I may find it painfully dull to be among people

October 28, 1986

Things are beginning to lose their Char-ness. The Walgreen toothbrushes, the composition books, the sweater of her lover before you. I no longer feel as violent about Honda Civics - even the oxidized red ones seem virtually harmless. The coffee pot, jar and the knife she gave you are losing their pasts. My bed only vaguely remembers her presence. The clothes you wear have almost lost the dust they retained within their fibers from her bedroom floor. The clothes you possess are losing the remnants of Char as they rubbed off your body in the morning.

My memory of Char is painful. She was my rival, the taker of what I believed to be rightfully mine. I hate her.

Your memory of her is more of a mourning of the great love and happy times you once shared with her. It is sad - these differences. I feel bad that I cannot think nice things about this woman whom you once loved. I tried at first, but I never will except the fact that she has a right to a bit of your life - because I know your love is yours to give away as you choose and it is hard to believe, no not believe - accept - that the receptor of your love wasn't me. As I know I am only receiving a deflected love even now.

You seem to be in love with someone (or more than one) else besides me. I don't see how you can fragment yourself - not giving it all to just one as I would wish to believe would be the easiest thing to do, but you prefer the role of silent suffering - suffering in self-denied love.

Now I'm going among people. I may not know anything, but a new life has begun for me. I made up my mind to do my duty honestly and resolutely. I may find it painfully dull to be among people. To begin with, I decided to be frank and courteous with everybody. No one can expect more than that from me. Perhaps even here they regard me as a child - it can't be helped! For some reason everyone regards me as an idiot, too, and it is quite true that I was so ill at one time that I really was an idiot. But what sort of an idiot am I now when I know myself that people take me for an idiot? The Idiot, Dostoevsky

Alexithymia is a term that describes an impairment in someone's ability to identify and describe feeling states. Tony Attwood says that people with Asperger's Disorder often have a limited vocabulary of words to describe feeling states - especially the more subtle and complex ones.

I see in this journal, that I have resorted to descriptions of the items around me that provoke the physical responses that I recognize as "feelings". I use a wide paint brush to describe my emotions too. I am Sad. I am Hurt. I Hate. I Love.

The quote from The Idiot seems to me now a great expression of how I feel about the world now. It surprises me that I had enough self-awareness to see myself in the writing. 

This is the last entry in this journal. I am actually a little sad to let this one go. It has been a painful and thoughtful journal through this time in my life. I have learned a lot through this stroll down memory lane. Tonight, I will look at the pile of old journals and writings and pick up another. I wonder what I will find within its pages.

He said, "I use my brain halves to the most extreme separation."

September 10, 1986

Two weeks of school have past and I am getting used to it. The house is falling apart a bit, but I throw it together when I have the time. I have just tons of classes and from each a monstrous amount of work - 16 hour grids for visual studies - compositions for english - about 50 pages of reading for art history - 20 pages for humanities - a wooden toy for shop - buy a roll of film for lens media...on and on. I started a 3 hour drawing of Cris - did his face fantastically, then moved on to his hand and he moved on to his hand and he moved and rearranged everything so I couldn't continue. I applied for work study - probably won't get a job - but it's worth a try - money is really a problem to grapple with.

Cris is enjoying watching the kids. He does have a bit of trouble with ianthe - but she is just a baby and it was hard even for me to remember just what to do with a baby.

September 15, 1986

Sitting up so high in the fourth floor by the window. I can see Ann's dorm. I like Ann. When I first saw her I thought, "Oh God, She looks just like Char - gross." Not because she is ugly but because of association. I can also see the tower that is on the same block as Cris' apartment.

I try to talk to him and see what it all means to his life - but he is just so strange. He said last night that he realizes that he is using his brain halves to the most extreme separation. That he is extremely logical - philosophical and life in general - and when he does his art he is extremely emotional. There is no middle ground for him. Maybe he can only express himself through his art. There might be a way to blend things. Maybe he could tell me how he feels e.g. answer my questions through art.

I really ought to give it a try. Anything just to keep from stagnating in our relationship. I must keep it alive, changing, vibrant not only for Cris, but for myself so I do not go crazy.

