Six years lost

There is still bitterness in me over my divorce. It's like a slow poison, gradually eating away at me. I'm not quite sure whether I will ever fully put it behind me. In a way, it was nothing more than to be expected. People have come and gone in my life. There really is no stability. To think anyone could have been there forever, well, that is nothing but contradictory to reality. But, I am a dreamer.

I loved my ex. That doesn't even begin to describe it. She...was an integral part of me. She was the first and only person I allowed myself to be vulnerable with. And she betrayed that.

I met her on a whim. It was all quite accidental. We found each other online. This was before the idea became such a cliche. We talked. And talked. And talked. I really enjoyed talking to her. I became entertained, then interested. Eventually it just became more. It built and built.

This was all around the time that I nearly died in a car wreck (June 1999). That was severe trauma, both physically and mentally. I was tired of following the meandering path I had set for myself. I was exhausted with military life (and did not want to turn into a pervert like the cadre who commanded me and I include you Denby!). I was searching for something more in my life and I found her.

Now I'm impulsive. I love to take risks. I mean come on, if you take the safe route you know what's going to happen. Where is the fun in that? Where is the possibility? I can't live a normal life. My mind is so alive with ideas. If I don't take a chance then how will I ever give life to my dreams? I know what is. I yearn for what could be. I know, ironic coming from a guy with OCD.

Well, I flew over to South Africa in June of 2000 and the sparks flew. I can still remember seeing her for the first time at the airport: the long raven tresses with white fringe flowing around her pale, round face with almond eyes and full lipped smile; her crimson skirt, crushed velvet, stopping just short of the floor; double breasted coat, black cotton with wood buttons.

There was this magic. If you've never known what it's like to be in love then you'll never understand. It's a tingle, a shiver that runs through you. Electric. You know, looking at that someone, that they are special. It's instinctual, like fate placed it secretly in your heart and all it took was seeing the them to remember that long lost memory of Heaven.

I remember kissing her for the first time. The awkwardness of it. She was shy. I was clumsy. I backed her into her closet and just before the kiss she fell backward and knocked over the bar holding her clothes up sending them, and us, crashing to the floor.

She was so warm to the touch. Feverish.

I have so many memories. But what I remember most was my ability to be me. There was no act. I wasn't afraid to let her see what was underneath the jokes or the posturing. I could relax, soften after years of rigidity. To feel that strain fade away, the tension melt. I could be me. It was...different. I could share my most precious thoughts, dreams, and secrets with her and not worry about them being twisted, abused, or lost. I knew she accepted me. I could trust her. Trust, to me, is not an easy thing to come by.

She had problems I was ready to deal with. She was a recovering anorexic. It took me well over a year to help her through the ordeal of eating normal meals, though she continued to count calories. That was a trait I eventually picked up as I do with my OCD tendencies. It still bugs me to this day. But back to the eating disorder, throughout our marriage I consistently had to keep an eye on her to make sure she ate healthy and to prevent her slide into bulimia (which was starting heavily our final year).

She was also an alcoholic. I wasn't the best influence on her. If you knew me then you'd understand why. I was a drinker. So I dried myself out to help her kick her own addiction to drink. Problem was when she made friends later who encouraged her to "party".

Our entire early relationship was fraught with strange and hilarious adventures. We traveled to Swaziland as well as Ireland before we got married on South African television (and I made an ass out of myself what with no sleep for over 48 hours, drinking every glass of wine they put in front of me, and getting a tad too friendly with the Elvis impersonator). Being on that show, The Toasty Show by the way, helped to make me a mini-celebrity in South Africa and Swaziland. Having complete strangers come up and adore you: unnerving.

I got to bond with her strange relatives, both her mother's Boer blood and her father's Chinese kin. The latter usually took me on business trips to quite unexpected places, to family gatherings (where every Chinese relative consistently wondered why I was both quiet and thin since Americans are supposed to be loud and fat), or camping out in the Veldt; I saved her father's life white water rafting when he fell out of our raft and I had to drag him back in. Of course we ended up going in circles afterwards as neither of us could agree on who was navigating, but I am digressing.

As long as we're going to meander, I should go into a little detail about her parents. Her father was an unemotional man. His father had died while he was too young to remember him leaving his mother to raise him in a strict, traditional Chinese household. The man was a genius when it came to business. He could do anything: movies, textiles, nightclubs, distribution. The bad part was that he usually couldn't run a business leading to quite a few business failures.

My ex's mother was a true wacko. She had a split-personality, suffered manic depression, was going through a mid-life crisis when I first met her (she was forty and dressing like Britney Spears complete with breast implants and face lift), with a history of abuse (her father and brothers had molested her), and sick with both cancer and AIDS. This woman could be grim, I shit you not. And she absolutely hated me when I first met her. Amazingly, I got her to love me. Why, you may or may not ask. Because I could make her laugh. Sure, there are a lot of gifts people yearn for, but my talent is the ability to make even the most bitter person crack a smile. She didn't get many of those in her lifetime from the stories I heard. I was only too happy to give her a few moments of hilarity.

Back to my tale of woe.

It was when the ex and I came to America that things changed. She had been a model in South Africa and she was hoping to break into either singing or acting once she came to the States. So we trekked out to California.

