Lol: Living out Loud

CHAPTER 1

HITTING ROCK BOTTOM

I want a divorce.

I know I wanted him out of my life for many years, but answering my phone and hearing those words hit me like a ton of bricks. Only a week before, we had agreed to go to counselling.

We had been separated for almost a month, and I took the day off from work with a terrible head cold—so you can imagine that I was not feeling my best to begin with. As I sat on the kitchen floor unpacking and organizing cupboards in my new apartment, I remembered his cutting words again and dissolved into a mess of hysterical tears.

Why am I reacting this way? Why am I so shattered?

What bothered me the most was not my involuntary and sudden reaction, but that my daughter had to witness her mother having a level 5 nuclear meltdown. I had always worked so hard to avoid subjecting her to the extremes of my emotions, and this was humiliating.

Once I finally composed myself, my phone rang again. It was him—Andrew, my soon-to-be-ex-husband.

Where do I get one of those divorce kits? Can I get it from the bookstore?

I don’t know, Andrew, I replied. You’re on your own for this one.

Half an hour later, he called me a third time. He was at the bookstore now and wanted help deciding which divorce kit to buy.

True to his lazy and immature self, he had the audacity to ask me for advice on how to get a divorce. Now he was on a mission to divorce me as quickly as possible. So, contrary to what my strong skills as a researchologist would prompt me to do, this time I had no desire to share my knowledge or opinion with him.

I spent the next few days reeling under waves of emotion. It was completely perplexing and illogical to me why I felt such an extreme mourning sensation after living so many years in misery with my husband. My only explanation was that, no matter how bad a relationship is, a couple will still cling to one another for any sense of comfort and security, however twisted that may seem. My incoherent sobbing on the phone with him at two a.m. a few days later was probably my lowest point.

Gawd. What is wrong with me?

I remember the first time I found out about his lies. It was a month before our wedding and I tried to call the whole thing off because of it.

It stemmed back to a few short weeks into our relationship—on my birthday actually. I drove excitedly to meet Andrew at his father’s house (where he was living temporarily after separating from his wife) to see what spoils awaited me. My stomach was doing flip-flops, and my palms were sweating. Andrew had already proven to be so sweet and romantic, that I couldn’t wait to see what was in store for me. Gone were the days of Oh, is it your birthday today? attitudes from previous partners. I was finally with a romantic. A true romantic.

I pulled up and was greeted with the most passionate kiss hello, but rather than being pampered and spoiled because it was my day, I ended up being ushered down to Andrew’s bedroom and informed that he couldn’t go out until he cleaned his room. What? Are you kidding me? Being the spineless jelly-fish that I was, I wholeheartedly dove in to cleaning Andrew’s bedroom while he gave my van an oil change. (I guess that was my gift.) During my cleaning frenzy, I found a long string of condoms in an empty suitcase. Considering his life before I came along to be his business, I only advised that he find a better place for them before his religious and controlling father found them. He laughed nervously at that, and said they were a gag gift from his friends. Although I assured him that I didn’t need to know details about his past relationships, he insisted he was telling me the truth.

As the months passed, there were never any other indications that he was being anything but honest with me, so I slept well at night with him by my side. Or so I thought…

Fast forward—one month before our wedding, I discovered that he had lied to me at the very beginning of our relationship. The condoms I found during my birthday cleanup actually came from a woman who had shown up unannounced at Andrew’s father’s house one night (on his birthday, no less) and begged Andrew for sex. Normally this wouldn’t be any of my business, but that woman had since been quite involved in our life through Andrew’s business, and repeatedly contacted him after hours asking for the same business advice each time.

Although I didn’t know what had happened between the two of them, it was obvious to me that she was in love with him. During the few short months we’d been together, I asked him multiple times if they had been in a relationship. He swore up and down that he had never been involved with her and even seemed to physically recoil at the mention of it.

