family

On the Broken Family

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ Leave a comment

My mother and father split up when I was six months old, so my experience with the broken family started early. My first memories include my father, my older brother Tony, and many members of my large extended family. We are Italian-Americans from upstate New York, and except for mafia ties, we live up to the copious stereotypes: loud, romantic, passionate, beautiful, dramatic.

In 1975, my father remarried. I was six and Tony was eight. It was a different time, and we were not invited to the wedding or reception. In fact, Tony stayed with a friend, and I stayed with a friend of my stepmother’s. And although I don’t remember the woman’s name, I do remember playing the piano, and incorporating “turd” into an impromptu song. She yelled, “Hey! We don’t use that kind of language in this house.”

Six months after the wedding, my father bought us a house on the west side of Binghamton. My stepmother was 19, Tony was 9, and I was 7. My baby brother was 9 months old. We were told he was a “preemie” — but he weighed six pounds, six ounces at birth. You do the math.

Tony and I started at a new school. Although I wasn’t sure how we were different from other families, I knew we were different. My father was a shoe-repair man who owned a cobbler shop. Instead of wearing a suit to work, he wore denim and leather. My stepmother was a stay-at-home mother who wore no bra beneath her T-shirts, had Farrah Fawcett hair, and marble blue eyes. One of the young men in our neighborhood asked her out.

Mine was not a peaceful childhood. There was a lot of fighting between my father and stepmother about Tony and me. She was intensely jealous of anyone stealing attention from her. She was a screamer. My father was slow to anger, but once he broke, look out. And while he was not quick with the belt, she was. Any small thing could set her off–pots and pans “shoved half-assed in the cupboards,” food splattered on the floor, a crass remark. And she hit in public.

Tony started running away from home at age 14. I hid in my bedroom with books, TeenBeat, and sketchpads. My younger brother was beaten so often that when I reached to touch him, he ducked. When my father was home, my stepmother never yelled or hit us, and spoke with a sickeningly sweet voice. When my father was gone, she was a ticking bomb ready to go off at the occurrence of spilt milk. To this day, when I meet a person who reminds me of my stepmother, my antennae lift in response. And I have a sincere distrust of people who bully children. A therapist I saw for a while told me, “You have strong feelers for a reason. Trust them.”

In 1998, my father divorced this wife, after two decades of her infidelity, fighting, and confession that she stuck around for the money. One day I asked him, “Why did you stay so long?” He shook his head. “Ah. When you and Tony were small, whenever I saw your messy hair and dirty faces, it broke my heart. I wanted you to have a mother.”

The decisions we make out of love, or what we think is love, are often ill-fated. Self-delusion has to be one of the most powerful tools of the mind. Think here of the spouse of the serial killer who says, “I never knew.”

My first pregnancy and marriage was at age 23. It took me less than two years to rip that apart and create what I loathed–a broken family–all because some guy said I was his true love. Luckily, my ex-husband Jeremy is not a grudge holder, and we are still friends. God bless that guy.

Something about turning 50 has made my brain go wonky. I keep having dreams about my two ex-husbands, and my late husband, and I spend a lot of time wishing I had done things differently. Perhaps made decisions based on logic instead of “love.” Regret, coulda, shoulda, woulda, etc. Because of childhood abuse, I have been in therapy most of my adult life, and I am still working through a lot of the muck.

The therapist I’m seeing now is helping me connect the pain of my current heartbreak over losing Eric and the chance to rebuild our family with the lingering issues from my childhood. It’s a scary process, however, I’m determined to reach a place of peace and happiness. It’s easier to run away–drink, have sex, ignore your kids, and pretend everything is great. But at this point, I’m way more interested in doing the hard work if that’s what it takes to become unbroken.

 

Secrets Cause Cancer

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ Leave a comment

When I was 14, I told my younger brother that his mother was not my mother, and that we were half-siblings (we never have and still don’t use that term.) Within a day, I stood before my father, staring at my feet, listening to his diatribe about my stupid decision. He punctuated the lecture with a hand in the air, and said, “You gotta b–iiiii–g mouth!”

Even as I write these words, I’m not entirely sure why I told my brother the truth, and I still feel pangs of regret. However, if we look at the overall picture, how long would it have been before he figured the truth out himself? Our father was born in 1946. My stepmother was born in 1957. My older brother Tony was born in 1966. I was born in 1968. My stepmother moved in with my father, my older brother, and me in 1972. She was a 16-year-old sophomore at Binghamton Central High. And then, my younger brother was born in 1975.

