A SORT OF RESOLUTION

                                                                                                           1260 wds

A SORT OF RESOLUTION

HAPPY NEW YEAR!  he shouted, a glass of scotch clinking with ice in his large hand, this man whom I had lived with for over 30 years, bore a son and daughter with, snuggled under a large comforter, turned an angry back to when he would come home, intoxicated, belligerent, or just dopey, stumbling up the stairs, relinquishing his body to the alcohol that had claimed it. 

He placed a slobbery kiss on my lips, trying to thrust his tongue inside that tasted bitter with scotch. His pale blue eyes darkened, glared at me; anger had overtaken the playfulness drink had coerced him into. He shoved me, spilling the liquid and struggled his way upstairs, falling onto the bed.  I stood downstairs, feeling the flip flopping in my chest, fear out winning the rage. I wanted to smack him, leave a throbbing red mark on the face I had fallen in love with when young, physical passion was everything. For an insecure 17 year old, wanting to run from the home where she had been abused by a cold, irate father, an hysterical, sickly mother, and dropping out of school due to phobias and anxiety, he seemed like a Prince Charming right out of a fairy tale.

I was working in a publishing company in New York, my first job, when a co-worker convinced me to go on a blind date with one of her boyfriend’s buddies. I was just seventeen. It was then that I met him, dazzled by his slim body in a navy blue suit, blonde hair swept to the side and those soulful blue eyes. We danced all night, me in heels that were killing my feet, but I bore the pain for the feeling I had when his body was pressed against mine. I never noticed how many drinks he had consumed, I, who had never had more than a half a glass of Manischevitz wine at Passover Seders. I consumed 2 gin and tonics and became loopy for hours, wondering afterwards what he thought when I started to feel dizzy and began clinging on to his suit collar.

After that first date, I waited anxiously for him to call, knowing I would have to hide the relationship from my parents, at least for a time, who forbade me to date non-Jews. His mother, who was raised by nuns, frowned, well more than frowned, on my unwelcome presence but since she was widowed and he was the major part of the family support she greeted me, but not without obvious disdain.

And so began the 2 year turbulent romance that eventually got me pregnant and married at nineteen, when I became the mother of a son and 8 years later, a daughter.

The years were filled with fights, anger, drinking bouts that rocked whatever stability we called home. I was plagued with IBS, anxiety attacks, phobias and was in and out of therapy most of the marriage.

Why wouldn’t I leave, even after the kids were grown, I’d ask myself, over and over. The answer would do a juggling act in my mind: I loved him, no, maybe it wasn’t love—and so what if it was? I only had a part-time job, no real skills…I could never support myself. I was afraid to be alone. I had nowhere to go. He paid the mortgage. Sometimes he even showed a tender moment or two. I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for myself. I felt sorry for the kids. I felt sorry for the dog. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!

I went to Vibes—the abused women’s services, Ala-non meetings, AA meetings, trying to understand the dynamics of what was labeled a ‘disease’.  A lawyer informed me if I filed for divorce I would have to live in the house until it was finalized and he would as well. I wondered how we would live together, even after the kids were gone and I served him with legal papers. I could visualize his rage. I really believed I would not have long on this earth.

Some four or so years later he finally stopped drinking, due to abdominal pain and a doctor’s reference to ‘saving his liver’. And my great hope was that now we could somehow have a normal life. He would become that kind and loving husband I had hungered for all those years.

I would love him without reservation, not have to wait for him to show up for dinners, go out publicly without embarrassing scenes. But since he had never, as they say in AA, worked the program, things never really changed much. The anger that consumed him, which was referred to as being a dry drunk couldn’t be diminished and my hopes were squashed. I began taking anti-depressants which didn’t seem to have much effect.

That New Year’s Eve when he came home intoxicated, breaking his sobriety,  I looked at him, a long hard look. His face was red in the dim light, his shirt hanging out of his pants, his eyes unable to focus. My eyes blurred with tears as I watched him stumble up to the bedroom. I stayed downstairs, almost unable to move before I went to a drawer and took out the legal envelope with the papers a lawyer had prepared a while back. I stared at it a long time, turning it over and over in my hand before I went upstairs to put as many things in a suitcase I could fit. I stared at him on the bed, helpless, unable to exorcise the demon that had possessed him all his life, then placed the envelope next to him where he would see it when he finally awoke. I cried silently, waves of angst shivering through my body and dragged  the suitcase down the steps. Outside my hand trembled as I tried to fit the key into the car’s lock. I had no idea where I was going.  It had begun to snow so I ran back in to get an ice brush. My heart was pounding so hard it made me breathless.

There was a picture on the wall at the top of the stairs, a family portrait—one of the four of us, all smiles for the camera. His arms were around us—my son almost as tall as his father, the same blonde hair waved on his head, my daughter smiling, with a couple of missing teeth. Before I could even think, as if something had taken hold of me , I went back into the room, picked up the envelope, grabbed a scissor on the desk and cut it quickly into shreds before tossing it into a wastebasket. Yet in my mind I was asking that perplexing question: Why?  Why?

It was  midnight. Outside there was the blowing of horns, fireworks dazzling the sky and shouts of HAPPY NEW YEAR!  I lay down next to him, silent and still, hating myself, hating him, hating the life we had together and before I knew it I was asleep, my head heavy on his shoulder. Outside the car was still running. Outside the world was waiting, waiting for me, for me, who couldn’t find the courage to embrace it. I felt what seemed like the wrapping of a large blanket of coziness around us. I didn’t know what to call it—I didn’t know how to crawl out from under it. I felt my hand clawing at the fabric, over and over, then stop, fingers spreading limply over it.