairly easy to maintain. Living your lives apart, you carry on as you always have. Although different, your lifestyle has not really changed. This is an important distinction.
Trust forestalls drama; sans fear of infidelity or dwindling emotion, what negativity is there? Your telephone calls are filled with the sharing of your separate lives. Your letters are filled with warm longing and affirmation of your love. Your visits are overwhelmingly joyful–and if you know you will see her again relatively soon, what is two weeks, a month, three?
Trust is a beautiful thing. It is also precious, and at times rare. A commitment underwritten by trust is insoluble. It’s astonishing to me sometimes how willing we are to engage in relationships with people that have not earned our trust, or have shown themselves to be untrustworthy. It’s likewise astonishing that I’m included in that we. With Laura, however, it was genuine trust, and it was well earned. It sustained us for a long, long time.
Depression had eroded my once promising college career, but I strapped it on and dedicated myself anew. As my eyes grew less clouded, despite my desire to help others, I began to regret not choosing an English major instead–I even took some high level English electives, in which the professors were surprised to see a non-major. This regret wouldn’t be fully realized until years later, though, and when I graduated with a combined degree in Psychology and Sociology, I was pleased. I had a job waiting for me post-graduation, with the St. Louis Association of Retarded Citizens (A.R.C.) My task: teaching job skills to the mentally retarded and developmentally disabled.
A wonderful, loving, beautiful girlfriend whom I trusted absolutely. A college degree, and a worthy job waiting for me. A new sense of self-ownership and possibility. Countless friends, an active life. Even my health was good. In May 1994, my life was at its apotheosis.
In baseball, players typically get better with age. They’ll peak around 26-28, usually sustain a high level of play into their early 30’s, and then decline. Occasionally, a player will set the league afire the first couple of years, and then mysteriously suck for the rest of his career. "He peaked too early," they’ll say, "Then he just lost it. No idea why."
Sometimes, I feel as if I peaked early, as if I had my career year, made the All-Star Team, and then dwindled into anonymity, little more than a footnote to a sports trivia question.
Upon graduation, I lived with my parents at first, being given a year of free room and board before being kicked out to make my own way. It was a nice deal, but I spent most of my time at Laura’s when our schedules allowed. At the time, she was working as a video checkout clerk at a local supermarket chain (Schnucks, the friendliest stores in town!) Laura, being younger, was still working towards her fashion merchandising degree. Balancing school and work is rarely easy, and she was often somewhat harried, and many of my evenings were spent either waiting for her to get home from work or watching her work on one project or another. I learned more about fabric and fiber content during that year than I ever cared to, though I’ve largely forgotten it. For awhile, I would go through stores and play "Guess the Fiber"; I’d pick up a sleeve as I passed it, feel it, and attempt to guess. Is it cotton or rayon or polyester? It amused us both, and being correct was always a shared smile.
It’s those little things that enrich relationships; the language that you speak, the games that you play. To people outside, they may seem silly, or trivial, but no–they are the articles and conjunctions of the story you write together.
One thing which I always loved about Laura was that she loved to play cards with me. As I may have mentioned, my childhood was largely spent with my parents and a television. My mother and I played board games and card games, with strange names like Nertz and Double Solitaire. Laura and I played these, and more, like Rummy, 2-person Spades, or 3-13. We never grew tired of doing so, and it was nice because she was a good challenge. Nertz in particular is not hard to learn, but it’s hard to master, because a good player keeps track of not only his or her own cards, but their opponent’s and the center area as well. Having played for many years against my mother, my skill was vastly superior–and I trounced her, yet she kept coming back, more and more determined, and I remember when she finally beat me for the first time. I’m not sure who was happier.
It’s been many years since I’ve played a card game with anyone. I miss it. When my mother and I were together over Thanksgiving, we couldn’t even remember the rules to some of the games we used to play. It saddens me.
Playing together, working apart.