Escape - that is what we desire but we are bound by circumstances. I don't think that it is as heartless as all that but it just touches the surface of how we all must feel. Cris said, "I hope that, someday we'll live in a world without love".

Love after all is just a feeling - it is not a state of being - you cannot be in love anymore than you can be in happy or in sad. Love is the feeling you get when someone is important to you - without strings attached. That is the important part - without strings or rules. I want rules but really it's all just a matter of respecting the other person's being. Love is more common feeling than people realize - it's their dependency that most people label as being love - but I can feel love with Ann or Sara or Peter for that matter. You know when something feels good. You wouldn't go out of your way to hurt others whom you feel close to, now, would you?

I ran out and bought a second "Complete Guide to Asperger's Syndrome" by Tony Attwood today. My first copy is in ruins, having been paged through and page worn by my three children. Aja said that the others would be relieved, that they were frightened to give it back to me in the condition it is in. I love books. I don't think you understand my love of the physical book by that simple statement. I really love books. I take great care of them. I try never to crease their bindings. Upon purchasing a softback book, I condition the spine by opening up the book, first 25 pages from the front, carefully press open holding the book spine to table. Open the last 25 pages, press them to the table, repeat from the front until you have reached the middle. Never fold a page corner to mark your place. That would be a terrible thing to do. Never place an open book face down and open upon a table to mark your spot. Make sure your hands are clean and dry. Do not sneeze into your book. I have many Book Rules. 

When I first started dating Anthony, I wanted to give him a special book to read. It is Sombrero Fallout: A Japanese Novel by Richard Brautigan. It is an out-of-print book by my favorite author. Actually, Ianthe is named after him in a circular way. His daughter is named Ianthe - that is where the name came from. So, wanting to offer a favorite book to my wonderful friend, I proffered my treasure to him in a zip-lock bag, along with a long list of instructions for its care. Anthony accepted my gift, but later returned it unread. He never dared to open the baggy. 

Maybe it is a good thing that I am planning to take up my studies again, starting with a Masters in Library Science and Information Systems (that makes my heart sing - lol) and if I still dream it, continue my studies with a Doctorate in Archival Studies. 

Books, Books, Books, lovely books, they are my friends and have helped me understand the world. I know I digressed with my book story, away from my original thought: which is an explanation about what I was thinking when Cris was confusing me with his talk about how he was using his brain. I was fascinated. 

At the time I was reading books about how to mend a broken relationships - that confounded me. I had three babies and an absent husband - one that told me that he would never divorce me, but that he would never be back. I used the advice from my relationship book. I told him that he was free. He could do what he wanted and I would still be there for him, unconditionally. Well, you can guess how well that worked out. As the next few days of this blog unfold, I will sway back and forth in confusion. Thinking "What the Hell is Going On?"

Who would have thought that people don't think exactly like me?! Or not know exactly what I want from them?! I kid, but before October or November of last year, the thought NEVER occurred to me. Hard to believe for an NT (neuro-typical), but true. Evidence of my under-developed Theory of Mind is found in the "we" statements I make in this and several entries about how "we" must feel or think. From Tony Attwood's book on Theory of Mind (ToM), which Absolutely Fascinates Me (page 120):

...due to the differences and nature of ToM abilities in the cognitive development of children with Asperger's Syndrome, they may develop a different form of self-consciousness. The child may acquire ToM abilities using intelligence and experience rather than intuition, which can eventually lead to an alternative form of self-consciousness as the child reflects on his/her own mental state and the mental state of others. This highly reflective and explicit self-consciousness has been described as similar to that of philosophers...

Now, considering the fact that I had grown up with a sociopath, I did not have the highest quality of input with which to develop the ability to recognize and understand the thoughts, beliefs, desires and intentions of others in order to make sense of their behavior and predict what they are going to do next (these are the concepts that Theory of Mind entails).

I had met Cris, three months into my 17th year. I had graduated high school at 16, and my social life was extremely controlled as a child and teen. I am 24 at the time of this entry. I had spent seven years with Cris, being told that it was "I" that was the crazy one; "I" after all, had been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic (he claimed, discounting my research and study, not to mention I was FAKING it). Seven years of developing my Theory of Mind using a narcissistic sociopath as a model of human behavior. No wonder people are frightened of me at first!

