Boy, my parents had it easy, when it came to raising me. They didn’t know I had anxiety. Back then, no one really knew anything about ADHD. All my parents knew was that I had bursts of energy, and would sometimes crash, depending on the activity. And of course, I talked a lot.
Still do. That energy translates into talkativeness. And it can be frustrating to have a conversation with me, if I am in a social setting. If I am nervous? I talk more. If it’s too quiet? I talk. I hate the awkwardness of silence, it freaks me out. Unless I am reading and then, the whole world had better simmer down and be quiet.
But when I was a kid, I had a terrible conscience. I guess you might call it a good one, from an honest heart. I didn’t want to be bad. I didn’t want anyone to think I was bad. And if anything, I was always striving for some kind of recognition that I was good. Or talented. Smart. Or anything, really. Most of the time my parents treated me like I was invisible. And other times, the fury of their horrific marriage left marks. The kind you learn to hide with big sweatshirts and long pants in July.
I Am a Crappy Liar (Honest)
I was the child that literally, told on herself. I chuckled when my former told me of a sweet cousin of his who did the same thing. He commented that he would never admit he did something wrong (foreshadowing, heh, yeah). But I was much like his cousin. A God-fearing, do-gooder. And when the Priest said “God is always watching” I took that literally. And didn’t want to piss God off.
Not only that, but I was completely crappy at lying. I had no talent for it. I sat and watched my father lie and manipulate my Mom frequently. Like an expert. Because he was. But for me, I was never able to master the skill. My lips might say one thing, but my facial expression will throw me under the bus. Every. Single. Time.
Since I hate awkwardness or “getting into trouble” (I like rules), I resolved to be a truth sayer. No matter what. If it was painful? I’d tell the truth. If it made me look bad? I’d tell the truth.
Besides, if I am being honest (guilty as charged) telling the truth is easier. You see, I have ADHD. Personally and professionally, I think it’s a superpower. So you won’t hear me claiming it as a disability. It’s just a different way that my brain is wired. And for a writer, it’s a really good thing.
Keeping track of lies is too hard. Keeping track of truths? That’s far easier. And less stressful.
Outrageous Sense of Personal Responsibility
Even in adulthood, I struggle with negative self-talk and blaming myself for stuff that isn’t my fault. I think it’s a hidden curse of having a healthy ego, under a lot of self-doubts. If I love you, and something bad happens, I should have protected you from it. I should have looked for the signs. I should have guided you away from danger.
Because I am the omnipotent all-powerful Skylar Smythe. Creator of millions of words that move people. Student of human psychology, and relationships. How I end up roadkill on the highway of love is a mystery to me. When I really do understand human behavior so well.
Unless I am sleeping with you apparently. Then my compass goes haywire and I have no idea what the heck is going on. And your behavior will come as a surprise to me. Because I will only expect good things from you. And that is because I have only good intentions, and seek to protect, indulge, and please. I’m a leader. A provider. A manager. An organizer. And if I love you, your happiness is infinitely more important than my own.
I don’t really think I am supposed to be happy. I think I am supposed to facilitate it for others. And that extends from romantic partners to friendships, and of course, my career. I’ll exhaust myself to make you happy with me. Because I guess, I am never happy with myself.
And if things go bad? It’s my fault.
Seeing Him In a Wheelchair Broke Me
I guess because I have survived a lot of interpersonal diversity (hah! great way to put that) I am pragmatic about relationships. Look, if something works, it’s awesome. May you be one of those old couples I see sharing an omelet and playing footsies under the table. I melt to see that. I know that is an enduring kind of love.
But if something doesn’t work, it needs to end. Because there are so many lives at stake. First, there is the couple. Both unhappy and destroying each other in that dysfunction. Trust me, I saw it play out. How different my Mom would have been is she had ripped off the bandaid and ended things. Before they almost ended each other, emotionally.
Yuck. Double yuck. When I watched that train wreck happen (both parents remarried so fast!) I decided on a few things. First, I was not going to stay in an unhappy marriage. Even if I had a child with the man. Because being a child of a toxic marriage, let me tell you, there are dents all over. Sometimes I think my heart might look more like a golf ball with all those little divots or indentations.
Seeing him about 100 lbs. lighter and in a wheelchair? I did not show him hostility. How could I? My heart was overwhelmed with sadness. You did this to yourself. And now you are suffering the consequences. Bragged about being able to drive high. Then your luck ran out.
Take Your Toys and Leave (But Be Nice)
And I also decided if things needed to be ended, I would not do it in hate. My first divorce was a cakewalk compared to this one; I liken hubby #2 to more of an exorcism. Of a codependent, irresponsible, selfish, egotistical brat, who didn’t value me, appreciate what I did for our life or ethics in general.
