When Love Goes Bad

by AnonYMous

  In truth, whenever he came near me, I did get physically ill. The man who I would have once moved heaven and earth to be with was now nothing more to me than a repulsive troll.

  Thank God we had decided to fly home. The flight seemed to take forever. Luis sat beside me on the plane, making idle chitchat, and I developed a roaring headache. I was so happy when we finally landed. Waiting for our luggage to come off the conveyor belt, I shivered when Luis’s arm slithered around my waist. I grabbed my suitcase and walked off without a word.

  I never darkened the doorstep of the Starry Night Dance Studio again. I told Lois, Diane, and Sheila that I was tired of dancing. Maybe I’d take up a new hobby—basket weaving, astrology—whatever.

  Luis called me numerous times, leaving messages on my answering machine, since now I screened all my calls through it. He missed me; he longed to hold me one more time, etc. You can’t blame him for trying: Nobody wants to lose their meal ticket.

  The last call was not so nice. There was loud music in the background, and his speech sounded suspiciously slurred. He started out talking on the answering machine the same as before, uttering sweet words of endearment, and then abruptly, his tone changed. He dropped the charming foreign accent. “Listen, you big, fat cow!” he exploded violently. “You can cut the act. I know you’re there.” Whereupon he proceeded to cuss me out royally, using words that would make a sailor blush. I had never heard such disgusting filth in my life.

  He said that the club’s owners blamed him for my quitting the club. He demanded to know why I had led him on—can you believe such nonsense? He ranted and raved for the better part of an hour, and then he finally hung up.

  He’d shown his true colors at last. Any vestige of pity, any tiny shred of love that I’d still harbored for him was now gone. He had destroyed it all.

  I considered pressing charges. I’m sure I’m not the only widow he scammed. I saved the answering machine tape as evidence; I could get him for phone harassment, at the very least. But what about the money I had loaned him? There was no proof. It was his word against mine. I’d never so much as gotten an I.O.U. from him. And as far as my joining the Silver Belles, he hadn’t forced me to join; he’d merely suggested it. He hadn’t put a gun to my head. Everything I’d done, I’d done of my own volition. He was a sly one, a slick one, a snake in the grass.

  If I took him to court, I would look like the fool that I was: A lonely, pathetic, old fool trying to recapture her lost youth. Everybody would know. Everybody would laugh. I didn’t want my daughter or my friends to know.

  Reluctantly, I decided to drop the matter. I didn’t relish the thought of suffering any more embarrassment. He was so oily that he would just con his way out of it, anyway.

  At least one good thing came out of this whole mess: I learned a valuable lesson. I would never be so naive again.

  Even though I’d decided not to take him to court, I resolved on a definite course of action. Maybe I couldn’t get back my money, but I could reclaim my self respect.

  The next evening, I called the Starry Night Dance Studio. My fingers trembled so much that I could barely dial the number.

  I asked for Luis.

  When he came on the line, I said in a shaky but determined voice, “This is Elsa Miller. If you ever contact me again, I will hire a private investigator to dig up any dirt on you that he can, and then I will have you thrown in jail. Do you understand?”

  “But, Elsa, my love—”

  “Do—you—understand?” I would have none of his nonsense.

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  I hung up. I had battled with the devil and won.

  I was out a tremendous amount of money, but there was no use fretting about it, so I bit the bullet and moved on. I took a part-time job at a dress shop. It wasn’t the most glamorous job in the world, but it was all right.

  It took a lot of cutting corners to get back on my feet. I learned the fine art of pinching a penny. I ate a lot of beans and ramen noodles. I’d sold Harold’s car a long time ago, and now I sold mine and bought an older, cheaper model. I shopped at discount warehouses and the Salvation Army.

  I didn’t see the “girls” from the Starry Night very often anymore, but one morning I ran into Lois downtown as she was going into the salon to get her roots touched up. I asked how everybody was getting along. Lois said she missed Fabian, who had moved out east somewhere, but that there was a hot new instructor named Florio who had caught her eye. She said that after I left the club, Luis had romanced Gina for a while, and then dropped her for a more well-heeled socialite that had recently joined.

  It didn’t phase me a bit.

  “Whatever happened to you two?” Lois asked. “You were pretty hot and heavy for a while there.”

  “He was a nice boy,” I said airily, “but he was too juvenile for my taste.”

  Lois went on into the salon and I headed for Discount City.

  Yes, we were pretty hot and heavy for a while there, I reflected. Then I woke up and smelled the coffee.

  The warm sun felt good on my face as I strolled along. The air smelled fresh and clean. I really was over Luis; I hadn’t even felt the familiar thrill at the mention of his name. I didn’t give a flying fig if he was seeing Gina, or a rich socialite, or anybody else, for that matter. They could have him.

  I picked up the pace. Discount City was having a big clearance sale: seventy-five percent off selected merchandise. I wanted to get there early for the best bargains; shoppers can get pretty ferocious when it comes to a clearance sale. Sometimes you have to almost beat them off with a stick.