The day I found out about his indiscretion was on the heels of defending him to his two closest friends. Although I didn’t care much for this couple—they were young, immature, and not the type of people that I would normally associate with—I was forced to accept them into our wedding party because Andrew had been the best man at their wedding. Every time we were with them, they made sure to tell me all the tales of dating and cavorting from Andrew’s life before and after his separation and subsequent divorce. They constantly referred to him as a ladies’ man or a player. I would have never spoken to someone’s girlfriend like that, so my assumption was that they were just bullies trying to make me feel bad about myself. Finally, I got so fed up with having Andrew’s past pushed in my face that I defensively blurted out that he hadn’t been intimate with a woman since he left his ex-wife, and continued to naively sing his praises. Little did I know that his friends were very close to the Happy Birthday Mr. President condom woman in question and knew the truth—as did four other couples that we dealt with regularly, both through business and social events.

One evening, when they were over helping with the bombonieres for the wedding, it started again. I took Andrew into another room and lost my cool. I told him I was sick and tired of all the things they were saying about him and the lies they were telling about his past. He finally broke down and told me about his indiscretion with his business associate.

I was devastated. I dropped to my knees and sobbed. Everyone knew except me! I had defended him in one way or another to each and every one of those people over the past few months and, in the end, felt completely humiliated and betrayed by all of them. More importantly, betrayed by him.

But then, the anger set in. I told him that the wedding was off and I wanted him out of my house immediately. I couldn’t stand the thought of spending the rest of my life with someone who could look me in the face every day and lie to me. I also didn’t think I could stand the humiliation of what everyone knew, and what a fool I had been over the past few months.

He begged me to stay with him and promised he would never lie again. His justification for lying so far? He wanted to protect me because he felt the truth would be more hurtful. As devastated and betrayed as I felt, I was so deeply in love with him that I truly didn’t want to call off the wedding. His promise seemed so sincere that I pushed aside my feelings of doubt, humiliation, and anger and agreed to become his wife as planned.

The lies continued for almost a decade. I got to a point where I could no longer look at him or stand to be in the same room with him. Each time I uncovered a new lie, I would die a little more inside.

Why do I hate myself so much that I continue to live this way?

I loathed who I had become. I spent every day miserable and distrusting, with a hard knot in my stomach. Daniella (my daughter from my first marriage, but legally adopted by Andrew) couldn’t stand him anymore either, but for different reasons. She was tired of being barked at, of being treated like she was both his mother and his slave when I wasn’t around. His tirades of verbal abuse towards her were epic. One day he saw her eating the last piece of leftover pizza from the fridge, which he wanted as well, and he blurted out, I hope you choke on it and die. Even though he may have said it as a childish joke, his message stung my poor eight-year-old. He berated or criticized her in some way every single day. Each word beat her down deeper and deeper.

When she told me about the incidents and I confronted Andrew, things only got worse for her. She, in turn, stopped confiding in me. One morning, when Daniella was about nine, as I was getting ready for work (ironically on Mother’s Day), she became hysterical and said she wished she was dead or had never been born. I left the house devastated and sick to my stomach that I had to leave her.

How could a nine-year-old be feeling that way? What the hell have I done to her?

When I arrived at my job at the local steakhouse, I was hit from every angle with the whining and complaining of my coworkers, that they were pissed that they had to work on Mother’s Day. I did my very best to hold my head up high and be the bigger person, but after the eight millionth complaint from a twenty-something-year-old, I finally lost my shit all over them.

"Are you all for real? Look around you! Have you noticed that I am the only one NOT complaining? Yet, I’m the only one working who IS a mother! Did any of YOU have to leave your child—your reason for BEING a mother—at home while you pander to the likes of a bunch of ungrateful customers all night? I didn’t think so. So can we give the whining bullshit a rest and just go back to work please?"

Needless to say, the staff began to work rather diligently that night.

For four more years, Daniella and I remained his emotional hostages.

Andrew’s childish and irresponsible behavior continued to mount and he made it clear that he was the victim—the third wheel—in this family. There was one situation that sticks out in my memory that summarizes his behavior marvelously:

We were at his father’s having lunch with some visiting relatives. There were about ten of us there that day, and his stepmother made her delicious lentil soup. As she served everyone, Andrew turned to Daniella and said, You have my permission not to eat that. The reason he was offering his permission was because Daniella was forced to eat everything he served her, even if he knew that she didn’t like it.

But I like this soup, she said to him meekly.

"Well, it’s disgusting. So you have my permission not to eat it."

