by Kim Goldman
So my guard stays up as I secretly hope that I’m not too much to handle—just enough to love.
* * *
One of my jarring nights out was with “Rabbi boyfriend” (he kept kosher so his nickname was easy), whom I met online. After four hours of intense and deep conversation, he finally connected all the dots, without me actually giving him the pencil and paper, and loudly blurts out that he had met my brother at Mezzaluna on the night of his murder. He had made his acquaintance just hours before Ron died. He said he had sat next to Nicole and her family and had chatted a bit with Ron as he moved through the restaurant.
Rabbi said he always wondered what would have happened if he had been the one who saw the glasses in the street, as opposed to my brother. Rabbi then went on to tell me that years later, when he was looking to move his family, he went to an open house at our Agoura home. He actually remembered what my bedroom looked like, including the color of the carpet and the pictures displayed on the mantel. I couldn’t believe his memory nearly twelve years later!
I will admit, that was a first for me: Someone I was highly attracted to, and anxious to see again, met my brother hours before he lost his life.
We didn’t have a second date.
But Tagger is different. He and I continue to spend time together, and the romance is building. I feel smitten for the first time since my horrible breakup from Vegas a few years earlier. In a moment of vulnerability I float the idea of taking a trip together, and Tagger said yes!
I am worried that my ex-husband won’t take our son for his scheduled visit over spring break, but I make plans anyway, crossing every appendage and limb I can to ensure that my long-overdue vacation would come to fruition.
Tagger and I board a plane to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, a few weeks later. It’s the first vacation that both of us had had in years. We’re so excited to get away, and even more so to be together.
This trip is a turning point in more ways than one.
I won’t bore you with all the sordid details of our wonderful trip, spent at a swanky boutique hotel, with long hallways opened and exposed to the warm ocean breeze, with beautiful orange sunsets every night, long walks on the beach, parasailing high above the waves, and relaxing under the warm sun. I’ll only share the one thing that changed the course of the whole relationship.
One night Tagger and I stumbled into a little family-owned restaurant hidden on a cobblestone street, adjacent to the main road and the more commercial restaurants. The beaten-down, rustic green-blue door was nestled behind a moss-covered overlay. A lone chair sat out front, with a flashing Corona sign hanging just above it. We knew this was a local spot, a possible dive, which we wanted to check out. Once we opened the door, it was like entering a whole new city. We are immediately greeted by an older man, who offers us each a tall shot of their local tequila, while an authentic mariachi band entertains the crowd with their jovial singing. Patrons clap and sing along; the place roars with excitement and energy.
We quickly melted into the crowd, but soon got lost in our own world. We held hands, and stole a few kisses in between bites of burritos, fajitas, and “mas tequila.” We gazed longingly into each other’s hazel eyes. The mood was just right for two people to fall in love.
“Te quiero mucho,” he said.
“What? Taco?” I answered.
“Te quiero mucho.”
“What are you talking about?”
Tagger motioned for the waiter to come over. “What does ‘Te quiero’ mean?”
The waiter laughed at being cast in the role of translator.
Apparently, after too many hours of watching sports TV, and the constant flood of fast-food ads, Tagger had confused the Taco Bell Chihuahua’s catchphrase with what he had intended to say.
“No, senor, you say ‘T’amo mucho’ to this senora bonita,” the waiter good-naturedly instructed in his role of Cupid.
“Ah, T’amo mucho, Kim.”
Despite how loud the music had become, it was as if it all had stopped cold as the words came out of his mouth: “T’amo.”
I didn’t speak Spanish, only French, but I knew “T’amo.”
My heart skipped. I didn’t realize how much I had longed to hear “I love you,” but when I heard it, the hairs on my neck stood up. The butterflies were released to run amuck on my innards—but wait! Does it still count in Spanish?
I suddenly questioned the monumental moment that seems muddied with tequila and beer. Maybe he was just goofing around, and it slipped out. Maybe he got embarrassed because the waiter was there, laughing at him.
Oh, who cares!
“T’ amo,” I said back as we toasted with another shot of tequila, and sealed the deal with a very long, sexy, wet kiss.
That would be the last time Tagger ever said those words to me.
* * *
The next handful of months are rough. Tagger starts to retreat. He goes into his “man cave” for days on end, sending me into a tailspin, wondering what I had done to cause him to run away. I get so angry when he disappears, as if it were some personal attack on me. I find it increasingly difficult to find room in my heart for his disappearing acts, which he claims are stress induced from work.
I try to give him room to breathe, to find his way into this new relationship that had evolved so quickly. He once told me that he was afraid that if anyone got too close to him, she wouldn’t like what she saw and would leave.
That phrase resonates with me like no other I had heard before. I know what abandonment feels like. I know that feeling of loving someone so much that your heart aches from feeling so full; I also know the loss of control you feel when you watch them walk away, leaving you to repair your mangled heart. I assure him that I will never do that. I will never be the one to make him feel the wretched feeling tucked away in my soul from my mother and from Vegas.