I'm like losing my mind

January 17, 1986

I bought a Karman Ghia today, Wow!

It looked like this - very impracticable for a mom with three kids...

March 11, 1986

Well, I figured it's finally over, it didn't end the way I wanted either. Cris is sleeping with yet another girl friend. He is really a massive asshole. I am really in a mess. I am very depressed. I have zillions of things to do. I can't stand watching the kids anymore. I need a break. I wish I were desperately in love with someone. Here I am again, looking for Prince Charming. I really thought Cris was him. I was wrong.

March 14, 1986

Me, I'm getting pretty strange. I desperately need to rid myself of Cris but it's like I'm on a wild roller coaster, going quickly up and down and up. It is more and more extreme. I'm like losing my mind. Like I demand honesty from Cris, total honesty, yet I am not being very honest myself.

I want to see this new girlfriend Sarah. Char, Sarah, who else?

I really want to kill Cris. He almost killed himself the other night. While I was at home. I was thinking, wow, Cris is hanging himself right now, dangling and twirling in  death. I imagined burning his body until it no longer exists and no funeral but a memorial and not letting Char or Sarah enter even if I had to kill them to keep them away and screaming "You killed my husband!" When in all actuality, I was the one who drove him to it. All me, All Cris with all our heart hell bent on destroying him/self. I am the cause, I cannot let him go - I just can't, but I know I must. I have to. It would be for the best - best for me, best for Cris, best for the kids. I just don't think what damage all this is doing to them. Cris shouting at them in the middle of the night "Anybody seen the drain plug?" God!

Me, I just am so preoccupied, telling them to go away and leave me alone. If I wasn't so obsessed with Cris, I could get on with my life, start my business, go to school, meet someone special, and be happy again. Hopefully not because I met someone - but  happy because I'm at peace with myself. And that's what I want and long for myself - to be at peace - Happy. This feeling right now is hell. I am just like a big scrape on your knuckle, all red and bleeding. Then it gets all shiny and full of puss and then it scabs over and finally gets better. Well, I am that scrape at the shiny, pussy stage - and I keep bumping it and letting it bleed again and in order to scab over I must get rid of Cris. Like really looking out and not looking to get hurt again - like staying with Cris and letting him hurt me so deeply without any consequences and when I do break with him he tries to kill himself - pretty clever way to win me back and just saying enough to make me think that you might at sometime in the indefinite future you just might maybe stop sleeping with other women.

I believe that my low self-esteem was an off-shoot of my Asperger's. I have a hard time maintaining my train of thought when discussing extremely emotionally charged issues. I also believe that, although most people would have trouble dealing with the revelation that their cheating husband has continued to cheat, I was having particular trouble. I really do not have a large "emotional vocabulary" - I tend to paint my emotions with broad strokes - extremes from sad to angry. I also flash between emotions rapidly, angry one minute, happy the next. 

When I confronted Cris with the knowledge of his affair in July of 1985, I was 7 months pregnant - hormones already causing the normal mood swings. I was plunged into despair. I remember considering asking my sister Cindy to adopt my child. I was angry and frightened. I had never drank during a pregnancy before, I am ashamed to say I drank 2 or 3 drinks on 2 separate occasions in the month before ianthe was born. I have always kept this a secret. I think I smoked a couple of times too. I was suffering from moderate persistent depression in the months before and following ianthe's birth. It is common for people with Asperger's to suffer from depression. I had two or three reasons to be depressed: the cheating, the humiliation, the new fresh hell that Cris brought every week into my world.

What a cruel and insensitive man. He is as insensitive today as he was in 1985. Aja showed me a picture of when she was a tiny baby. It was from her father's high school graduation. I commented about how cute she was. She said that her grandmother had given her a bag of old photos; that photo had been included. Indeed? After our divorce, I had sorted through our family photos, choosing photos for Cris. I believed that he would want, even deserved, photos of the children. I gave him nearly a third of the photos, including every important event in the kids' lifetime. I have a nearly photographic memory. This photo was one that I had given away so many years ago. I guess that Cris had not thought the photographs to be quite so important to him as I had imagined.

None of that matters to me anymore. I have grown up with loving people around me that helped me learn coping skills. I am not just a competent woman, I am seen as a leader. I not only have a partner that loves me, but one that thinks that we are partners in life, and who will stand by me as we face challenges head on. 