I replied to him incredulously, "Andrew. She likes this soup." And everyone else at the table chimed in as well.

Andrew shoved his chair back and, like a five-year-old, blurted, Well fine! Be that way! and literally stormed out of the room. We all sat in shocked silence.

A few minutes later, he came back and said, Where’s the pizza. I want my pizza now.

His stepmother, bless her heart, calmly replied, Well, if you’re not going to eat the soup, then there is no pizza for you. You could hear a pin drop as he stared at her in disbelief. He then, stomped his foot (no, I’m not exaggerating), spun on his heel and stormed down into their basement to watch TV. Again, the room fell silent, until his younger brother began to giggle. The giggle broke the tension and then one of his relatives turned to his stepmom and said, Bravo. Bravo.

His sister turned to me and said, I don’t know how you live with that. I just shook my head. Another epic Andrew moment.

On other occasions, similar comments were made by his family to me. His slovenly behavior was usually one of the common discussions.

Andrew refused to put his dirty laundry into the hamper, and I stuck by my rule of, If it’s not in the hamper, it doesn’t get washed. I learned the hard way with him because I was the one to iron his work clothes. He would bring his wrinkled clothes to me all the time and, like a dutiful wife, I ironed them to his exact specifications. After the umpteenth time of passing the iron over the armpit of a shirt and smelling musky sweat and deodorant, I realized that I was ironing a dirty shirt—again. I stopped ironing his clothes altogether. You can imagine the pouting and foot stomping that occurred whenever he was running late in his usual Dagwood Bumstead fashion and realized that he had not clean work clothes… or underwear, for that matter.

The childish behavior was not the worst part of it all, it was the emotional tirade against Daniella. It was a text-book school-yard-bully situation. Andrew was so insecure, that he had to prey on the weaker of the pack in order to feel like King Shit. He wasn’t the dominant lion king that he thought he was, he was the pathetic hyena with the bulgy eyes and tongue hanging out. (Sorry, I think I’ve watched Lion King way too many times over the years.)

Andrew was a very scholastically-intelligent person, so I did lean on him considerably when it came to Daniella’s homework. His way of teaching though, left so much to be desired. He spoke to her like she was an idiot, and expected her to understand everything when he used complex formulas and explanations. When she didn’t understand, he wouldn’t take the time to explain it to her in a more-simplified manner; he’d just bark it at her and ask her if she was stupid or something. It was because of that behavior, Daniella would immediately put up defensive walls whenever I asked him to help. Her grades began to slip and her self-esteem began to fall through the floor.

What I once thought was a beautiful blending of souls ended up being the culmination of Daniella’s suicidal thoughts. He proved correct of my tongue-in-cheek saying, Parents these days don’t need to save for their kids’ education—they need to save for their therapy fund.

Daniella’s negative feelings were also fuelled by how cold I was towards Andrew as well. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I used to be so good and putting on a good face when she was around, but no more. I couldn’t hide my disgust anymore. Daniella and I both lived with the attitude of just trying to get through each day with him, but now, four years later, we had finally escaped that misery. Now Daniella and I were gathering up the broken pieces of our hearts and embarking on our new future together—man-childless.

August 2006 (two weeks before school started up again), I found a place for us to live. Our new home was about fifteen minutes from where we had lived with Andrew. I could hop on a bus that would take me right downtown to my new job. I would be saving on car expenses and could get home quicker to spend time with my daughter. Because Andrew had left me in a huge amount of debt and didn’t pay a dime in child support, cost effectiveness became my middle name.

The months that followed were filled with so much sadness and self-pity that I didn’t think I’d ever be capable of moving forward. I found a well-paying job I didn’t really care for, but it helped to validate me again as a person because I had stopped believing I had what it took to be successful in a professional career.

The hours were long and the responsibilities numerous, but I was starting to feel a little better about myself as a businessperson. Unfortunately though, the long hours caused an imbalance in my life with my thirteen-year-old daughter. Despite my goals to get home faster and spend more time with her, I barely saw her; yet she was always so gracious about my absence—she knew I was doing it for our betterment. What an angel. But still, I was very aware that thirteen was a crucial age and that I needed to be there for her as much as possible.