Tagger’s level of vulnerability is so heartfelt, and so sincere, that it makes him more attractive to me. I am thankful to have met someone who can go deep, who can talk about his fears, his truth. So I’ll do whatever I can to help him feel safe, nurtured, loved, and revered.
But is he doing that for me?
Tagger is so inconsistent and unreliable in his attention toward me that I am in a constant state of flux. My insecurities are at an all-time high, and I start to question if my need and desire to spend time with him—to connect with him on a daily basis—are reasonable requests.
Maybe I am too needy.
Maybe I am using him to validate my insecurities.
Maybe I am in my head too much, and it has nothing to do with me but everything to do with him.
I process constantly. I am known for being a bit too introspective and I didn’t shed that façade during my time with Tagger; in fact, I perfected it.
I think about everything, but because I am so unsure of where I stand with him and am so afraid to ask for fear of the answer, I stay in my head.
Tagger is great at the talking, but not at the doing. The constant push and pull exhausts me. He is not a spiteful man; in fact, we used to joke that he was too aloof to know how to manipulate a situation to his own benefit. Often he’ll say, “It’s not that I meant to exclude you, it’s just I didn’t even think of you. I am so sorry.”
Honestly, hearing those words is worse than his checking out as often as he did. What he was really saying was that I wasn’t even considered. I wasn’t worth the thought.
Maybe I am not good at clearly stating what I need. But then, how could I be? I never really learned the gift of compromise and sacrifice. I was so afraid that if I expressed a need, or shared a disappointment, or stuck up for myself if my feelings were hurt, that I would piss people off and they would say “screw it” and bail on me.
Over time, I realize that I’ve developed this warped sense of self-worth and an unhealthy definition for love. I thought I was a kick-ass girl, and believed in my heart that people were inherently good, and nobody would willingly want to hurt me or do wrong by me
. So when bad behaviors occurred, I found every rationalization under the sun, even when they didn’t make sense.
But deep down, all that negativity is secretly latching onto my heart and sucking all the energy out of my confidence, therefore hindering my ability to find an appropriate and available partner. And in making all of these compromises to make it okay for these people to be in my life, they still all left—either emotionally or physically.
I just don’t know how to decipher between what is a legitimate need of mine, or a need for acceptance. But I want to be better at that, because my needs are important. I know myself well enough at this point: I acknowledge the things I am not willing to negotiate on and the things I am willing to give in to.
I am slinking back into all my old patterns. I worked and worked so hard to not be that girl again.
I am so thirsty for affection that I am willing to let Tagger’s unsavory behaviors slide a bit, because I don’t want to be abandoned. I never want to be the reason that someone leaves my life, so I become incredibly accommodating, and increasingly “cool and easygoing.”
At the time, I don’t realize that I am lowering my expectations and standards to keep this relationship alive and a part of my world. On some basic level, I know I wasn’t getting my needs met, but being told I am “needy” by Tagger stings. I know I am not being treated with the respect I deserve, but I care deeply for him. I am committed to making it work.
He is a good man, with a good heart, and I need to find a way to be enough for both of us, while we work out the kinks.
In an effort to make a cozy environment, I take the scraps and clean up the mess left behind in the wake of disappointment.
The tribal council resurrects their roles. They are adamant that I abort the love mission, pull back, and regain my sense of self.
I finally reach the point with Tagger where I feel myself completely shutting down. I stop listening to his excuses and hearing that my expectations are too high.
* * *
Throughout my sessions with my therapist, Joel Adelman, I realize that what I am requesting from my partner is not outlandish. He refers to my needs as “beige,” meaning they are basic necessities that humans expect from each other. He reminds me that someone calling me “needy” is someone who can’t meet my needs.
That never occurred to me. I always just internalized that rejection, and assumed I wasn’t worth the effort.
I always assumed that if someone really loved me, they would scale mountains. It never dawned on me that maybe they are just not capable, even if they wanted to do it. I believed in my heart that Tagger loved me, but maybe he wasn’t equipped to give me what I wanted and needed. I can’t relive this type of relationship again.
I know that drastic measures need to be taken to salvage my heart and protect my sanity. Not to mention, provide Tagger with some relief from my constant complaining about how small and insignificant I felt in our relationship. He is always apologizing, and I am always suffering.
If we don’t act fast, we will self-combust.
I tell Tagger what I learned in therapy; he is very receptive. We agree that we can use some help, so we visit his therapist first.
Within ten minutes of our ninety-minute meeting, she makes it very clear that she doesn’t approve of me and is very unsupportive of our relationship. It is painfully obvious to me that she is determined to sabotage our relationship with every comment and suggestion she makes.
When I express concern over Tagger’s mood swings and “checkouts,” she says I’m not patient enough and need to be more respectful of his time, because he works so hard at his job. I need to learn to give him more time to recharge and need to be patient while he decides when he will come back around.
She blames me for everything, including accusing me of contributing to Tagger’s depression because of my outlandish requests for connection.
