Unflattering Moments: Part 3
The summer of 1991 was really when I first learned what it was like to be poor.
Remember, things always magically were there. Work a little bit, and you have what you need. I wasn’t nearly as practical as I am today; not as wise, not as frugal, not as sensible in planning for the future. I had always had the luxury of spending my money on whatever I liked, and that summer I learned the need for discipline.
The Alpha didn’t pay too well, but somehow we managed to scrape by. Since it was a restaurant, we were able to eat a lot of our meals at work for free (some of it sanctioned, some of it not; I swear, I must owe them hundreds of dollars in friggin’ mozzarella sticks).
Barb and Bob were interesting souls. They were straight out of a catalog for Midwesterners. They talked with a drawl, were deeply religious, had two children and a pickup truck. Bob was a quiet, thin man with a good sense of dry humor, who spent most of his time shaking his head at his domineering wife. Barb was over-the-top, obsessed with impressing "the good folk" that came into their restaurant, concerned with social circles and makeup and appearances, as if she was going to someday be able to marry off one of her sons to a banker’s daughter and rake in millions in dowry. She also was an avid follower of Reverend Bob Tilton. Wiki pretty much describes what he was all about: donating money. Actually, haha, reading that article shows it was even more ridiculous than I thought. Quoting Wiki: "A Dallas Morning News story published in 1992 observed that Tilton spent more than 84% of his show’s airtime for fundraising and promotions, a total higher than the 22% for an average commercial television show"
Oh, that’s good stuff. I might rofl my mao.
Every now and then, we’d stumble across his show on television and watch it to amuse ourselves. My favorite part was when he would speak in tongues, muttering gibberish repeatedly until he came to the stunning conclusion that God needed you to send more money.
I believe fully in treating other people with respect, but I also confess I have a low tolerance for idiocy, and will rightfully mock it when it arises. Barb, my friends, was an idiot.
Bless her heart.
See? Works every time.
Barb was notorious for penny-pinching, and as a result there was a lot of turnover at The Alpha aside from the cooks, which included Andy and myself.
Jacksonville wasn’t the largest town, and there really weren’t too many options for employment, but in retrospect I probably should have tried elsewhere. The money Barb was saving on paying us was being sent straight into the coffers of Mr. Tilton, which is a fine microcosm of how one man’s corruption plus another person’s foolishness can affect others. As an example, she’d water down the gravies and sauces any times our backs were turned (we’d catch her doing this, and she’d make up an excuse about wanting it to last longer, which was Barb shorthand for not wanting to spend money.) She was always telling us to make portions skimpier, and Bob would sneak in and tell us to go back to how we were doing it. She’d close a couple of hours early in order to avoid paying us. It was almost comical. Eventually, as should come as no surprise, people got tired of the utter cheapness and skimpy portions, and sometime during early 1992, after I’d finally quit, The Alpha closed.
This is not early 1992, however. We’re still in May 1991, fresh in Leland Lake, just starting the slow, arduous decline of my life. Around this time, Laura has begun dating someone named John.
During those early months, a waitress began working at The Alpha. Her name was Brandy. She was 16, blond and pert and radiating Brandyness, and we hit it off instantly. I’ve alluded in the past to the times when you instantly bond with someone. Those people are almost always profound influences in your life, usually for good (unless things go awry). We went from 0 to 60 in under five seconds. We were immediate friends and confidants, talking on the phone until the wee hours of the night, hanging out together outside of work, and enjoying just being in each other’s presence.
As I write this, I’m glad for some of my other posts, which sort of set up the narration unintentionally. For example, in Rapport I mentioned how I’m basically retarded in my interpretation of the opposite sex. Keep that in mind.
Brandy had a friend, named Tracy, who was hired on as well. Tracy and I also became close friends, though it wasn’t as Brandyfast. Brandy actually only worked at The Alpha for a couple of months, because Barb couldn’t stand her. They completely didn’t get along, because Brandy was full of attitude and Barb was full of bullshit. In fact, something that I’d forgotten until this moment, Barb refused to let Brandy come into the restaurant after she was fired, to get her tip book. I forget exactly how, but her compensation was based around the amount of tips, and Barb claimed she made a lot more, when she didn’t. I actually had to sneak in to their office while they were gone, and rifle through the drawers to find Brandy’s tip book, which I then absconded with. I wonder if Barb ever wondered how she got it..
