A Rosary or A Xanax?

Wow, where do I come up with this stuff? What must the insides of my mind look like to link together such a succession of thoughts? Or maybe it’s not such a leap after all to lump these topics together in the same blog post, much less the opening line? Perhaps you’ve experienced times in your life filled with such extreme chaos, that you’ve considered almost any alternative just to make the mayhem go away? If so, don’t feel badly, you’re not alone.

Many, many years ago, that’s exactly where I was, and until recently I thought all that misery was far behind me? After all, life looks pretty damn different today than it did, say 15 years ago, or even 5 years ago. The days fly by and what we perceived as perfectly normal last week seems absurd today, so maybe it’s best to just let it all go and enjoy as much as possible in the moment. While that sounds all rosy, upbeat, and uber evolved in theory, my recent reality, at least ever since this past Christmas, has proven the task a taller order than I might have wanted to acknowledge or have been able to accomplish. But before we delve into that and the fall out that is sure to follow, can we just go back a teensy bit?

One day several years ago my life imploded. As a result, I found myself sitting nearly paralyzed with fear on one side of the two chocolate brown, nubby upholstered Kreiss loveseats in the cozy alcove next to the kitchen of our Tabby Lane home, and immediately adjacent French Doors which could have opened to the brick stairway leading to the expanse of green grass between the house, pool, and the beach beyond, but were instead locked in place to accommodate the one little space amidst the other 8000 square feet in the house where the kids and I could sit comfortably together, enjoy a casual meal, share the details of our day, or watch a little T.V. without disturbing Al and whatever he might have had going on in his expansive den/media room just steps away. His ability to turn off the world and exist in what seemed like an impenetrable bubble was uncanny, and also not a quality I possessed. Taking care of everyone else and their needs to the exception of my own was what I did. That “mildly” flawed modus operandi was what led to the occasion being referenced here, and on that specific day there was no comfort nor casualness in the small little space where I sat. Everything felt heavy, like I had shackles attached to my legs, weighting down my every move. It’s anyone’s guess exactly how long I had been sitting in that spot, stuck in an abyss of darkness and demons, seemingly unable to function or effectively process the events of the past 24 hours. In hindsight, it couldn’t have been more than a couple hours, as I had already made breakfast for the kids, dropped A.J. at The Lodge for his Saturday golf lesson, and was back in the refuge of Cottage 64 where the thick stucco walls enveloped me and the enormous ivy-covered enclosed courtyard provided shelter from the world, lending a brief albeit false sense of security. Muffled sounds of women’s voices approached, and I glanced up to see Emily standing with two dear friends, both doctors, and all three staring in my direction. Despite the fog I felt surrounding me, I could hear the rummaging of paper followed by footsteps and noticed Patty’s outreached hand, holding a small but unmistakable pharmacy bag as the three of them moved closer to me. Emily spoke first, saying “Mom, please don’t be angry, but I was scared and didn’t know what to do. I’ve never seen you like this before.” Her voice was trembling, and immediately my friend Mary reached out to comfort my daughter, while Patty moved closer and sat down beside me placing a little, round pinkish-colored tablet in one hand while offering a glass of water with the other. “Take this, Missy,” was all she said. I did as I was told, while Emily and Mary moved around to sit on the opposing loveseat situated immediately across the wooden coffee table separating us. Time felt suspended, but I could still sense the three sets of eyeballs staring my way. That was my first time ever taking a Xanex. It wouldn’t be the last. Tough to believe? Maybe… but which part? I think I’ll pass on answering that for now.