Perhaps because our relationship was so easy, and natural, we didn’t realize that we needed to work together, as well. We’d led disparate lives, and now we were around each other much more frequently. As previously stated, long distance relationships were easy. For example, let’s say she hated her Schnucks job–which she eventually did. Let’s further say that it stressed her out, made her want to scream, and drove her insane. Which it didn’t, but it was close.
Long distance: Call, have a relaxed and happy couple of hours on the phone with the person you’ve been looking forward to talking to all week. Vent, be comforted, go to sleep, move on. Total exposure to partner in a shitty mood: 2 hours.
In person: Go over, sit there while they’re angry/depressed/pissy. Maybe be the target of some undeserved aggression or fits of distemper. Not really have a good time, because your partner’s grouchy. Spend a few days in a row with this person. Total exposure: Hour after hour after hour after hour–sleep and wake up, and hey, maybe you’d squeeze a few more hours in.
There’s a difference there, when you suffer alongside a person. One of the greatest difficulties for people who are living with someone for the first time has to be trying to adjust to the other person’s moods. Have you ever been in a bad mood for three or four days? Just grouchy and irritable and tired? Maybe taken it out on some people inadvertently? We’re all human, we know that it happens, and sometimes we’re the victim and sometimes we’re the victimizer, even if we try our best. Imagine doing it with the person you love–and who loves you–there as well. Sometimes, it may spur you out of a bad mood, but sometimes, it makes it worse, when you’re half-guilty because you said something snappish to them, or wishing you could just go into a room by yourself for three days and not talk to another fucking person, much less have to deal with the fact he leaves his clothes on the floor or she doesn’t wash her dishes, which in your day-to-day life doesn’t really mean shit, but when you’re annoyed with life suddenly become Just Another Goddamn Thing To Piss You Off, and three hours and two fights later, you’re feeling even worse because you hate Fighting Over Stupid Crap, especially if ninety-nine days out of a hundred you wouldn’t have fought at all.
Laura had her stressors–work and school–and so did I. Mine was work, but mine was also my mother.
By now you should know what life with my mother was like. We conflicted–I had moved back into their home, but I was no longer a child, no longer willing to simply acquiesce to her will. We fought; it was a pure contest of wills, and while we’ve both grown more flexible with age, at that stage in our relationship it was irresolvable, a constant background hum of white noise. I remember Laura would be so astonished when I’d tell her about some of the fights we’d had, until one day she actually witnessed one when my mother came downstairs yelling at me about something and didn’t realize Laura was there. From that point forward, Laura didn’t doubt me, but it was hard for her to reconcile this wonderful, friendly, loving lady with the screaming harridan she occasionally would become.
Man, I’m really glad my mother outgrew that.
The ARC was also stressful. My supervisor, Barry, was a wonderful fellow; indeed, all of my fellow workers and bosses got along wonderfully. Maybe it’s just my experiences, but people in those sort of empowering, facilitating roles tend to share a basic belief in being good to others. It sort of smooths the relations between you, because you know you’re all working towards a goal in which you’re united. The nature of my work–which was called "job coaching"–was such that we had to have each other’s backs. You weren’t simply completing a task, you were guiding people’s lives, people who were dependent on you in many ways.
To understand the ARC, you have to grasp the development process. The MR/DD population is no less diverse than the rest of society. They vary in capability in a myriad of ways. Some may have physical problems that others do not; some may be unable to communicate; some may suffer from various mental illnesses or syndromes. Some could live at home alone or with relatives; some required group homes and constant supervision.
Whomever was their primary guardian would contact the ARC. Our goal was to help provide fulfillment and meaning to their lives by enabling them to contribute to society. A job is much more than simply a way to earn money; it’s a social network. In the best cases, it’s a family. It’s no wonder that we naturally progress from education to work without missing a beat; in both, we learn and progress when it is good, and we stagnate and wither when it is bad.
The ARC’s job developers would contact local employers. They’d find out who was willing to train our clients. Because they were MR/DD, of course, it wasn’t the same as you or me. If I start a janitorial position at The Gap, I can learn the routine in a matter of days. There are many things you take for granted. What if your employee has to learn how to plug in a vacuum cleaner?