California is far from a fairy tale land. The cashiers are aspiring actors. The convenience store clerks can't speak English (don't even think about ordering a pizza). Traffic is so bad one can understand why power walking began there; It's faster than driving! The roads are dirty, every street has the same name, everything is overpriced, and people all are fake; I mean walking illusions! The city is nothing more than a mirage. There is no real substance to it. It's all intangible; hype.

Our first apartment was quite the piece of Heaven. We had drug dealers living beneath us. We had a married couple who loved to battle every other night (I didn't need boxing. All I had to do was listen through the paper thin walls for my fight night fix). There was also a new apartment manager every six months who'd switch up the rules and throw the place into chaos. And of course the glory of a gang of latino kids beating the hell out of a cop not fifty yards from my door. Yeah, good times.

Now I wasn't idle during my period in California. I managed to find a job as a cinematographer. Interesting work. Looking through that camera lense, able to peer into what seems a private scene without having to put yourself there. It's voyeurism. For a withdrawn fellow like me, that was alluring. So many fun experiences behind that camera. Anyway...

Well, the ex discovered breaking into film wasn't as easy as it was in South Africa (her father had owned a production company before it folded in the late 80s). That didn't stop her from trying to network. She met all the right people. Managed to get on the right lists. The only thing was I didn't match (I'm far from Hollywood material). So she began going alone to various nightclubs, parties, interviews with agents/producers/directors etc. She made friends I couldn't stand, stayed out to all hours of the night. There were many times I would get a call at three in the morning to pick her up. Of course there were also times when she wouldn't call and I'd be afraid something happened to her only to find out late the next day she was alright. Now I'm bi-polar, have OCD, and not getting a lot of sleep because I'm worrying. Yeah, it began to run me ragged.

Now you might ask, "Why did you put up with it?" Because I loved her. I wanted her to succeed. I made sure she was alright despite herself. She dragged me into a lot of dangerous situations. I got to meet really seedy people including Chinese mafia (triads), members of the adult film industry (bondage as well as the ol' in-out in-out crew), and agents of the most predatory kind. Don't even ask about the producers and directors. I literally walked into Hell in order to protect her. And she hated me every time I saved her. I was embarassing her, I was trying to hold her back, I was a complete and total prick.

By the fourth year of our marriage I began to discover things had changed. She and I never went out anymore (She was always out with 'friends'). We rarely talked. Our long conversations turned into me speaking and her nodding (not even trying to pretend she was even paying attention to what I had to say before cutting me off with reminders of places I had to drive her, things she had to do, or what she should wear to this or that event). I began to feel as if I was simply rambling so I spoke less and less until I wasn't speaking at all.

She wouldn't even let me hold her, always pulling away. All I could do was stare at her back. Always at her back when once I held her and watched her kiss the air as she slept.

Then I discovered a video tape she had made with her one friend. I wasn't supposed to see it. They'd filmed it one night while I was out and I guess the ex forgot to erase it. In it she was openly mocking me. It hurt. It's not that I have low self-esteem. It's knowing the one person you care about doesn't respect you. It really hurt seeing her trash me. I was a joke to her. She shit on the essence of me.

It just wasn't the same after that. I confronted her about the video, and she couldn't even explain it away. She just kept quiet, hanging her head, saying, "I'm sorry." It wasn't enough. I was boiling inside. I hated her. I truly hated her. It wasn't just the video. It was the thinking behind it. She undermined everything I had ever done for her with her ingratitude. I guess I didn't have "it".

Eventually it had to happen. She started sleeping with other guys. A lot of other guys. She didn't even try to conceal it after I found out. Once I knew she simply thought it was useless to hide them anymore. This was what really sent me over the edge and nearly gave me a nervous breakdown. I died inside when I discovered what was going on. I couldn't do anything. I feel pathetic for being unable to change things. The futility I felt was like cancer. I was on the verge of an ulcer by the last six months of the marriage, constantly vomiting. I didn't sleep. I really drank. Finally...I had enough.

I tried to salvage things. I asked for counseling, to move somewhere besides LA, anything to save the marriage. I loved the woman. I carried this guilt believing I had allowed her to become what she was. But she wouldn't change. She simply didn't want to give up the life she had. Nothing I offered was acceptable. So I gave her an ultimatum. That was when we separated.

I got the divorce papers roughly seven months after we split up. That was a shock. She couldn't even tell me it was over. She simply had a lawyer do it for her. After all the years of me busting my ass for her all I got was a god damn letter from a third party! A GOD DAMN LETTER! Whoa, sorry there. Caught up in the moment.

And now...I don't trust easily anymore; not that I did before. The one person I ever truly cared about gave up on me when I needed her most. I've simplified a great deal of what went on those six years. I'm not perfect. I'm not morally bankrupt but I'm also not spiritually rich. I just don't know anymore. I'm not as angry as I was. I'm not as happy either. So many people call divorce freedom. It's loss. Loss of oneself. If you married and longed for divorce then you were never truly together. Being married is growing together, two trees intertwining until they are inseparable as they spend each waking moment growing closer and closer until they are one. Then you are ripped apart and you aren't supposed to feel that? How can you continue standing now that your support is lost?

Poor me, I know. I should just let it go. But look at me...if you could. I have tainted memories. If I wish to remember the good times I can't help but to know what came after. Yet if I were to reject her for what she did then I lose that one moment in my life where I actually lived for someone else, that one period in my life that could be called altruistic. She brought out the best in me. But also the worst. Confusing? Yeah, I suppose so. But unless you've been in love...you'll never understand.