Despite the prescription bottle bearing my name and containing many more of those little pink pills which lived in the “Neverfull” bag resting on a chair next to the cozy brick fireplace which punctuated my large ocean view closet from the bath in Cottage 64, I vowed to myself that after my first “melt-down,” just 24 hours post-divorce service and the brief calm which that one little tablet provided, I wouldn’t take another. Reality dictated that I was staring down the barrel of a wickedly brutal shotgun and the man who held it wouldn’t hesitate to use whatever ammunition he deemed necessary to achieve his desired result. There was absolutely zero chance in hell I was willing to risk my kid’s and my safety or future, for the comfort and fleeting calm that a stupid little pink pill might bring. Al had already accused me in the past of wearing my very Irish background a little too well due to my penchant for enjoying a glass or two of Pinot Grigio each day. No sense in stoking his appetite for destroying anyone he considered a foe. That I was newly relegated to that “special club” was something I was still adjusting to, and the designation would surely require vigilant monitoring as examples of Al’s animus were increasing exponentially. There had been isolated incidents over the years when Al made his disdain for my rare displays of courage abundantly apparent as well as demanding of contrition, but with the advent of this new and very stark battle line being drawn, his fury brought with it an unspoken but frightening intensity. It reminded me of a time in August of 2003. After a disagreement between Al and me regarding whether the kids and I would return to Georgia for the school year after the vicious bullying incident Emily endured towards the end of her 6th grade year, I was insistent that we would not return with the kids for the impending school year. I did not want to subject either of the kids to a school environment which was so tainted and which they so resented. Al responded to our argument by locking me out of a portion of our family’s home, shortly before sliding into “Limo Larry’s” awaiting stretch for travel to LAX, but only after waving his index finger directly in front of my face, saying “how dare you defy me; go get yourself and the kid’s asses packed and ready to travel, or you will find yourself very sorry.” At that juncture, we had spent fourteen years together, been married for ten, brought two kids into the world, survived inconceivable amounts of drama, and still I allowed myself to be treated like a second-class citizen with nothing to say about the daily workings of our kid’s lives, or my own. However, that same set of circumstances, combined with a very complicated history as Al’s other half, uniquely qualified me to understand that the only way to resolve the situation at hand was by acquiescing to Al’s directive. I doubt a single Xanex or a Rosary, on that occasion would have changed any details of the event, but the future would prove chock full of many more such “opportunities” to test the efficacy of both Xanaxes and Rosaries.

I couldn’t have predicted that almost exactly four years later, and so quickly after my first introduction to a Xanex, I might once again be compelled to endure another example of Al’s willful, destructive control issues, as well as another unilateral changing of the locks to our homes in California, especially with our two children being thrust directly in the middle of and subjected to such a nasty and petty act.

OCTOBER, 2007 ~ “JUST TWO MONTHS EARLIER, OUR LITTLE DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY OF FOUR, COMPLETE WITH 3 DOGS AND SQUIRT THE TURTLE LEFT THIS HOME, ALL TOGETHER ABOARD OUR LEAR FOR THE SCHOOL YEAR IN GEORGIA, ALONG WITH AL’S MASTER PLAN/DESIGN WORK, AN INCREASINGLY EXTRAVAGANT, YET APPARENTLY DISSATISFYING LIFESTYLE, AND WHATEVER OTHER IMPETUS HAD SUCKED AL INTO THE SEA ISLAND COMPANY AND COMMUNITY A DECADE AND A HALF EARLIER.”

The latest event was discovered on a sunny Friday afternoon as our kids and I arrived at Freehaven’s enormous iron-encased front entryway (shown in a picture of my own taking above) following 19 hours of travel from Georgia for a pre-arranged as well as a court (and Al) approved visit to our home and family in California. Recurring violations of an “automatic stay” meant nothing to Al. What’s more, it was clear Al couldn’t have cared less about the pain and constant instability he inflicted upon our two children as collateral damage of his attacks on me. Everyone and everything were “fair game,” when Al had his sights set on achieving a singularly focused objective… whatever it might be?