The weird thing about getting yelled at for telling the truth is that my father detested being lied to. If he caught my older brother or me lying to him, the punishment was immediate and severe–my father had us open our hands, and he slapped them with his hand or a leather belt. In today’s “never harm a child” society, I realize this makes my father look bad. He hated lying.

There’s an episode of That 70’s Show when Red asks Eric to keep something to himself. Kitty, with her stiffly sprayed hair and infectious giggle, says, “Secrets cause cancer.” 276968f5a3b460c7c52492fbc73ad0d0--best-mom-kittyI believe wholeheartedly in this statement. My daughters, 26 and 22, and I, often recite this quote. And now, my 13-year-old son has come on board. One thing I love about my relationship with my kids is that we have very few secrets. There’s yelling and tears, and there’s hugging and laughs. So many laughs.

I have been criticized by people who practice more discretion with their children and families. My boundaries with my kids are as flimsy as boiled lasagna. I’m okay with that. And, I have a circle of true friends, a group whom I refer to as the “truth tellers” I can call on. There are too many to mention here, however, when I want the truth, I ask Andrea, Sandy, Aimee, Stacy, my daughters, and a few more. Someone once said, “Enemies stab you in the back. Friends stab you in the front.” I’m okay with that too.

Before I close, I have to give props to my father because he was the first person to insist I tell the truth. And, to be honest (hah!) he was one of the most honest people I knew. His honesty was hardly tactful, and he pissed off a lot of people. Then again, so have I. Not everyone likes to hear the truth. Phoebe from Friends once said, People will believe anything as long as it’s complimentary. I believe that is also true.

 

 

 

Writing About People Who Hurt Us

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ 6 Comments

In 1997, I was a junior in Humanities at Lewis-Clark State College in Lewiston, Idaho. The journalism program was defunct, and since I had just become a 27-year-old widow with two young daughters, I switched to creative writing and enrolled in my first creative nonfiction class. I just wanted to learn how to write.

I wrote my first nonfiction piece when I was about five. It was a typed paragraph, and the paper I used ended up with a small coffee stain in the right corner. The text read something like, “I asked my father for money, but because we don’t have a lot, he said no. But at least I have a new mother, and I love her!!!!!” My father found and folded the letter, and hid it in his safe for years. In 1989, when I was in the navy, he sent me the letter with a sticky note that said, “I hope you still feel the same.”

At age 20, I did not feel the same. As a matter for fact, after my beloved older brother Tony was killed in a motorcycle accident in 1987, my father turned to his wife not me, to grieve. I blamed his wife for Tony’s death. She had been an abusive monster when we were growing up. My brother turned to drinking and drugs, I turned to men. The night my brother died, my grief trickled out into absolute hatred for my stepmother.

I mention the letter because it shows how long I’ve been in love with writing “the truth.” As I came of age, even when I wrote fiction, I used the first person “I” and described events from my actual life. Write what you know they say. As a teenager, I knew blackheads, bullying, and boys. If my stepmother had ever caught me writing negative things about her, she would have shown them to my father and I would have been punished. I was the “big mouth” who complained all the time.

When I was 13, a woman I babysat for gave me the memoir Mommie Dearest by Christina Crawford, actress Joan Crawford’s adopted daughter. My life was never the same. Mommie Dearest is an expose on child abuse. Christina’s biological mother had given her up (just as mine did) and she was being beaten, ridiculed, and shamed by her “new” mother. I had no idea that other kids suffered abuse. No one at school EVER talked about it, and when I told Tony our stepmother was mean,” he said, “Shut up. Dad doesn’t need to hear that shit.”

By the time I was in college, and had gone on to graduate school, writing my “truth” left some of my colleagues unsettled. “How can you write such nasty things about your family?” they asked. I wrote the truth, nasty or not. And since my father had divorced my stepmother in 1998 and she lived 3000 miles away, I felt somewhat safe. Writing about people who hurt us is no new debate. If you’ve read This Boy’s Life, The Liar’s Club, Hungry for the World, or Mommie Dearest, imagine the criticism those authors faced.

If anyone cares to know, writing nonfiction for me is telling the truth of my experience to the best of my memory. My father once paid me an enormous compliment after reading my work, and I keep that in mind when I write. He said, “I remember it differently, but those are your memories.” For a man with a high school education and shoe-repair man’s apprenticeship, I thought he sounded damned professorial.