In a wonderful expression of love Saturday, my lovely husband Anthony, officially adopted all three of our children. It was a wonderful occasion. We were gathered for our grand-daughter's third birthday. The wind was blowing a warm wind. The sun was shining and our hearts were filled with joy. Anthony has been my children's father, handing out advice (and cash) and rides (and hugs) and encouragement (and unconditional love) for the best years of their lives, and he will continue to do so as time moves on. 

 Our happy family - minus the steps!

The wrong side and the right side

August 7, 1985

A Dream...
Cris and Char were in his room and I walked in. They were making love - Char on top. She quickly got off of him and she quickly got off him. She sat between his legs and watched me take a look at the photos of Aja I was looking for...

I wasn't watching them at all. I was even behind the curtain, but after awhile, I told Char it was alright, that she should carry on...

I finished looking in the closet and called "information". They couldn't tell me anything. So when I was finished on the phone, I came out of the closet and Char and Cris were still just laying there. So I knelt down by Cris' head and kissed him and apologized for having interrupted the "proceedings". He said casually that Char wanted to know if I wanted to join in, but I took a shower first and never got around to joining them.

August 1985

I watch Cris now, how he seems. He seems so much happier and at peace. He is very tender when he is in love and I feel he really does love Char and I both. He loves Char with patience I haven't seen in him for a long time. It doesn't hurt so bad anymore. I wish I could wear my ring but I am not - maybe I will again later, nothing matters much anymore. I hope I don't end up a fool in all this.

After I had confronted Cris with the knowledge of his affair, I was so afraid to give him an ultimatum. An ultimatum would give him a chance to choose to leave. I could not live with that. I feared being left.

Cris had been given power by me and Char. I said in an earlier blog entry, that Cris chose vulnerable women. Char and I were his training ground. He wielded his power like a knife and cut out our hearts. He arranged an introduction. He and Char at one side of the booth of a Minneapolis cafe and I alone, very pregnant on the other. He caressed her openly in front of me. He did this to calm her while he destroyed what was left of my fragile ego. My journal continues with an existential quote...

...What counts is to be true, and then everything fits in, humanity and simplicity...

What I wish for now is no longer happiness but simply awareness...I do not want to choose between right and wrong sides of the world, and I do not like a choice to be made...The great courage is still to gaze as squarely at the light as at death.

"The wrong side and the right side" Albert Camus

Cris has taken a lover

July 1985

Cris has taken a lover. It hurts to know I wasn't enough.

It hurts to know if I had only not gotten pregnant none of this would have happened. It hurts to think that Cris and I were so much in love a year ago.

It hurts to have to share Cris with another. It hurts to let Cris go, the only thing that makes sense is that stupid cliche "If you love someone let them go. If they come back they're yours. If not, they never were."

It is awful having to go through a pregnancy neither of us planned - and that drove Cris apart so much he sought someone else as an escape.

I think sometimes of the request Cris had made, but I am sorry, I just couldn't kill someone just to make him happy. I will stoop incredibly low, but not that far. Now I will be alone, with three children - each of whom is loved less by their father in the order of their birth. When I met Cris, he was so confused (as I) and we needed each other. I loved him. I still love him and I suppose I always will love him. I wrote a poem during our early relationship about how he was everything I'd hoped for - he was and continues to be.

Why don't I meet up to him? It hurts.

But I am so happy he is still around. I wonder how much longer? I want him so bad, more than anyone will ever realize.

Of course now I cringe about this, but at the time, I was so lost. I was so hurt and confused. I was in an Aspergian free-fall into despair, anxiety and terror.

The fear of change prevented me from doing the correct thing - tossing him to the curb. He was not providing me any income. He was rarely home. I was the person that kept our life in order.

Before I was diagnosed with Asperger's Disorder, I wondered in shame why I had not let Cris go sooner than I did. I kept him, clung to him as if he were my safety net. This man, who during our marriage kept me a figurative prisoner. One day a week, Cris would allow me an hour to go to the library. That was it. Other than that, it was me and the children. Alone. I walked to the co-op and to the park with my children. I cooked and cleaned and read. Cris worked for 2-3 years, then in the fall of 1984, he quit his job, and enrolled in the University.