I didn’t anticipate this reaction, but the moment Emily figured out what happened with the locks at Freehaven, she immediately dialed her father’s cell. Simultaneously, I dialed my legal counsel while both kids and I stood in the midst of Al’s painstakingly designed and harshly directed placement of the “fishtail pattern” stone courtyard, installed by two to three terrified artisans employed to execute Al’s bidding. My outreach resulted in a receptionist taking a message; my daughter’s outreach was successful, as Al answered her call. This is how it went, if you were on our end of the conversation…

“Dad, are you purposefully trying to hurt me and A.J.? You agreed to this trip, and you know we’re here in part so I can take an Admissions Test for school. We talked about it just last week. I was really hurt when out of spite you refused to let us fly on the jet, but now you lock us out of our home too? Are you that disturbed and controlling? I mean, go ahead and be horrible to Mom and me, but A.J. is 11 years old and he is really struggling through this twisted mess and obsessive game you seem determined to play out. We aren’t pawns on a chessboard. You’ve humiliated and made us the equivalent of guppies in a fishbowl for all of Sea Island and St. Simon’s to judge and gossip about, while you do whatever you please, when you please. You disgust me.”

Emily’s volatile outburst was the second or third time over the past two months, when she unleashed a certain fury in her father’s direction. The first two occasions occurred following his repeated denials of extracurricular affairs. One might have assumed that after 16 years, Al would not have so underestimated his very bright and tenacious daughter. Perhaps he even mistakenly put Emily in the same box where he “filed” his older two daughters? Heaven knows neither of them would have ever considered standing up to their father in that manner, particularly at Emily’s age. But then it’s doubtful that either of the older women would have had the wherewithal or chutzpah to calmly, quietly, and steadfastly gather both written and irrefutable proof of their father’s transgressions prior to confronting him and then informing their mother of the same? Emily did.

While I applauded my daughter’s gumption and knew that every word she spoke was true, I also feared the fallout from her call. Sure enough, within 30 minutes Al proceeded to stir the proverbial legal rumor mill by instigating several calls filled with false statements to his legal team, thus igniting a flurry of heated email exchanges between both sides of attorneys. In the short term, that single phone exchange generated about $2700 worth of attorney’s fees for me, but it also struck a blow to Al’s outrageous ego and what he surely must have assumed would be a presumptive victory. For that very reason, perhaps the single “win” was worth all the “agida” and expense, but it was also another exhausting experience in what was just the beginning of a long, dark journey.

*“MY COLLECTION OF SCREENSHOTS GATHERED OVER THE YEARS PROVES AWFULLY HELPFUL FROM TIME TO TIME… LIKE NOW.*
EVEN THOUGH I’VE NEVER HAD ANY CONTACT WITH THE SOURCE OF THIS PEARL OF WISDOM, I SURE DO AGREE WITH THE ASSESSMENT, AND SINCERELY WISH MORE FAMILY LAW COUNSEL AND COURTS WOULD ACKNOWLEDGE THE REALITY REFLECTED IN THOSE WORDS.
*LEGAL AND/OR COURT MANDATED COPARENTING IS OFTEN UNTENABLE, DAMAGING, AND EVEN DANGEROUS.*