Anyway, Brandy and I were two peas in a pod, and the problem with that is that she had a boyfriend, and I fell head over heels in love with her. I didn’t quite realize it at first, I just knew that I wanted more and more and more, and as a result of my time with Brandy, my letters with Nancy were exchanged slower, our phone calls more infrequent, and my weekend visits sporadic (though this was partially because I worked every Saturday.) Still, that’s no excuse: I clearly had my eyes on the bright and shiny new girl.
Brandy did not fall in love with me.
As I disclosed my feelings to her, she quickly said so: she didn’t lead me on a bit. "You’re my brother, not my guy," which of course echoed what I’d heard so many times before and buried itself in the thickest tangle of insecurity and pain. I was hooked, however, and thought perhaps if I just waited it out, her mind would change. That in itself isn’t unreasonable or unhealthy; when it becomes an obsession, strenuously praying that someone spontaneously changes their mind?
Yeah, that’s bad.
Her boyfriend wasn’t a horrible fellow or anything, and they were well, engaged, so I had no reason to think she’d "see the light". (insert eyeroll) It terribly confused me, though. I was the repository of her hopes, dreams, and fears, the things she kept hidden from everyone else. Around that time Vanessa Williams had a song, "Save the Best for Last", which said:
Cause how could you give your love to someone else
And share your dreams with me
Sometimes the very thing you’re looking for<br style="font-style:italic;” />Is the one thing you can’t see
Woe was me. I was lost in Brandyland.
As this was occurring, no surprise, Nancy met someone else.
When I say "no surprise", I mean with hindsight. At the time, I was just shocked. I honestly don’t know what I was expecting. I guess my typical maleness extended to thinking she’d just put up with my crap even if I was chasing after someone else. I didn’t know how to moderate my time, and although it would have been perfectly natural to have a friendship with someone, it was obviously at a much different level of involvement than I should have been.
Certainly, it’s easy to excuse people’s inability to do the right thing in their first relationships. The sad thing is that I didn’t learn my lesson here; nor did I learn it the next time, or the third. I did, eventually.
Andy, bless his heart (and I mean it this time), had even taken me aside one night to say, hey, you’re not doing the right thing here, and need to get your head back in the game. He had nothing against Brandy, but he’s a very intelligent man and could easily see that there was as much unhealthy between she and I as healthy.
Nancy broke up with me in August, about a week before my brother’s wedding.
I take full responsibility for letting her down, but I’ll lay the crappy timing on her shoulders.
I had called her to finalize plans for the wedding. I was the Best Man, which terrified me because I didn’t want to be put on the spot. Social anxiety, remember? I knew I’d have to give a speech, and I loved him because he was always such a good brother, but I wanted it to be someone else, someone who was closer to him and deserved it. I still don’t know why he chose me. I should ask someday. All of the groomsmen were better choices, why me, sir, why me?
Thus, my anxiety was only compounded by despair when Nancy said she had met someone else, who made her feel good. He spent time with her. He hung out with her friends. He did sweet things. Etc. Strangely, I can’t remember his name now, which bugs me. I do know, however, that they eventually married, so in the end it’s all good.
The bottom, however, fell out of my world. Instead of being able to say, "You know, you’re right, this isn’t going to work and I’m really neglecting you and you deserve to be happy", I became SUPER ANGSTY BOY. Every piece of baggage that had been packed away and put on the shelf was suddenly thrown down and opened, scattering articles of insecurity across the furnishings.
In my best SUPER ANGSTY BOY voice, therefore: Someone had finally liked me and it still wasn’t enough, though I’d tried and been romantic and sweet and fun and loving. Didn’t she say she loved me? Didn’t we make those promises about our future? This is a betrayal!
You can be certain I told her that in so many words. However, I managed to receive one concession from her, which was that she’d attend my brother’s wedding, because if I went alone, I would have not been able to function properly. Not only would I have to answer all of my grandparents’ questions (they’d been waiting to meet Nancy for months), and open my personal life to anyone within listening distance, but I’d have to give a speech about marital bliss even as I was feeling more alone than I’d felt in a long, long time.
At least I could pretend, with Nancy there, and deal with the rest later.
I had the best man’s speech to give, and I’d been tossing around ideas in my head. Any of you who have spoken to me know that I can usually rattle off something impromptu that sounds nice. Of course, my parents kept asking, "Did you write it? Did you write it?" And when I said no, I hadn’t written one, but I would come up with something good, they glared at me and said I was going to ruin the wedding, that they couldn’t believe how selfish I was, that I was being so heartless to my brother.