  I smiled. It was going to be a glorious day. THE END

  I Feel Like I Don’t Stand A Chance Against—

  ALCOHOL—MY MARRIAGE’S WORST ENEMY

  I turned my head slowly and looked over at my sleeping husband. It was hard to believe that this was the same hateful face that I’d seen last night, flushed with anger and liquor.

  He’d called from work at five-thirty to tell me that he was going out for a beer with the guys from work.

  “Julian—” A cold knot of dread and fear settled in my stomach. “—I wish you wouldn’t—”

  “Look, Cynthia, it’s just a couple of beers. Don’t get so uptight about it. Stop being such a nag.”

  My hand was shaking as I put the phone down. He always said that he was stopping for just a couple of beers. But two beers would become four, and then six, and unlike his drinking buddies—he couldn’t handle it. He’d spend entire evenings at the bar, sometimes getting into fights with other patrons. Once, he was put in jail for public intoxication. Then, about a year after we got married, he got a DUI. As a result, I had to drive him to work for three months until his license was reinstated. It humiliated him and inconvenienced me because I had to get my nursing shifts at the hospital changed. I’d hoped that it would teach him a lesson, but it hadn’t.

  And sometimes, like tonight, he’d hit me.

  I slowly got out of bed, being careful not to wake him. After eighteen months of practice, I was getting really good at it. I walked into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. The skin around my eyes was turning purple and my left eye was slightly bloodshot. I dreaded going to work because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to fool my coworkers. It was becoming more and more difficult to think of believable excuses for my bruises. I’d known Julian since high school, and I always knew that he drank. All the guys drank. But Julian, normally a charming, intelligent, and likeable person, became mean, reckless, and aggressive when he drank. Unfortunately, I didn’t see that side of him until after we got married.

  I sat in the bathroom and cried. I knew that something had to be done. I loved Julian, and I knew that he loved me, but I wasn’t going to stand by and let this destroy our marriage. He had to get help.

  Two months before, I’d called Alcoholics Anonymous. In talking to the people there, I discovered that Julian had many of the symptoms of alcoholism. He drank almost every day. He dra
nk before social functions, and didn’t like to go anywhere where liquor wouldn’t be available. He drank alone and hid his liquor. But, most telling of all, he had blackouts where he couldn’t remember some of the things that had happened while he’d been drinking.

  “What can I do to get him to stop drinking?” I’d asked the man who answered the phone.

  “You can’t do anything,” he said. “It’s all up to him. He won’t be able to stop until he admits that he’s an alcoholic and takes the proper steps to correct the problem.”

  “But there must be something I can do,” I pleaded.

  “The only thing you can do is take care of yourself. Try going to an Al-Anon meeting. Al-Anon is a support group for family members and friends of alcoholics and drug users. Why don’t I send you some information about meeting times and locations?

  Also, give the AA information to your husband if you feel that you can do it without getting hurt in the process. Be careful not to spring this on him when he’s drinking—wait until he’s sober and reasonably receptive. But, if you do nothing else, go to an Al-Anon meeting. They’re wonderful and they will help you to cope.”

  Soon after, I started going to Al-Anon meetings at the Episcopal Church across town. I’d go on Wednesdays when my hospital schedule allowed it, and I hadn’t told Julian about it yet.

  The people at Al-Anon told me not to enable him. I shouldn’t baby him by bringing him coffee and aspirin for his headache in the morning, or by cleaning up the bathroom after he’d been sick. I was not to bail him out of jail or call his boss and tell him that he was sick when he really had a hangover. That kind of behavior would only slow his recovery.

  I’d learned a lot in the previous weeks, but I still hadn’t broached the AA subject with Julian. When I went back into the bedroom, he was awake and sitting on the edge of the bed. He saw my eye and put his head in his hands. Then came the familiar apologies and the same old promise that it would never happen again.

  It’s now or never, I told myself. “You always say that, Julian. But when you drink, you lose control. Because you lose control, you aren’t responsible for the things that you do, but you are responsible for the drinking.”

  He looked up, his handsome face dark with suspicion. “You seem to know a lot all of a sudden.” I could hear anger in his voice.

  “I got some information,” I said, waiting for the explosion.

  I didn’t have to wait long. “You got some information,” he mimicked. “Now isn’t that just great? And where did you get this information?”

  “From AA, Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  He got up and paced angrily around the room. “AA is for alcoholics, Cynthia. Now, you damn well know that I’m not an alcoholic!”

  I braced myself. “But you are, Julian. You have most of the symptoms. For one, you have blackouts, but even if you didn’t have blackouts, your drinking causes you problems—at work, at the bars you frequent, with your night classes, and with your wife. That’s the bottom line: If alcohol causes you problems, then you need AA.” I turned away from his angry face. “You have to do something about this because I can’t tolerate your abuse anymore.”

  “Abuse? Oh, come on. So I lost my temper a couple of times. That’s not abuse.”

  “You hit me, Julian. That is abuse. And I’m not about to become one of those women who allow themselves to get shoved around by their drunken husbands. I love you, Julian, but I won’t become one of them.”

  “Come on, Cindy,” he said, reaching for me. “Forget it. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  For the first time, I evaded his hands and pretended that I hadn’t seen him reaching for me. It was the only time since we’d met that I didn’t want him to touch me. Our marriage was dying, and if something didn’t change soon, we might not be able to save it.