And speaking of professors, my first writing teacher, who is also a dear friend and mentor, once said, “No one is all evil or all good. You have to show them as a rounded human being.” Believe it or not, rounding out my stepmother is not that difficult. Writing about my brother Tony, however, whom I worshipped until the day he died, that’s a whole other story. I was his patsy, his sidekick, Laurel to his Hardy. One day, I may sit down and write the truth of our story. But I’m still working on it —

 

Unlucky in Love

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ Leave a comment

My father was not the best at picking women. My biological mother who was “the most beautiful woman he had ever seen” became pregnant several months into their dating. They married, had my older brother, and fought all the time. I’ve heard both sides of the story and my interpretation is this: My father was a good-time Charlie, and my mother was a feminist. He liked the Doors; she liked the Beatles. Neither was flexible. She became pregnant with me to keep my father at home. When that didn’t work, she had an affair. He kicked her out of our house and our lives. (I didn’t meet her until I was 24, a story for another time.)

The woman my father should have married, a lovely artist named Angela, was brushed aside after my father met the woman who would become my stepmother for two decades. She was a bleach-blond hourglass and 10 years his junior. She quit high school, moved in and they got married. She cheated on my father during the first year of marriage, and though he stayed married to her, he later told me “I never forgave her.”

By age nine, I loathed my stepmother. That was the year I came to new awareness. She had borrowed five dollars from me and promised to pay it back. Days later, when we were at the store and I wanted to buy a toy, I asked for my money back. She said, “I took you to McDonald’s today. So, I figure I paid you back.” I stared at her in disbelief. What? Food is not cash. I want my goddamned money to buy a Magic Eight Ball.

Over the next 20 years, she cheated more, beat my brothers and me, called us names, picked my father’s pockets, and flew into rages for little more than a drop of food on her “nice clean floor.” And then, sometimes, during movies like Sound of Music, Oliver, and Terms of Endearment, she would sit on the couch, and weep like a little girl. She was a puzzle. In 1998, my father divorced my stepmother and when he called to tell me, I danced through my kitchen singing, “Happy days are here again.”

My father, bless his soul, had what one of his brother’s called, “Broken wing syndrome.” He liked to save the damsels in distress. Angela didn’t need saving. I am guessing my mother and stepmother did. Although you can see it as an altruistic method of operation, if you’ve ever tried to save someone, you know it just doesn’t work. If you’re lucky enough to find one person to love who supports you and you support them, hang on tight. When I shake the Magic Eight Ball and ask, “Will I find my prince?” It says, Ask again later.

 

On Growing Up Poor

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ 6 Comments

David Spade once said that when you grow up poor you don’t know it until someone else tells you. For the first few years of my life, my father, my brother Tony, and I lived in a couple of rented houses before being evicted because my father was in his 20s and liked to party. We finally settled in an apartment and were on food stamps, although my father never told me until I was in my 20s.

My brother and I went to work with my father almost every day (he owned a shoe-repair business) until we started school. Sometimes we had babysitters, and sometimes my father dated women so there would be someone to take care of us. Unfortunately, some of these women stole his record albums and never came back.

When I was four, my father met a 16 year-old-girl named Vickie who was happy to quit high school and move in with us. (that is another blog by the way) Vickie kept my brother and me clean, fed, and had us in bed every night by nine. She also beat us when my father wasn’t around and insisted we call her Mom.

My father married Vickie two years later and bought us a house. The place was crap brown with a wrap-around porch, a rotting roof, and black windows. My brother and I cried the day we moved in. Over the next two years, although my father spent a lot of money and time to have our “haunted house” remodeled, I still sensed it was shoddy compared to the other houses on the street with their Ionic pillars, manicured shrubs, and intact families. When friends visited, they said, “Oh, your house is nice on the inside.”

When I was nine, my father moved my brother and me out of public school and into Catholic school. We had not been baptized and I only heard “god” when my stepmother said, “You goddamned kids.” Because we wore uniforms, it was easy to blend in. And I was never the kind of girl who could look at people’s shoes and know how much money their parents made.

In middle school, we no longer wore uniforms, and my stepmother bought my clothes (polyester pants, blouses) at J.C. Penney and Sears, which felt normal. One day, the Queen Bee walked over to me, felt the material of my blouse, and said, “Where did you get this?” I said, “Sears.” She smirked, and said, “Ohhh.” I think it was then that I knew. Some of my friends wore Aignier and L.L. Bean. I had never heard of either.