He was gone all day. Late, late, late into the night. He said it was to do studio work in the Art building, or to study, or to work... I don't know. I didn't question it. He took photographs of people I didn't know for his photography class. He said they were classmates. I didn't think anything of it. One day, he came home with ink drawings on his jeans - covering his leg - all the way up to his crotch. I did not recognize it as his "style". His "style" is all scritchy-scratchy short lines smashed together - like hesitant scratches to form the outline of an object. I draw in outlines - one continuous ink line. These decorations were circular, geometric, they were not his. I asked him about them. He said a classmate had drawn them. I was shocked - why would you let someone draw on your thigh? That is a bit personal, is it not? He said he hadn't thought of it that way.

My ex-husband was a sociopath. I didn't know this until very late in the "game". He is very good at finding women/people who are vulnerable and manipulating them to do his will. He watches. He pretends emotions. He acts the way he believes is expected at the moment. He cries at will. He is a strange man. This is a link to his creepy, walking on the line of pedophilic-hypersexual "art" website.  (Here is a bar of soap to wash your eyes off when you are done...) I have as little regard for his "artistic" abilities as I do for his "character".

Where She and Hope part company

July 1985

Fast forward into the future. I have no posts between this and the last post. these pages are separated by a page turn. Apparently my life was recorded in baby books - maybe the years between were recorded in another way. I cannot remember. Immediately before this horrible month, I lived 6 months of pain and confusion. December 1984, Cris and I had flown to California to visit Bruce and Margret - his father and step-mother. We had had a wonderful time. One of my favorite films was "Valley Girl" with Nicholas cage. I had requested to be shown all the sites of the film - Hollywood, the Galleria mall, the "Valley", and the drive through the hills from Hollywood to the valley. I was thrilled. The children enjoyed it. I entertained Aja and Harrison on the plane home by making clothes from napkins for their new He-Man and She-Ra toys. The stewardesses remarked at how well behaved the children were.

We arrived home on Christmas eve. We drank a bottle of champagne, watched Valley Girl, got a little frisky. Enter unplanned pregnancy stage left. Unplanned like the others had been. I knew I was pregnant before I missed my next period.

We lived in a four-plex in Stillwater: 113 West Laurel Street. I think back to that time, and I remember a familiar TAP TAP TAP on the door by the woman who lived across the hall from me. Wilhelmina Osterkamp was an extremely old woman in a wheelchair who hadn't left her apartment in nine years. She would summon me by knocking on the door with the end of a broom handle. I helped her by bringing her mail, opening cans of soup, or taking out her garbage. By the time I realized I was pregnant with my third child, I was changing her bedding, treating her wounds, rubbing lotion on her nearly translucent skin as she told me the stories of her life. 

She had been born in Western Germany in 1897. She immigrated to America when she was 14 years old. She came to Minnesota to marry her second cousin, who was ten years older than she was. They homesteaded just north of Stillwater and had nine children, one of whom had died at the age of nine quite suddenly after complaining of a stomachache. Her name was Lilly. Her death had haunted Wilhelmina. It was the most painful experience in her lifetime. 

Her husband was a cruel man that treated her badly throughout their marriage. He had died in 1968 leaving her in poverty. She stayed on the farm until she suffered a stroke that affected her speech and mobility. She had been hospitalized a short while before moving into our apartment building - years before I had arrived with my little, happy family. 

When I first met Minnie, she was fairly healthy, but as the months, then years passed, her condition slowly deteriorated. The women who visited her and helped her as I did began to encourage her to move into a nursing home. I feared for her life as I heard her coughing through the walls at night. Sometimes, she would fall and pull her body to the door to call for my help. 

Everyday, I sat, cross-legged on the floor, in my doorway - she in her wheelchair - trading stories every day. She was a wonderful friend. She knew I was pregnant before I told a single soul. She saw it in me. I was shocked. She described what she saw that told the truth. I talked with her excitedly about the news.

One early afternoon, I heard her calling through the walls. I ran outside and up her porch steps. Pressing my face against the glass, I saw her on the floor, she could not move. She asked me to call her son - he had a key. He was not close to her  - he never visited - but he came that day. I waited with her, pressing against the glass, telling Minnie help was on the way, "He is coming, help is coming." He did come, but it was he that made the call that took her away from me. 