After about six months of separation, friends started talking about dating. Dating? Oh, my gawd! I couldn’t even imagine it. I was in four relationships during my life: a long-term high school boyfriend, a fiancé, a husband, and a husband. I knew them all before becoming involved with them, so there was no dating per se. I never had self-confidence, so when a man showed interest, had ten fingers, ten toes, and no sign of a serious nervous tick, I figured he was good enough for me.

Am I even ready for this? This idea of dating?

The thought of it overwhelmed me and I pushed the idea out of my head. I was definitely not ready to put myself out there so soon. So you can fully grasp why I was so gun-shy about dating again, I will offer you a window into my past love life.

This is the part where I stare pensively at the ceiling as soft harp music fades us into the memories of my past…

CHAPTER 2

MATT AND RODOLFO

As I closed in on my twenty-first birthday in 1990, my high-school boyfriend of four and a half years said in passing, I’ll probably be a bachelor for the rest of my life.

What?

We weren’t fighting, we didn’t hate each other… it was just a comment while we were out for a drive one day. Matt was my first love and my best friend and he knew I wanted the white picket fence and 2.4 kids package deal.

I had to make a decision about my future and our relationship. I loved Matt’s mom, and she adored me, and he and my parents felt the same way about each other too; I think that’s why we stayed together as long as we did. Our relationship was comfortable and we settled into the routine of an old married couple.

I met Matt in 1986, when we were both in eleventh grade. His friend had just moved in at the end of my street. I remember what a scandal it was when his friend moved in. Here we were, a neighborhood of average nuclear families and a—duhn-d-dun-dun-duuuhn—divorced single dad moved in with his two teenage boys (who were, by the way, both from different mothers). I had lived on that street since I was two and there had never been a divorce for as far as our bikes could travel. Wow. Whoddah thunk, that now, uni-marrieds (the term I use for people who have remained married to the same person), would be the oddity. How times have changed.

Anyhoo, back to Matt.

I met him just a year after a brief stint living in France. I hadn’t really dated anyone since, but did have a teenage long distance love affair with a guy I’d met during my class’ tenth grade French exchange to Quebec. What’s my definition of a teenage long distance love affair? Holding hands, making out, contracting mono, and allowing some innocent touching of my young-lady parts. Ah Benoit. Great kisser but his backne (back acne) was so disturbing. The relationship felt serious at the time (and he was very much in love with me), and I wondered if a relationship with this boy (who was a year my junior), could survive the distance until we graduated. I was confident that the backne would clear up one day, and he was so sweet, that I really hoped it could have worked. I think I was just holding onto the false hope because I wanted to be loved. To have a love. It just wouldn’t work though. His mother was dead-set against him seeing a cradle-robber like me. That’s when Matt fell into my lap.

He and his friends were a good group of guys: a nerd, a dumb jock, a nerdy jock, the nerdy jock’s brother who was just average in school but a good athlete, and Matt—the star center of their school’s basketball team. Matt was intelligent, but not nerdy. Cute? Nope. I would call him dorky-looking. Even though they went to a different school (and most lived at a bit of a distance), we all became good friends and hung out a lot. We spent most of our time at their school, where we shot hoops and I honed my basketball skills. I’ll never forget the look on their faces the day I sunk a three-pointer. I haven’t sunk one since, but I’m completely fine living on the memory of my glory days.

I’d always felt more comfortable around guys, and these guys were like brothers. I don’t remember when the shift occurred between me and Matt, but we suddenly became inseparable. I do remember the first kiss, though. It made me melt. Very quickly, I was wearing his letterman jacket and was the envy of all my female classmates as the guys at his school were the most sought-after boyfriend material in town.

I fell deeply in love with Matt and absolutely loved that he was my best friend. I could be me and I could tell him anything. He was also pretty damn smart, so he helped me with my homework, which was an added bonus. I knew we were going to be together forever and couldn’t imagine my life without him. That’s when I decided to give him my everything. Matt and I were both virgins, and even though I didn’t believe in sex before marriage, I justified it knowing that he’d be my one and only.

Before Matt came into my life, a couple of other guys had shown interest in me, but I always went to my emotional bottom line: Do I want to spend the rest of my life with him? No?

No thank you, I don’t want to go to the movies with you.