No, I don’t make this stuff up. All I wanted again was someone to say, "Hey, I’m sure it’ll be great." or "Brave man! Best of luck." What hurt me was that they knew I adored my brother, and to dare think that I was being selfish on his wedding day wounded me. The truth was that I knew if I had a planned speech, I would mess it up, because I was terrified of crowds and would only mess it up if I was busy trying to remember something I’d written. That may sound silly, but it had borne itself out in school. I was horrible when giving a speech, because I was always afraid of humiliating myself and not meeting expectations. When I winged it, however, my healthier personality asserted itself, and I was entertaining, charming, and more confident as I won people over.
I was glad when, trembling so much that champagne spilled down the sleeve of my tuxedo, I was able to face everyone and deliver a speech without a hitch.
I think even my brother (whose name is Jim, btw) didn’t trust me at first, when I started by describing what it had been like growing up with him, and the parade of women he’d dated, a constant stream of admirers and fans. I admit I got a glare from him, but it was ok. 🙂 As I continued, I described how he’d found Kim–and chosen her to unite with. I spoke of her uniqueness, and her charm, and his devotion to her; how proud we were to welcome her to our family, and how wonderful it was to see two people so clearly in love with one another pledging their lives to a future together.
My words don’t do it justice now, but it remains one of my proud moments, because I made people cry. People actually went out of their way during the reception to come to me and say it was wonderful, that it was the best speech they’d ever heard, and you know I ate that up. I was proud I had done my brother well, and righteously smug that I’d shown my parents, fuck you, take your criticism and disbelief and shove it up your ass, how dare you not believe in me.
No, really, I’m friends with my parents now.
When that night was over, I drove Nancy home. It wasn’t that far from the reception, actually. As I was about to turn into her subdivision, I made a spur of the moment decision, and sped towards her school parking lot up the road. There, I made an impassioned plea to convince her to stay with me, saying that we’d been so good, that we deserved a better fate, that I was sorry for hurting her. Her dice were cast, however, and they came up seven-out.
In my solipsism, I drove her home, and began the plunge into my first episode of chronic depression.
Self-pity has nothing on me.
You know those exact same thoughts that I’ve posted here? Wondering why there doesn’t seem to be validation that I’m a great guy, wondering when my chance was going to come, wondering why no one wants a piece of the Wren? (Though of course, my eventual partner will know all of this, as I cannot be afraid of my own past.)
Ok, imagine that, except that I was many years younger, many years less mature, and worst of all, wasn’t even a really good guy to begin with. I was full of selfishness and failure and egocentrism and this arrogant sense of entitlement wherein I deserved without having to give, but I didn’t know that.
I just knew that I was alone, and I hurt.
Brandy might have been a comfort, but around this time, something else happened that broke my heart. This pain wasn’t mine, though. It was hers.
She called me one night in tears after unexpectedly not talking to me for a few days, and I couldn’t get her to tell me what was wrong; she just needed to hear my voice and talk to me, she said. She was as stubborn as I, but eventually promised she’d tell me why she was upset if I promised not to do anything about it. I couldn’t figure out what was going on, but wanted to know, so of course I agreed. It was then she described the horror and fear and pain of the rape that had taken place days earlier, at the house of someone she went to school with. I was aghast. I wanted to do something, anything, but couldn’t, and instead both of us beat futilely on the walls of our invisible prisons.
I’ve thought about that incident a lot, over the last many years. She never did anything about it, but she changed. I mean, of course she did; you don’t get raped and then go on normally, not at all. I suppose the term I’d use to describe Brandy after that was "haunted".
I regret not being able to do something. I invent scenarios in my mind where I pummeled the offender into a bloody pulp (she refused to tell me his name, thinking I might do just that even despite my promise), or where I convinced her to go to the police (I’d tried, but I could have tried harder, dammit), or, or, I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
I dislike being powerless, but I can’t even imagine how she felt.
Sometimes, when I’m playing online, someone will use the word rape to describe what we’re going to do to our enemy, and I still shudder. Less now than I used to, but that word has meaning for me that it doesn’t for them, and it’s unpleasant.
I’ve sat here for about ten minutes staring at this portion of my screen. It feels almost wrong to move on from it and relegate it to a couple of paragraphs. Ironically, I’m pretty sure she would have wanted me to do just that.
So, haunted.
So haunted.
Even though she’d come to me for confidence, for comfort, our relationship changed. She was darker; more prone to mood swings, more reclusive than the Brandy I knew and loved. She began distancing herself not just from me, but from everyone, which I knew from Tracy.
It’s hard to correlate our two situations, but they certain conspired to drive us apart. I cannot speak for what she was going through, but I know that after a few weeks of knocking on her door, I realized she wasn’t going to answer.