When the men came to take her away on a stretcher, undignified, strapped down, blinded by the sun, off to the nursing home, I wept for her. She was so frightened and ashamed. She did not want to leave. I visited her at the nursing home until she forgot who I was, but I have never forgotten her. She died several months later, a month shy of her ninetieth birthday.

I told Cris that I was pregnant near the end of January. He was not pleased. He grew distant. By July, I had reached the height of suspicion. I reached for his journal, something I had never done before. Journals are secret, sacred. I was sickened by what I discovered.

This is my first response...

Drowning is not so pitiful as the attempt to rise
Three times 'tis said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever
To that abhorred abode, here hope and he, part company
For he is grasped of God.
The maker's cordial visage,
However good to see, is shunned, we must admit it,
Like an adversity.

Emily Dickenson

I stare at people

March 30, 1987

ianthe woke me up at 6:45 this morning. I popped up happily - which is unusual. She was hungry. She had fallen asleep before having supper last night. I gave her Cheerios; she didn't eat them until I changed her diaper. She ate all of them and drank lots of apple juice. She was thirsty, so was I. We drank together and smiled. She was very sleepy. I gave her a bottle of milk and put her back to bed at 7:05. I did the dishes - well half of the dishes for Cris - happily - to make his day more enjoyable. He let me wear his purple sweater. He woke up to say goodbye. He asked why I was so chipper this morning. Well, I felt good - good to see ianthe before the afternoon, good that Aja and Harris were too wiped out to wake up with her crying at 6:45 and too tired to wake with me putting her back in bed.

In class later, they went to watch a video. I couldn't take it. No more sitting in dark rooms. I sat up on the third floor thinking about the movie I will make soon. I leaned my head against the glass, looking down into the gallery at a guy with two girls. They looked weird, all foreshortened. When another guy joined them, he looked straight up, not with any purpose and saw me. We stared at each other maybe 30 seconds. I did not want to look away. I was doing nothing wrong. I thought it was pretty weird, only head and shoulders.

Being alone with ianthe, my youngest child, always brought a sense of calm to me. I chose her over Cris's wishes. He had asked me to think about aborting her when I told him I was pregnant. Immediately - within a split-second - I thought about it and the decision was made, "No", but he didn't ask about my thoughts until days later. He was furious. That was the end of my marriage - that choice - the right choice. He soon was coming home from school with drawings on his pants, decorated by Char, a woman who was "just a friend" he assured me. I was so sure he would not stray, when I suspected an affair, it was one of his male friends that I expected him to have strayed with. 

He had no interest in my pregnancy. He painted a violent painting called "The Fetus". He had no interest in naming the child. I chose ianthe, naming her after Richard Braughtigan's daughter. He said he hated it. I chose Tristine, naming her after Peter Davidson, the blond Dr. Who. He played Tristan in All Creatures Great and Small. Tristine is the female version of Tristan = child of sadness. Cris hated that too. I was defiant. He hated everything.

ianthe rarely moved when she was a fetus. I often thought she had died. Once a week, or so, she would move her elbow or knee slowly across the surface of my belly, announcing her presence. She was precious to me. I chose her. She was mine. Cris said he would not take me to the hospital. He told me to take a bus. I did not know what to do. I was plunged into a deep depression. 

When she was born, she just looked around. She was a silent child. She never cried. She just made small sounds. I did not speak to her. I only stared at her. ianthe communicated with small sounds and grunts. I thought she was deaf. I asked my dad (he was a doctor). He reassured me that nothing was wrong. I wanted to believe him.