I am logical that way. If I couldn’t see our future together, I was not going to waste his time or mine. But Matt was different… I simply could not imagine life without him.

Then it happened. Veronica met her distrusting side.

I was at Matt’s one day and came across a collection of dirty magazines. Okay, when I say that out loud, I sound like an old hen. Is there a more hip term for them? I dunno, I guess I’m just not that hip. Anyhoo, I found a large stack of these magazines and my hands started to shake. I was so insecure about myself, my body, my face—my everything—that I felt sick to my stomach. Was I not enough for him? Did I confront him about it? No. Of course not… cowards don’t do that. Instead, I spread the magazines out over his mattress and covered them with his quilt. Needless to say, I got a call from him later that night. He was upset, but he never got mad at me. He explained that his mom sometimes went into his room to use his phone and could have found them. Even though I wasn’t really sorry for what I did, I apologized, and shared my insecurities with him. Being the wonderful boyfriend that he was, Matt told me I was enough for him and said he would get rid of the magazines. But the damage was done.

I became increasingly paranoid and jealous, without provocation. Although I was conscious of how irrationally I was behaving, I couldn’t stop myself. One shameful night I snuck up to the window of his friend’s house to see if he was in there playing Dungeons and Dragons like he said. Yes… Dungeons and Dragons was how that group spent their Friday nights. Well, that and painting D&D figurines (which I secretly enjoyed doing with him).

My jealousy and paranoia led to a few breakups, but Matt always came back a few days later and forgave me. I did, however, find out that he had stored the dirty magazines at his friend’s house so he could still have visitation rights. I was devastated and no longer trusted him at all. It was exactly during our relationship that I started having serious emotional issues.

This is probably the part where the shrink tells me to lay back on his leather couch and tell him about my childhood; and say things like and how did that make you feeeel? So I guess I should pause and tell you a little more about the awkward little freckle-faced redhead.

In 1970, I was born into a blended family. In those days, the term, blended family didn’t exist; and I never thought of us as anything abnormal. My sister was three and a half years older than me and she was just that—my sister. My dad legally adopted her and was the only father she ever knew. My dad, as far as I could tell, loved her like his own; and I think she felt the same way too. She was an adorable brunette with big blue eyes and ginormous dimples. I thought she was perfect and idolized her. As I grew older though, I tried to keep my jealousy towards her buried. She was so cool, had a ton of friends, and she and our mom were thick as thieves. I really didn’t feel close to my mother, and always felt like I could do nothing right in her eyes.

My sister was so outgoing, and I was the polar opposite. I was shy and embarrassed easily. I was constantly the butt of everyone’s jokes because of my behavior or appearance. I felt like God’s little joke: take the formula of everything wrong and wrap it all up in one child. That was me. That was how I felt in my skin. And even though everyone told me daily how shy I was, whenever I was one-on-one with someone, I’d gab uncontrollably. I was always mocked for how much I talked. I remember one business dinner that I got to attend with my parents. I felt like such a big girl and one of the men asked me if I wanted to ride back to our house in his car (no, nothing weird—he wasn’t a perv). I was so excited to go, because he had a big luxury car. But just as I was about to get in, my mother made some mocking comment to him to be careful because I’d talk his face off. I was mortified and had to fight back my tears. I sat in the front seat of his car in absolute silence even though he did his best to engage me in conversation.

Humiliation like that was a regular occurrence in my life. It wasn’t just my mother though, it was a lot of the people around me. I seemed to always be the whipping boy. It also didn’t help that I was quite awkward and didn’t fit in, even at the best of times. One of the worst though, was when I got my first period while at work at my parents company, and my mother announced to everyone that I had officially become a woman. I stored things like that in my mental inventory of Things NOT to do when raising a child. It was only after my daughter was born that a friendship between us began to grow.

When I was eleven, I began suffering from undiagnosed knee problems, and the years of constant pain was taking its toll on me. My mom took me to a new doctor or specialist every year, but no one knew what was wrong. I’ve had so many x-rays, that I always say that my glow is not from a sparkling personality, but from being nuked so many times. By the time I went to France for ninth grade, I had been suffering with the pain for four years.

France? Oh, yeah. I lived in France for a school year. It was interesting how that came about.