Over the next year, after I noticed the Queen Bee and her cohort wore Izod Lacoste polos, which I saw as a symbol of wealth and status, I became obsessed with getting a shirt of my own. So, my stepgrandmother took me to the outlet mall and bought me two Izod polos. I couldn’t wait to show the rich kids I was not a loser.

Of course, now I know those Izods were like me–slightly irregular. And even though my stepgrandmother bought me designer jeans and name brand clothes, I never really fit in with the Queen Bee and her friends. They played tennis and golf, and I ran track. Their parents had cocktail parties, my father went bowling.

Growing up poor taught me humility. Sometimes I think my life has been one “character building” event after another. I know the value of a dollar and love to do hard work. The things I hold dear, after family, dogs, and friends, are the sentimental gifts I have received over the years–books, toys from my childhood, love letters. I have no idea what it’s like to grow up rich, or be rich, however, I imagine it feels as though you can never have enough.

 

In Defense of Rudolph

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ Leave a comment

141204135426-01-holiday-tv-and-movies-story-topRecently I heard about the kerfuffle regarding Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the stop motion animation movie from 1964. In case you’re unaware, the movie has been criticized very recently for being pro-bully. (And just to be clear, this movie came out a few years before I was born, and I’m here to tell you, it’s been critiqued for decades).

My kids grew up watching this movie, just as I did with my parents, and it has been a source of laughter around the dinner table and a conversation starter. We love the scene, for example, when the elves call “lunch break” and Hermey’s angry boss looks at him and says, “Not for you!”

Is there yelling and teasing in the movie? Yes. My kids and I find humor in the erratic behavior. Not because we are cold-blooded or evil, but because we can relate to Rudolph and Hermey. It isn’t just bullies who tease people who are “different.” In his awesome book Behave, Robert Sapolsky tells us it’s an innate human quality to malign difference, and we have to learn not do it.  It’s also a innate animal behavior (which, if I am correct, humans are animals.) Think here: chickens pecking each other.

One aspect of meanness no one mentioned is when Hermey and Rudolph ask to stay at the Island of Misfit Toys and the lion says “No. But you can do something for me.” It is so outrageously rude that my kids and I have to laugh, whether out of sheer disbelief of discomfort. How dare he deny them a place to stay and then ask for a favor.

Frankly, I have bullied and I have been bullied. I am not proud to admit bullying a girl from Lebanon in third grade. Two years later I received my comeuppance from a boy I loved who called me Ugly, Monkey Face, and Grape Ape from fifth grade to twelfth. Also, very recently I’ve been ghosted, snubbed, and triangulated by a couple of bullies.

I am not pro-bully. I am pro “let’s talk about the bullying in this movie.” Can you believe Santa was so mean to Donner and Rudolph? Can you believe the whole town shunned Rudolph until he became useful? Can you believe characters in the movie apologized to Hermey and Rudolph for being mean to them?

Bullies are never going away. Look at our President! And, if you don’t believe that, I’ll show you reindeer who can fly. I don’t have a solid answer for how to deal with a bully, because they are all different. But the ones I am dealing with now — I avoid them like last year’s fruitcake.

Here I Go Again

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ Leave a comment

Four years ago, I started seeing an excellent therapist. I had been divorced for three years, and after two unsuccessful attempts at dating, and my ex-husband’s flat refusal to work things out, I said, “Okay. It’s time for you to get over Eric.”

Eric and I had met in 1998, fell in love, got married, and built an amazing family and friendship over the next 12 years. We both earned degrees, went to grad school, worked, and shared the responsibility of my two daughters. Eric wanted a baby of his own, so we had a son together.

While Eric was finishing grad school, I started to feel like he was turning away. I was overwhelmed with work and the kids, and I’m sure he felt the same–except he internalizes his problems and I externalize mine. So, while he was in his own world and a male coworker tempted me with a “free-wheeling affair with no responsibilities,” I took the bait.

Three weeks later, said coworker dumped me. I fell into a pit of despair. I had betrayed my best friend, and he was the one person I couldn’t tell. Surely, Eric would leave me. He would freak out. Was there anyway he could forgive me?

The short answer is no. Six months after I confessed, he filed for divorce. I gained fifty pounds over the next year, and when my dad died in 2012, I realized what an idiot I was for letting Eric go. He and I talked here and there, shared custody of our son, and even attempted a few reconciliations up until 2013, when he cut that off.

Over the next year, I only saw Eric when something went awry with the kids. He was a great dad. Very involved. We attended school events together and kept things cordial. I started seeing a grief therapist, who recommended a woman who did EMDR–a technique that helps patients process painful memories. I was doing well.