Shoot… got to watch that vitriol. It comes sliding out without warning. Woo-sah! Chocolate chip cookie… is my new Prozac. No, I am not on Prozac and never have been. Wellbutrin for anxiety but seriously, the stuff doesn’t work for me. Ask my dogs.
Also, I am a diabetic and not supposed to eat cookies. But you know, some days and some journies of thought, it’s either a cookie or wine or Delta-10 (on the rare month that it is legal in Texas). Sigh. The cookie is often the lesser of all evils on my scoresheet.
When I decided to end the marriage after the February ice storm, there was calmness. Men pay close attention to this truism. Women only fight when they want to save the relationship. When they don’t want to break up. For the most part (and yes there can be vindictive women out there) anyhow.
I think treating him nicely was a shock. Boy did he persistently try to trigger me. Now in retrospect, I think his reckless behavior (DUIs) was a cry for help. Hoping for the emergence of my Florence Nightingale. But she didn’t take the bait.
Back to the Wheelchair
So, we had a refund check from the sale of the house that we needed to split. It was a hell of a drive to get my half $765. Less the $100 I paid our friend Charlie to shuttle him. And the $50 in gas it took me to get there. And the five hours of driving time (with only one pit stop).
As I got closer to the town I spent the last seven years in, I got an anxiety attack. Not because I had done something wrong. Not because I was afraid to be there. But because it hurt to drive through the echoes. Of the life, I had planned with him and the twins. And now, the single life I found myself in, after the end of the marriage.
I was sad when I saw him. For many reasons. But I put on a gentle expression. Smile Skylar… smile kindly and give him no hostility. Not that I ever would, unless, you know, he was not in a wheelchair and acting like a jerk. Then, yep, I’d let him have it. I’m honest, remember? And really blunt sometimes. Most times. Sometimes to my detriment.
Nothing Really Changed in the Attitude and Respect Department
Driving home I saw the snarky email from him I didn’t see before meeting him at the bank. I had to go first to a check cashing place, but they didn’t want to cash it. Then to my bank. He was concerned because he had an unresolved overdraft with that bank. But turns out, they cashed it for me, and he got his $765. Which, I hoped, would pay for Christmas gifts from him to the kids.
Let’s just say it is a good thing I didn’t see the email before he saw me. Victim… victim… victim… oh hai! Listen, I just borked my plans to go to San Antonio and ride rollercoasters to give you money. Since it was my day off and I don’t take many of them from my small team at work.
You’re welcome !@#%! No thank you was of course, forthcoming. But then I thought about it, and he never really thanked me for anything. Big or small. So, at least he was consistent.
You Only Get Half: Deal With It
I was actually going to let him keep the entire house insurance escrow refund. Until I found out a little lie. Well, a big one that cost me $2440 which I am now paying off. He pocketed my health insurance payment for September 2020. Knowing I was having a full lab of blood work. You see, the Covid-19 hospital stay maxed out my deductible. So the labs were ‘supposed’ to be ‘free’.
For eight months he lied to me about it being a billing error. I found out in July when I tried to get to the bottom of it. Chalk it up to the list of really shady crap he did. That cost me stress, time, and money. My friend commented, “you know for an insurance professional, he sure committed a lot of insurance fraud against his own wife”.
A really never thought about it that way, but yeah. My friend was right. And the friend got to listen to me crying for about an hour in the car. Asking myself stupid questions. Should I go back to him? Just to take care of him? I could fix his world pretty quickly, but should I?
No. Because after a lifetime of other people cleaning up his messes, the former is learning a valuable lesson. You make a mess, you clean it up. Welcome to adulthood. He has no recollection of doing it. Or if he does, he won’t fess up.
But I checked my bank withdrawals. He did.
Tailspinning In My Head: And Making Space
I’ve been hanging around a friend. A wonderful male friend. He is cute, fit, and I know none of this seems appropriate in context with what I just wrote, but bear with me. That friend and I are no longer hanging out. He’d like to be more. I can’t.
Because I told the friend that I am tired of being exploited. Frankly, I don’t want to get serious with anyone but myself. I have things to clean up. Medical debt to contend with. I don’t want to work 100-hour weeks anymore, and I am trying to achieve permission to actually have fun. Sometimes. Alone. And rejuvenate my creativity.
My Aunt just died from cancer. And she suffered for months. I barely slept. I dreamt of her frequently. And I loved her the most out of every human on this planet. I am grieving the end of things and digging deep to find the optimism and self-confidence to rebuild something awesome. For me. And on my own terms.
What I build for me this time will be for me. My career is flourishing. I want a house again. One that is small, and cute and affordable. I want a used boat I can pile my dogs on and hit a lake to do some fishing. Hopefully with new friends who are good people. Even if I am the last single person over forty on the planet.
But I won’t get serious with anyone. I’ve lived half my life in failed marriages.
It’s time for me to be free.