A year later, I had lost count of the litany of other similar circumstances we endured proving the veracity of the graphic above. As assorted past blog entries detail, by the time we were back home in California one year following my first Xanex, the home negotiated for the kids and me in our Settlement Agreement had fallen through, and true to form Al also refused to adhere to the rental house provision that had been stipulated to during mediation as an interim solution should it become necessary. Instead, the three of us as well as our three dogs and Squirt the turtle were enmeshed, neither easily nor happily, in my Mom’s 1900 square foot, two bedroom, two bath home, adjusting to a very new and disparate reality. My Mom was incredibly gracious in her invitation when she initially made it, as a week-long stopgap measure following the divorce’s finalization. Three months later, the stress which filled the walls and collection of bodies (4 humans, 5 canines and a turtle) within that modest home was incalculable. Al was not availing himself of any of his legally provided custodial time with our young son, and Emily had made it clear to anyone who would listen that any time she might choose to spend with her father would hinge solely upon her terms. I suppose I should be grateful that during those early months and the years following the divorce, Al exhibited almost zero concern or thought for his children. It felt like Emily and A.J. represented nothing more to their father than financial leverage he could use to manipulate our ongoing legal battle. It made my life far easier in one respect, although his lack of any parental expression totally screwed with both kid’s emotions, confidence, and vulnerability. That Emily was merely months away from her 18th birthday provided she was legally entitled to express her feelings towards her father, without fear of legal retribution, which was then unfortunately redirected towards me. None of the emotional strife and conflict our children experienced appeared to faze their father whatsoever, and several more months later, the mounting tension within our little unit of three was like living with a time bomb. No-one in our midst seemed capable of wrapping their minds around how our divorce could have been finalized months (even years) earlier, but the kids and I were still without 90% of what was negotiated and promised in the Settlement Agreement. I was beyond frustrated and pissed-off myself, so who was I to question or blame those other doubting minds. I couldn’t begin to fathom why any of the bizarre mess was still occurring. Why were there were more negotiations taking place between both sides of attorneys everyday of every week despite having an executed, court-approved, and recorded divorce judgement in place? The kids didn’t understand either, and I was at a complete loss to provide the answers they sought. To top it all off, I was still paying two teams of attorneys in two different States to combat and wade through the swamp of alligators constantly circling. The pressure of keeping our kid’s lives “on track,” (if you could call it that) was left to me and I felt the constant burden of failure.

*I WAS NEW AT EMAILING WHEN THIS EXCHANGED OCCURRED, SO I HADN’T QUITE CAUGHT ON TO CHECKING FOR AUTO-CORRECT AND OTHER “OPERATOR ERRORS.”*
*PERHAPS I’VE SHARED THIS POIGNANT INSIGHT BEFORE?*
*SOME STATEMENTS BEAR REPEATING… THIS IS ONE OF THEM.*

Have you ever been to a good, old-fashioned County fair, you know the type of carnival event that’s bursting with food and beverage vendors, roller coasters, Ferris wheels, petting zoos, a carousel or two, and game booths where you toss ping pong balls to win a fish, or throw darts at inflated balloons to win a teddy bear? If so, maybe you remember a ride called the “Gravitron?” You know, it’s the ride where you stand up, strapped to a cage-like cylinder with a padded backing and when the control panel is engaged, the rocket type capsule leaves the ground at breakneck speed while you ascend higher and higher into the air and then, BAM… the floor drops out from below your feet, and the whole world feels like it’s in a state of free-fall. That take your breath away (not in a good way) feeling is exactly what those days, months and years felt like.

I wish I couldn’t recall with such vivid detail the numerous times when that darn “Gravitron” feeling gripped me. Perhaps even more so, I wish I had some explanation as to why I often felt numb or blind as the negativity occurred, failing to grasp the reality of the red flags that should have been flashing furiously, when other instances prompted total clarity? The unpredictability of it all was, and often still, remains staggering to consider. But maybe, that was Al’s goal all along? Perhaps, I had been conditioned over time to accept all the crazy-making, much like one of Pavlov’s dogs? If so, will I ever shake the impact of the “Gravitron” for good?

I sit here today, reluctant to report that the answer thus far, is a “no.” While the ground swell of terror has been reduced over time, in no way has it completely disappeared. So, what do we think… time for a Rosary or a Xanex?

The unpredictability of Al’s actions must have been somewhat contagious. The type of “mind-fuckery” that living with a narcissistic sociopath can create is unfathomable. For example, what possessed me early that Labor Day morning in 2007 following a tearful but detailed disclosure from my daughter the previous evening about her father’s affair as well as her confrontation of the subject with him, to awaken earlier than usual and confront Al myself? That was decidedly not my routine reaction to such stressful and momentous news. I hated conflict; still do. Yet somehow with only “mild” trepidation on that particular morning, I confronted Al and told him in no uncertain terms to get the hell out of the house. I’ll never forget saying to Al, “your behavior is unacceptable. This… you… are definitely not the kind of role model I want our Son to emulate, nor are your’s the actions of a man that our Daughter should ever tolerate. So just leave, now!”