In 2016, Eric said he wanted to try to become friends again. I was so happy. We were talking openly about my affair and the divorce. We started hanging out together, having beers, and spending time as a family with the kids. Eric initiated an intimate relationship with me, and I was thrilled. My therapist encouraged us to talk about our break up and continue communicating honestly. Our friendship was fragile at best.

August 2017, Eric attended his high school reunion. The next day, when I asked if he had fun, he offered NO details about his hanging out until dawn with the cheerleader who had rebuffed his advances back in the day. We still hung out, but there was nothing physical.

In late September, Eric told me he was “dating” said cheerleader who lived six hours away, had three kids under 10, and was in the midst of an ugly divorce from her husband of 17 years, who was a millionaire. (I learned later it was because of her cheating, pathological lying, and abusive behavior.) She told Eric “you’re the love of my life.”

What happened next? Stay tuned for my next post, where I will share how I reacted to all of this. It’s not pretty.

 

 

The Grief that Keeps on Giving

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ 2 Comments

Stop me if you’ve heard this. Ten years ago, I was a happily married woman with three kids. On my 40th birthday, I looked out of the picture window of my living room and thought, “I’ve never been so happy.” My husband was an introvert, and I’m an extrovert, and we complemented each other just about perfectly. We really dug each other physically, spiritually, and intellectually. We’d been together 11 years.

Over the next several months, while my husband was earning his graduate degree, I felt overwhelmed with work and the kids, and I perceived my husband’s turning inward as turning away. I also thought he loved the one child we had together more than he loved me. For whatever reason, I was afraid to confront him with this information and figured things would simply work out as they always had before.

A guy at work with whom I’d been collaborating closely started inviting me to coffee, talking about his miserable marriage, and started flirting with me via text message. I was so in love with my husband, I didn’t think twice about any of this until it was too late. The guy chased me until I relented. We had a  three week affair and then he dumped me. To say I was devastated barely covers it–for the next several months, I hid in my room, drank alone, and dreaded seeing my husband’s family.

When I finally came clean about the affair, my husband was sad. He had to see the guy at work. My husband and I went to marriage counseling. We took weekend trips to try and reconnect. But because the “guy” was still around, it became too much for my husband. He put a GPS tracker on my phone, looked up the number of text messages through ATT, and insisted I quit my job. I put up with all of this until he turned violent. I had to kick him out of the house. He filed for divorce almost immediately.

My soon to be ex husband and I kept a cordial coparenting relationship for the kids. We sat together at Christmas concerts, sporting events, and graduations. He never really forgave me for the affair, but at least we could be in the same room. Then, in November 2016, five years after our divorce was final, my ex husband and I started hanging out together as friends. He said, “I’d like to rebuild the deep friendship we had when we were married.” We had monthly conversations, went out for beers, watched TV, and hung out with our son.

From February 2017 to July 2017, my ex husband and I casually dated. He kept saying he didn’t want a commitment with anyone, and we would see where this would go. I thought it was the least I could do since he had convinced me I single handedly ruined our marriage. Aug 12, 2017. My ex husband went to his high school reunion. The next afternoon, he shared funny stories with me.

He had been becoming more distant since July, and I figured he was still gun shy. We still went on a few dates, however, he made no moves beyond a platonic relationship. One time, he even asked me for recommendations on bed sheets. Sep 22, I told my ex I wanted to spend more time with him. He said, “I reconnected with someone at the reunion, and we’ve been seeing each other.” I said, “When you said you didn’t want a commitment, you just meant with me.”

Do you think the woman was unfettered? Nothing like me? A fresh start for my ex hubby? Think again. “Jill” was in the midst of an acrimonious divorce, had three kids, and had been dumped by her husband for …wait for it… having a 15 month affair with a man who lived in Europe, several fake FB accounts, drunken violence, and a secret trip abroad.”

Jill was a mean girl in high school who wouldn’t give my ex the time of day back then, when he was chubby and obnoxious. He adored her, however, and felt all “those feelings come flooding back.” When they reconnected at the reunion, my ex was the ONLY single guy there. Jill, depressed and rejected, somehow convinced him that they were “star crossed lovers” who were destined to be together. Then the love bombing began. Letters. Cards. Photos. Collages. All in the first few weeks of dating, proclaiming ever lasting love.

Although Jill lived seven hours away with her husband and kids in a million dollar home, she drove to our hometown about ten times over a month and a half to put her hooks into my ex. When he told me who it was, I said, “Ew. The girl with the fake eyelashes who gave me the dead fish handshake when we met? She’s such a bitch.” Her husband finally kicked her out of the family house in October.