She says outright that, due to my obvious “mother issues,” I will never be happy or content with any man, because I am incapable of being pleased.
I am crushed to a pulp in a matter of minutes.
I believe, in my heart, that she was not providing him with tools to get healthy, but enabling him to stay stuck in his stuff, so that she can feel needed by him and justify her existence in his life. It is so twisted to watch, and so obvious to me. I know in my heart that if Tagger continues to work with her, she will destroy our chances of success.
I refuse to meet with her again and, thankfully, Tagger is still open to talking with someone, so we visit my therapist, whom I treasure and trust completely.
* * *
Joel was a gift given to me by my friend Jode Mann, who started seeing him after her mother had passed away from cancer. Jode and I were great friends, having met during the civil trial when I was working on HBO’s The Larry Sanders Show. She expressed how much Joel had helped her during the early months of her mourning period and she thought he would be a perfect fit for me.
I have been with him for about twelve years, taking a break here and there. My dad always gets all uptight and nervous when I mention “Joel”; he thinks something has to be wrong with you to be in therapy. However, I like to have room to say whatever I am feeling and thinking without fear of criticism or judgment.
I loved having a safe space just to be pissed and sad, crazy and confused, allowing me to be raw, vulnerable, and exposed. For two hours a month, in the comfort of his office, I can let it all go, sitting on the exact same section of the couch that I have from the very first visit.
Joel knew I was struggling with some of my own intimacy issues from past relationships, which had shown up again with Tagger. He suggested a meeting with the three of us. I was concerned about Tagger knowing too much about my feelings, and feeling bombarded, but I trusted Joel’s ability to separate.
I invited Tagger to a session in a last-ditch effort to save our relationship. I was pretty much on my last legs and ready to walk.
Tagger came willingly, and our first session was healthy. He talked about his life, his job, his stress, his family, and his desires to be in a healthy relationship. He admitted that he struggled with me, and felt like he was constantly disappointing me.
We spent time exploring what we wanted from each other, and shared what we meant to one another. We committed to making this work and agreed that we see the value in our relationship and the future of it. We made an appointment for a second meeting the following week.
The week in between our next session was the worst ever, despite all of our declarations in Joel’s office. Tagger was emotionally and physically absent all week, barely returning phone calls and e-mails. And when he did, he was curt.
How could I make a relationship work with a man who wouldn’t even respond to me?
* * *
My heart sinks at the realization that I am close to ending our relationship, just after declaring my commitment to it.
About five days pass with virtually no connection between us until Thursday, when Tagger makes the long drive from Santa Monica, as he often did after work, to spend the night.
When I greet him at the door, it is strained, for sure. I don’t feel very loving, and he definitely senses my shutdown. Sam had waited up to see him; they had a very sweet relationship, which I loved watching evolve. They high-five each other, share a laugh, and then I put Sam to bed.
Tagger changes his clothes and then finds me back in the kitchen. I pour us a glass of wine, with the hope that would help loosen the grip on the tension that bound us. I want to make the most of our night together. But I can’t help the anger I feel; it is suffocating me. I just want to lash out.
However, when I look into his eyes, they are filled with sadness and regret, and it softens me. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze as tightly as I can, not wanting to let go.
As we stand in a deep embrace, I wonder if this will be the last time. I hate this nagging feeling deep in my heart that we are nearing the end.
We have a jam-packe
d weekend in front of us, so we need to get back on track to make the most of it. Tagger is a University of Southern California alumnus and has season tickets for football. He has plans to go to the football game versus Arizona State on that Saturday, but he’ll drive out to my neighborhood to make our seven o’clock dinner reservations. A few of my friends and I are getting together to meet Michele’s new boyfriend.
On Sunday, we’re taking Sam, Tagger’s nephew, and some other kids to a carnival at my friend Vicki’s kids’ school. Denise and the twins will meet us there as well.
With a Dodgers/Phillies baseball game to wrap it all up, it should shape up to be a fun-filled weekend together of good old family time. It has been awhile since we did that. We speak in the morning, and text a few times before noon.
Tagger never shows up for dinner and doesn’t return any of my calls or texts until about eleven the next morning. I’m a mess. I called him all night, fearing that he had been killed in a car accident.
A lot of people will tell you that they get scared when they don’t hear from a loved one, but on some primal level, they really know all will be all right in the end.
I’m not like that. It has been my real-life experience that people you love can be killed, people can be maimed, people can be abducted and driven away. When I don’t hear back from a friend or a family member, I don’t panic because I am a drama queen. I legitimately get scared because I know firsthand that tragedy is a real possibility, not just a plot device on CSI.
When I finally get confirmation by his mom and brother that he is asleep in his house, my fears change quickly into rage.
They slough it off as no big deal, but I was out of my mind. This wasn’t the first time that Tagger had disappeared on me, but this time it didn’t just affect me: Not only am I horribly embarrassed that my long-standing boyfriend completely stood me up in front of my close friends Lisa and Michele, but he left me high and dry with a gaggle of kids to supervise at a carnival.
