Unwifeable(85)

So I end it. The hesitation and concern and very logical resistance in his voice feel too painful. They sting me, and my pride kicks in.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” I tell him, even though he never once said that I was a burden. “Thank you for the best four weeks of my life.”

“This is your decision,” he says. “I don’t understand it, but I can respect it if that’s what you want.”

I don’t even listen to him. I shut him out and walk away. I am okay being single forever. Because I am in control. I am the one crashing the plane—no one else.



* * *




I EMAIL SEVERAL girlfriends and my sister a rendition of breaking up with Pat. Then I call my parents. They all start giving me feedback I am not prepared to hear.

“I think you’re ruining a good thing.” “He actually seems really emotionally intelligent and like he knows how to deal with some of your shit.” “Why are you doing this, dude?”

Then my sister calls me and speaks to me in the straight, no-nonsense way for which she is famous.

“Hey, Mandy,” she says bluntly. “This reminds me of when Mom said to Dad, ‘I think I might want to get divorced,’ and then Dad was pissed, so he got divorced. Remember that?”

Of course I remember. Against all odds, my parents went on to remarry five years later and have been together since. But my mom acted impulsively. She acted out of rage. Then my father did the same. Shit blew up. Is that the kind of behavior I want to model in my own life?

My sister’s insight lands in a way nothing else does.

Examining where I’ve veered off course is so uncomfortable for me. It is for everyone, I suppose. It requires a level of personal accountability in admitting that you are wrong—and practicing what my therapist calls the art of “defenselessness.”

“Okay, I’m going to call him,” I tell my sister. “I hope it isn’t too late.”

“Good luck,” she says. “Don’t fuck it up.”

It’s near the end of the night, and I broke things off about six hours before. Pat picks up my FaceTime call after a few rings, and the look on his face is one of amusement.

“Hello,” he says. “You’re the last person I expected to hear from.”

“I screwed everything up,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I just shut things down because I was scared that you would reject me so I wanted to do it first.”

“Why?” he asks, seeming tentative.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s like there’s one part of me that wants to be open and vulnerable to love, and then there’s another part that’s all about self-preservation and survival—and I just want to run from anything that might end up hurting me. Or hurt the other person first.”

Pat is quiet, and then suggests a solution.

“What if we came up with two different names for those two different parts of yourself?” he asks. “We could call one ‘Deborah.’ And the other ‘Shithead.’?”

I laugh out loud, and it reminds me of the level of joy this guy provides me. He is dark and irreverent, yet I can feel his honesty and openheartedness in the way we communicate. He can make a joke and then follow it up with an insight that speaks to a psychological vocabulary that surpasses my own.

“So,” he says, “what can we do so this doesn’t happen again?”

“I’m going to . . .” I stall, not wanting to commit to what I know I need to do. “Okay, I’m going to go to my therapist and AA meetings.”

Pat’s face melts into a smile.

“Good,” he says. “That makes me really happy.”

He sees me. He forces me to talk about my feelings.

It is a strange thing. So much of this relationship is strange—in the best sense of the word. It is some manifestation of years of work I have done on myself to heal that little girl inside who was her worst enemy in re-creating the chaos with which I was so acquainted. Those twisted familiar patterns that felt like “home” are now being redefined. Maybe home can be a safe place with someone whom I can trust and love and count on.

“Why am I so fucked-up?” I ask him, annoyed at my broken lizard brain, including all of the dark and disturbing sexual scenarios it frequently conjurs.

“You know what the most insane, crazy scenario might be for you, Mandy? A man who is madly in love with you and adores you and thinks you’re the love of his life.”

“Jesus Christ,” I say. “I think you’re right.”

Seeing myself get past my natural inclination to self-sabotage as a form of protection is no small triumph. It feels like a miracle.



* * *




AFTER SIX WEEKS together—and two weeks after my aborted breakup attempt—we start calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend.

And now I am watching my boyfriend perform onstage. It’s a slightly harrowing experience.

“My first two wives were both virgins,” Pat is telling the audience as I sit hidden in the back row after asking to tag along. “I guess it seemed honorable, a girl saving her sex for marriage.”

Inside Dangerfield’s, the comedy club where he is performing, the dim lighting and red-glass-lit tables create the effect of a Mad Men dive bar. There are about twenty-five people in the audience, tittering and shifting nervously as he holds court. He pauses to look into the eyes of the audience.