  By the time Julian left for work, angry and sulking, I’d made up my mind to do something drastic—I was leaving! It was frightening. Though I wasn’t financially dependent upon Julian, I was dependent upon him in many other ways. We’d always been a team, and the idea of being alone was not at all appealing. I packed some of my clothes and left the AA booklets where Julian could find them. I also left a note for him.

  Dear Julian,

  I can’t go on this way. Your drinking is destroying our marriage and our love for one another. I’ve decided to stay with a friend. I hope you’ll think about going to AA. Don’t take my word for it; give them a call or go to a meeting. When you come to terms with your problem, maybe we can talk about our relationship, but, in the meantime, I don’t want to see you or talk to you. I’ll be in touch.

  Love,

  Cynthia

  It was a difficult note to write. I knew that my decision might end the marriage, but that was a risk that I just had to take.

  Of course, Julian tried to see me and call me. I told the hospital security guard not to allow him on the floor where I worked. Thankfully, he didn’t know my friend Diana’s address. I refused all of his phone calls.

  But I missed Julian dreadfully. He’d been my whole life. I still loved him and I knew that he loved me.

  Somehow, though, I made it through those long, lonely nights. I wanted to call him and go home, but I was strong enough to stay away.

  I did go home one afternoon to pick up my fall clothing. The house was an absolute mess. Julian hadn’t made the bed and dirty laundry was strewn everywhere. Stacks of dirty dishes were piled in the kitchen sink and the trashcan was overflowing with empty beer and bourbon bottles. I fought the impulse to clean up, packed my things, and went back to Diana’s apartment.

  My heart ached for what we’d lost, and it ached for Julian and the life he was wasting. But, as the Al-Anon members had told me, I didn’t have the power to change things. Julian had to stop drinking on his own.

  Several weeks later, Julian left a note for me at the hospital.

  Dear Cindy,

  I went to my first AA meeting tonight and I hated every minute of it. I didn’t want to hear the things they had to say. I still don’t think I’m an alcoholic, but they told me that it takes most people a long time to admit that they have a problem.

  A bunch of guys stood up at the meeting and talked about what alcohol had done to their lives. Some of them had lost their jobs and families. Others were homeless or living in shelters. Most of them had spent time in jail or prison. I don’t want that to happen to me. I may not be an alcoholic, but I’ll admit that drinking has caused me a lot of problems. The worst has been losing you.

  I met a guy named Neil there. He gave me his phone number and told me to call him if I ever have a problem. Tonight, instead of going to the bar with the guys, I’m going to call him. I’m going to try very hard to get this thing under control, and I won’t bother you again until I have. But like Neil says: We have to live one day at a time.

  I’ve missed you like hell. Please always remember that I love you.

  Julian

  It’s been six months now since I moved out. I still work at the hospital, and now I have an apartment of my own. Roughly once a month, I get a note from Julian. He tells me about his progress and his problems, and thankfully, he’s made no further attempt to see me. I still haven’t given him my address or phone number. He tells me that he hasn’t had a drink in three months and that he’s going to night school again. He says that he still loves me and I know that I still love him. But I also know that I have to let him work this out on his own.

  During this time apart, I’ve found that I’m an independent woman who can take care of herself. Maybe one day, if Julian gets his problem under control, we can have a life together. I sure hope so. If we don’t get back together, I’ll be sad, but I’ll take comfort in knowing that I’ve freed myself from the tyranny of alcohol—and that’s a great feeling. THE END

  SO LONG, EARL

  My cowboy rode off into the sunset–good riddance to bad rubbish!

  Mary and Annie met me at my house. I was going to drive; The Watering
Hole was out in the country about ten miles, and my car was newer and in better condition than theirs. We sure didn’t want to break down on that lonely stretch of road in the dark. Three pretty women would be sitting ducks for some sex-deprived cowboys!

  I had been raised a good Baptist, and taught that dancing is a sin. As children, my sister, brothers, and I had not been allowed to dance, but now, I lived two hundred miles away and I was single, not to mention free to make my own decisions. My decision on this particular night was to kick up my heels and have a good time with my special friends, each of whom had found herself in the same boat that I was. Their husbands had both run off with younger women. I hear that happens a lot when men start facing their own sort of “change of life.” At any rate, it had certainly happened for us.

  As we pulled into the parking lot that night, the music from inside the club was so loud that it seemed to shake the car windows. Waiting in line outside to buy our tickets, we giggled like schoolgirls. Mary and Annie each looked young for their respective ages of forty-five and forty-eight; I only hoped I looked so good. It had certainly been a long battle for me, and my divorce had almost caused me to have a nervous breakdown. My family still thinks I suffer from one. I don’t know, but the fights over custody of the kids, house, cars, and money sure left me ragged.

  But on this night, I felt young again. Men really didn’t interest me, but I wanted to laugh and have fun with my galpals. Inside the club, the music was so loud that Mary had to scream in my ear to ask me where I wanted to sit.

  “Anywhere you can find a place!” I shouted back to her.