That’s where the coaches came in. We worked alongside our client, and were essentially the ringer–we guaranteed the work would be done, until we could fade our presence out more and more gradually. At first, the job might be 99% coach-1% client. We’d turn over more and more tasks to them as time progressed–usually a case of months–until we’d get them as independent as we possibly could, going from daily visits to weekly or monthly. During this time, we’d also essentially be training our client’s coworkers as well; how to interact with the person, how to handle their needs and emergencies. You’d be surprised how many people, confronted with an autistic, mentally retarded individual whose verbal communication consisted mostly of the same ten words, have no idea what to do. They’re intimidated, or scared, or yes, horrified that "these people" were in their stores. Thankfully, the latter case was fairly rare and never a significant problem, usually just isolated assholes.
One of the clients I grew close to was Camille, who worked at The Gap, doing morning cleaning. I’d drive down to the mall every morning, and we’d spend the next three hours together. I’d follow her around, reminding her when she forgot or, heh, tried to be lazy. People sometimes have this mistaken impression that MR/DD individuals are all gentle angels, full of benevolence and eager to please. That’s a lie and a half–they’re just like us, and I don’t know why people think otherwise. We’ve all had coworkers who are lazy, take shortcuts, are rude, obnoxious, troublesome. Well, you know, that’s a factor of personality, not intelligence. Camille’s challenge was that she would get tired and not want to work, and so would try to deceive me, not realizing I was always watching her and could do things like check the mirrors to see if she’d wiped them. It was like playing cat-and-mouse. She was a very sweet individual, and we became good friends, and I missed her when eventually I faded out and moved onto another assignment.
And yes, they can make small talk, too, but I admit, it can be pretty trying at times.
Because of my clients, I worked at The Gap, or as a janitor at Grandpa’s, or cleaned hotel rooms at Fairfield Inn or Emissary Suites, or washed dishes at a restaurant that would become my bane, Le Peep. There were as many jobs as there were clients. In fact, the Fairfield Inn site was a crew of three clients/one coach, so it wasn’t always solitary assignments.
Later in life, I would be very thankful I had these experiences, worked the shitty jobs. However, it was with no small appreciation of irony that I found folding sheets or sweeping up trash or washing dishes as the result of my college education.
In another tangential piece of trivia, at Grandpa’s, I worked with a guy named Matt, who was the same person that Nancy had left me for (and later married). He never knew who I was, but I knew who he was, and I never bothered to inform him. He was a pretty solid guy; I wasn’t friends with him, but we got along, and I was pleased, at the very least, that she hadn’t left me for someone I hated.
The job was rewarding, but stressful. I wasn’t just responsible for myself; I was responsible for another person for almost the entirety of my day. It’s different than having children, though I’d say it’s definitely analogous. When you have kids, it’s a different sort of dependency; you have time to grow into them, I’d say. You aren’t trying to teach them how to sweep the floors in a specific pattern because they can’t read aisle numbers or get lost if they don’t follow the same path each time. Not for a few years. Some of the clients were beautiful people; some were irritating to work with, and would spend almost your whole shift trying to outsmart you, or sabotage whatever you were doing to help them.
It’s never the good people that ruin your days; it’s the bad ones. If you work with six people a day and two are assholes, you know what? That’s plenty. And when those assholes are who you’re trying to train, it’s pretty rough. You throw up your hands, wondering why you’re bothering. You’re there to help them, and they’re antagonists? They say they want to work, but there’s only so many times you can threaten to take away their job until they realize it’s a false threat, so you try to hold that one back until it’s true. You try to impress responsibility, you try to charm them, get them to like you. You try to make them want to work with you or for you, it doesn’t matter which, as long as they’re working, because if they don’t, you’re just spinning your wheels, and you now have to do their job as well as yours or the employer will simply say farewell and hire someone that requires far less accommodation and maintenance than the coach/client team.
I handled it fairly well, until eventually Le Peep turned into a nightmarish hell (and that rhymes unintentionally, which I think is just swell. Ahem.)