My parents owned a thriving company, and the bank decided to go back on their promise and demanded their money back. Okay, so that’s the simplified story they told us kids. Anyhoo, when my stepgrandfather died, my parents didn’t want the bank to get a hold of the inheritance, so they decided to spend it. They bought my sister a car and me… Well, my parents came home from work one day with groceries and handed me some bags to put away. As I began unpacking the bag, I pulled out four airline tickets. Yes, that portion of the inheritance was going to be used to ship me off for ten months. Not meaning to sound melodramatic, but I didn’t recall any conversations between us that contained anything that sounded remotely like and so we’re shipping you off to boarding school.

So at the age of fourteen, I was left standing on the doorstep of a school sobbing as I watched my family leave in a taxi. My dad was crying so hard that he couldn’t speak. They called me from their hotel that night, and my father could still barely speak to me, I just kept listening to him blow his big Jewish schnozz in the background. That day in September of 1984 (over the phone), was the first time in my life that I ever recollect my mother telling me she loved me.

I felt like an outcast there. Not only was I my usually awkward and shy self, but now I was in a country where, even though I spoke the language, I was mocked because I couldn’t speak it with a French accent. I sounded like a typical North American tourist. Although I’d been in French Immersion for three years, our teachers never forced us to hone our accents. We all sounded like tourists. My classmates mocked me on my very first day of school, and so I didn’t utter a word in French again for the entire school year. What I did do though, was sit in my room every single night and read French books out loud exaggerating my throaty r’s until they flowed naturally. Thankfully, I was befriended by a Dutch girl who wanted to improve her English—our deal was that she could only speak English to me, and I could only speak French to her. By the end of those ten months, I was completely fluent in French and had the most beautiful accent.

During that same year, I started a very committed drinking and smoking habit. I got and stayed drunk as much as I could to numb the pain of my loneliness and mystery knee problems. It was easy to buy booze in France; families sent their seven-year-olds to the market, so it was easy as pie for me to fuel my newfound habit. As for the smoking. I really don’t know why that happened. I hated the smell of cigarettes. But one day though, I was with some friends and one of the boys pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I snatched them away from him and told him that smoking would kill him and I ran back to the dorm so he couldn’t get them back. I hid them under a pillow at the top of my closet and forgot completely about them. One day though, a couple months later, I pulled the pillow down and the full pack of cigarettes fell to the floor. I don’t know what possessed me, but I lit and smoked one—right down to the filter. It was stale and disgusting. What did I do then? I smoked the rest of the pack and officially began my two-pack-a-day habit.

Most kids that age smoke and drink to fit in; but that wasn’t me. I was a closet smoker and drinker. No one knew that I did it. No one would ever believe that such a goody-goody like me smoked. I guess it was the first solid indicator that I was host to an emotional chasm. By eleventh grade I think I had a full-fledged problem; I drank more than I ate and was miserable all the time. Through all the alcohol combinations, I discovered that Long Island Iced Tea was the drink that numbed my pain the most effectively. I had found my escape.

I thought about ending my life—not because of the knee pain, but because not being alive was all I could think about. So when Matt came into my life, I was already battling these demons. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, nor did I have the skills to even try to understand. The only thing that stopped me from killing myself was that I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting my father, who meant the world to me. Unfortunately for Matt, he met me when I was right smack-dab in the middle of a teenage meltdown.

On at least two occasions, Matt stopped me from taking a handful of pills, and I vividly remember him wrestling a knife out of my hands and throwing me across my kitchen floor. Living in my body was like watching a movie on fast forward. I’d see it going by, but just couldn’t compute everything I saw. To this day I feel sick to my stomach thinking about all the things I put poor, sweet Matt through.

After almost five years with him, I decided that if I didn’t physically leave, I would find myself in the same situation in another five years; and if we broke up then, I would have wasted almost a decade of my life. As cold as that may sound, I’ve always been a little heavy-handed on the bottom lines in my life. Many have commented that I think too much with my brain and not enough with my heart. I’m not insensitive (the sight of a beautiful socket wrench set in a Home Depot ad can bring a tear to my eye, and don’t get me started on the Christmas Coke commercials), but it just seems logical to avoid unnecessary heartache later by