Both alone, both hurt, both apart, where weeks earlier we’d been inseparable. To this day, she ranks at the top of the list of people whom I wish I could look in on, just to see how they’re doing. I hope she found something Good, and was able to hold onto it.
Because I wasn’t.
Able, or Good, at the time.
Pause.
There’s a strong difference between being able to realistically examine things like "Am I worthy of love based on my actions and beliefs", and doing so subjectively.
That’s the best I can explain it right now, though I’m sure there’s another way. At 19, I didn’t know anything, but I thought I knew everything, when in reality my experiences were tremendously limited and self-serving.
Consider cancer.
When a cell is normally damaged, it undergoes the process of apoptosis, which is essentially orchestrated cell death. Mutated, malignant cancer cells, however, avoid this process somehow. As such, rather than being disposed of, they continue to multiply in an uncontrolled–and dangerous–manner.
Now, refer to my concept of the chalked circle. If the circle is cancerous, it multiplies–and worse, it affects the cells around it, possibly poisoning and corrupting them as well. We are not a crop circle in a vast field of wheat. We are a honeycomb; circles drawn connecting to each other ad infinitum, our actions influencing one another both subtly and profoundly.
My internal structure was corrupt.
Confident that no one really loved me, certain I was somehow unworthy, assured that I was always going to be shit on by life and that it didn’t matter what you did because it all ended up badly, depression took root and spiraled out of control.
It ruled my life.
If my natural/evolved state is like the radiant Sun– purpose, light, and direction, then it bears stating that in the dead of night, awaiting the dawn, the Sun is hidden and black.
It took me a long time to find myself, to own who I am and know myself honestly and fully–and to be good to both myself and others.
A lack of self-ownership is hollow, empty. It can be unspeakably lonely even in the light of other people, for you only reflect back what they give you. That reflection is rarely the whole truth. That dearth mutates cancerously into self-obsession, cynicism, and masochism.
Many aspects of self-absorption, of course, seek validation from others. That is the irony of selfishness; it’s a choice to superordinate yourself, but for #1 to mean anything, you have to have #2, 3, 4, and 5 in comparison.
Thus, instead of sitting and brooding, I wrote letter after letter to Nancy, called her a few times, and essentially harassed her until she had to dodge all communication with me. They mostly consisted of the same thing, which was a pathetic mixture of pleading and condemnation, depending on my mood at the time–which, I will say, wasn’t entirely under my control.
Another thing you learn as you get older is that even if you can’t control your mood, you’re responsible for how you act during them. Seems simple.
I expected support and concern from Laura, my dear friend. However, she was uncommunicative, and vague, and what letters I did receive weren’t very sympathetic, and towards the end were basically only written to ask me to stop bugging Nancy. If you guessed my reaction was to dejectedly complain about her taking sides (which of course, wouldn’t have mattered had she taken mine), you are correct. For a long time, I assumed that was why Laura had stopped writing, too.
Depression is more than despair. It is bleakness; it is the opacity of colorlessness. It is wretchedness, the forlorn insistence that nothing is worth effort, and that everything will result in failure and pain.
Everyone, to an extent, suffers mild grade depression at times in their life. It is natural; it is the counterpart to ecstasy and joy. There is nothing wrong with sorrow or melancholy in appropriate doses.
If you’ve experienced clinical depression, you know the difference. It’s inexplicable; it’s not something you "get over", or something you have much control over.
It’s as if every breath is tainted.
A common misconception is that people who are depressed simply mope in corners, half-catatonic, unable to act or communicate. This is patently untrue, particularly in men. It can manifest in restlessness, irritability, and discouragement, in addition to the typically discussed feelings of worthlessness and helplessness.
It took me many years to overcome depression, after it ate up the majority of my 20’s. My coping mechanisms work, and continue to do so; it takes awareness, of course, and persistence, and yes, the same obstinacy that caused me problems years ago is now one of my greatest benefactors. I’m able to engage in non self-destructive behavior; I can work, pay bills on time, handle responsibility, etc. By almost all measuring sticks, I’m a fair degree more capable than a lot of "normal" people I know. Earlier in life, I could not do this. I am, I feel, deservedly proud. I did pretty well, pulling myself up by my bootstraps like I did.
Often, no one realizes I’m in a black mood, even those involved with me, because my goal is not to let it impact my life or relationships. As such, my partners don’t feel the ill effects of it. I’ve gone from inconsolable to incorrigible. It was a long climb.
To be continued…