While Al insisted when speaking to Emily that she was dead wrong about the affair and should be ashamed for suggesting such a thing, that was not the tact he took during his conversation with me. Nooo… instead, he chose to say, “Christie is nothing, just a friend. Emily has it all wrong.” Again, in contrast to any typical response I might have normally given, I merely told him (once more) to leave… and 5 minutes later, with his briefcase and tennis bag in hand, that’s exactly what he did. That I was forceful, didn’t shed a tear, and don’t recall feeling all weak and trembly, bolstered my confidence, at least temporarily. For the first time in months, I felt a rush of empowerment. Al’s “flip-flopping” over the next ten days or so was both disconcerting and destructive though. One day he was conciliatory and begging me for another chance, and the next day he would lash out, saying what a grave mistake I was making and that I had no idea what type of harm he was capable of inflicting. Turn’s out, on that last count he had me dead to rights.

Two and a half weeks later I was sitting frozen on a couch taking my first Xanex. Where was my gumption then, huh? Or what about a week later, or for the entire next year, when I was forced to walk through his damn closet, smelling all “cedar-y” mixed with the residual hint of male muskiness, to wash my hair in the huge Master Suite shower, feeling both helpless and pitiful, terrified to throw away either any, or every last stitch, of his shit out into the street. No amount of Rosary recitation felt adequate then. What I really needed was a big, sharp, cattle prod or “hot shot” to the arss… his, not mine.

FOR ANYONE, ANYWHERE, WHO MAY FIND THEMSELVES READING THIS… TAKE “GRANDMA’S ADVICE” TO HEART.

A couple days ago, I stopped at a local gas station to fill the Defender with fuel. Afterwards, I entered the small mini-mart on the property to pick up a bottle of my new favorite “Life” water and was stopped dead in my tracks upon opening the door, as I recognized the song that was playing inside. The lyrics to Sting’s song, “Every Breath You Take” filled the small retail space, and I couldn’t help but flashback to a time, just a month or two in, at the beginning of our relationship, when Al and I were readying his new Rancho Santa Fe house for a dinner gathering we were hosting that evening and the very same song emanated from Al’s new whole-house sound system that he recently installed. Suddenly, Al reached for me and said, “this is my song for you… our song,” before touching my face and kissing me.

“Every Breath You Take” by The Police

Every breath you take
And every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
I'll be watching you

Every single day
And every word you say
Every game you play
Every night you stay
I'll be watching you

Oh, can't you see
You belong to me?
How my poor heart aches
With every step you take?

Every move you make
And every vow you break
Every smile you fake
Every claim you stake
I'll be watching you

I don’t know a single adult who hasn’t heard that song at some point in their life. Similarly, I also don’t, or didn’t, know the average reaction to, or takeaway from the message imparted within those lyrics? When Al first proclaimed it “our song” decades ago, I remember thinking his sentiment was oddly sweet and complimentary.

Now… that recollection and my misguided thought process of the time is truly worthy of a “what the fuck?”

The other day as I waited in line at the convenience store, my internal reaction as I took in the lyrics to the song wafting through the store, my instincts aligned more closely to the “Gravitron” analogy. What in the world could I have been thinking all those years ago? In what world could those lyrics be misconstrued as lovingly thoughtful or caring? Perhaps, Al was thinking of poor Lorraine (the previous girlfriend who committed suicide in Al’s (actually Prince Bandar’s) waterfront estate in Mill Neck, New York) when he thought about those song lyrics?

I left the gas station but when I arrived back home, I still wasn’t able to shake the beleaguered and creepy chill I felt, so I decided to do a basic online search in an effort to confirm that the “Gravitron” impulse I felt in the mini-mart was more relevant to the “Every Breath You Take” lyrics, than the misguided interpretation I chose to go with so many years ago. In part, this is what I found…

CHAOS & COPARENTING: Not for the Faint of Heart

“The List, The Accountant… & The Lobster”