Today: my ex and I no longer have a relationship. Jill has made sure of that. I have no idea what lies she has told him, but I’m guessing they are about her millionare husband who always took care of the kids, and didn’t make her work outside the home more than 15 hours a week. They guy who bought her three cars and took her back after the first affair. What an asshole.

My ex defends her to the death. He has spent weeks away from our son, doesn’t care about anything but her, and when he got fired from his job, instead of looking for another one, he drove to her new place (3200 dollars a month and funded by the estranged husband) and stayed for days at a time, sometimes without telling me or our son. It’s the perfect fantasy. For them.

When I asked my ex how he could be dating someone who cheated on her husband twice, he said, “She didn’t cheat on me.” Everyone keeps telling me what a jerk he is and what losers they both are, and to put them out of my mind. However, when you come so close to rebuilding your family and watch it get ripped apart because of two people in a mid life crisis, it’s hard to watch it disappear without feeling a huge sense of loss.

Dump the Narc — Keep the Dogs

~ TheCobblersDaughter ~ Leave a comment

If you’ve ever dated a narcissist, you will identify with this post. If you haven’t ever dated a narcissist, you’re damn lucky. Few experiences make you question your self-worth, sanity, and reason to live more than being “loved” then dumped by a narcissist. I say dumped because they are people who dispose of things and people once they are used up. The first time the narc came to my house, my black lab chewed up his phone charger. Smart dog.

“Narcs” love vulnerable people. You know, widows, the broken-hearted, the poor bastard going through a mid life crisis. And the worst part is they are exactly whom you were looking for. The rescuer. The comedian. The princess. The prince. This is because they are chameleons, changing shades and personalities to be everything you had ever hoped for. Love live music? So do they. Love politics? So do they. And if you like hiding from the rest of the world, they love that best. You will find yourself saying “I can’t believe how alike we are.”

However, the moment you begin to show a sense of self outside the narc’s view, beware. The narc is king and you are merely a subject. Avoid telling truth to power if you want to stay in the narc’s good graces. Otherwise, you will be out on your can. And don’t ever criticize–you will be extracted from their life.

One narc I dated drew me in with promises of intimacy and closeness. We had a long distance relationship, consisting of FaceTime, text messages, and emails. When we did interact in person, we were electric. He was sarcastic and cute, and I really liked him. However, his decades long pot habit had given him the memory of an errant puppy, and when I called him on it he flew into a rage.

The narc often told me to wait in the car when he stopped by a friend’s house, or the store. I thought, What the hell? Is this the 50s? He once turned to me and said, “There’s stuff in the fridge. Go make us a couple of sandwiches.” I started laughing hysterically. He said, “What’s so funny?” I thought he was joking. And yes, I made the sandwiches.

One morning after breakfast in a diner, the narc introduced me to his friend who was thinking of joining the army. I talked to this young man about my stint in the navy and how I went to college and grad school. The narc interrupted and said, “She also sells crack to kids.” On the walk to the car, I said, “Why did you do that?” The narc went bananas! “Can’t you take a fucking joke?” The narc had never finished high school.

I knew we were over when the narc barked an order at me and I said, jokingly, “Quit telling me what to do.” Right there, mid vacation, (we had three days left) he said, “I think we’d be better off as friends.” This from the guy who said we belonged together forever. I walked to the bedroom and started crying.

Over the next three days, the narc and I acted like roommates. He went back to his town, and during a long phone conversation in which we truly broke up, the narc said “Tell everyone this break up was mutual. Don’t put that shit on FB. You will look like an immature drama queen.” Would you believe I listened to him?

Luckily, the narc and I only dated a few months, and yet, I was reeling. I started running long distances and imagined his lying face beneath my right foot every time it hit the pavement. Ahhhh. Ahhh. Ahhh. I spent a lot of time crying that December.

After our mutual friends learned about the break up, they told me, “He’s a huge loser. We couldn’t figure out why you were with him.” I rolled my eyes. I fell for him because I had lost my father and the narc came to his funeral. I was so tuuched. We started texting, he called me “Baby” (puke), and the rest is history.

The red flags were abundant and waving. I should have known the minute Gus chewed his phone cord that the narc was not accepted by my very smart dog. Looking back, I see this as a wonderful learning experience. My antenna are up, and I have taken a haitus from dating. Until then, I will hang with my dogs.