She was sitting at 4-1/2 months, crawling at 5 months, walking at 7 months. She was a wiry, thin, tall, spider-monkey baby. I was so very depressed raising her, that I forgot to feed her solid food. I breast fed her first, and then thought, "Oh, I should try to give her food", but she wasn't hungry by then. Eventually, she was referred to the University of Minnesota, "Failure to Thrive", they said. They gave me suggestions for diet. Yet, she only ate bananas: banana rice cereal, banana oatmeal cereal, banana barley cereal, and bananas. I lovingly called her the Banana Pan.

ianthe was close to 3 before my sister Cindy agreed with me that she might be suffering from hearing loss. Cindy provided daycare for me while I worked a temp job altering men's suits at Dayton's. She noticed that she had to make eye contact with ianthe to get her attention. She had a very limited vocabulary. She said a few simple words and phrases, notably calling both Aja and Harrison "Aya", "Stop it", and "Bye, see you later".  I took her to the doctor for a hearing test. She had a congenital defect - both of her middle ears were filled with gunk - had been that way since she was in utero. They cleaned out her ears and put in some tubes while they healed. When I took her home, an airplane flew overhead. "Loud mama," ianthe said, startled, covering her ears. Poor baby. She has permanent hearing loss of both high and low ends of the frequency, but human voices are mid-tones, so she does alright.

I always spoiled ianthe. She had only me. She needed extra love. Cris would threaten to fight for custody of the children after our divorce - but he never meant ianthe, he meant only Aja and Harrison. He made it apparent that he wanted nothing to do with her. I am so sad that she knew that. How hard would that be growing up?

Cris is gone on Vacation

I skipped these entries earlier because I was ashamed. I refuse to be ashamed for my lack of understanding when I was a twenty-something. I remember looking out the window, with my children - they were just babies - the oldest not even in kindergarten - pointing at the people waiting at the bus stop. I told them, "Look at them! Mindlessly going about their lives on auto-pilot, never once thinking about what their place in the world really is. They just follow the expectations set before them. Sad little people." 

I never was a very nice person, I still am not. I have a sense of superiority. I look down upon, and judge people unfairly. I am quick to criticize. I am quick to anger. At the same time - and I have heard this about women/girls with Asperger's - I am very emotional. I cry easily now. I don't think I was quite so prone to tears as revenge as a young mother. I was evil. I enjoyed the fact that lies tripped easily off my tongue. I lie still, as easily. 

I skipped these entries earlier because I wanted to portray myself as a victim. I played almost (or just) as large a part in my troubles as my emotionally-vampiric adulterous husband did. I should write all the entries - and let you be the judge...

January 4, 1987

Cris is gone for the good part of two weeks - or maybe a week - or at least 10 days. I will miss him, but I am looking forward to his vacation.  It will be a good opportunity for me to get done some things that need doing. I need to take charge of my life - to go to the post office with Harris and ianthe while Aja is at school - mail all my letters and things like that...

I worked for Halle last week and made $56.00! I feel pretty good about it. I feel like taking out my machine and sewing somethings for Cris while he is gone to surprise him when he comes home.

I haven't bitten my nails for a few days and they already look pretty good. I wish to continue not biting them - self-control I need you right now.

"Is there anyone so wise as to learn by the experience of others?" - Voltaire

"The man who rows the boat generally doesn't have time to rock it."

January 4th is my oldest daughter's birthday. It seems that Cris decided to go away on the day Aja turned six, I can't remember if he left the day before, or after the cake. Was he actually "on vacation"? No, he was staying with another woman. I knew that. I tried to pretend that it didn't matter. I told him I would do anything, just as long as he didn't leave me.

February 2, 1987

Not much to say, I feel a bit depressed, I don't want to talk about groundhog day or candle mass day. I have lots of work to do - I must work and read and go to school. It seems endless - too much.

Cris is wonderful. He is so smooth like chalky butterscotch. His hair grows from his body delicately from each pore - the same color as his chalky skin. Matte features and skin. Wonderful. He is so fun and nice to be with of late. He is fun to joke and laugh with. I'm not feeling as inferior with  him anymore either. Remember Sue to work on self-control and build up your self-esteem or confidence. Someday I will be a confident woman.

/cringe

Satyriasis - the male counterpart of nymphomania

January 19, 1987

Dart thrown at Cris's forehead
Dart in the Penguin's hat
The back of my neck is all tingly
Doing dishes
Listening to Roxy Music from the recorder on the wall

January 25, 1987

A Story

U stood in the hallway of a dimly lit apartment building, listening, straining to hear the conversation within the apartment before her. She held her ear close to the door, hands outstretched as if to balance herself and not fall forward and bump the door. She held the keys to the apartment in her hand, wondering if she should use them. She heard sounds of kissing, laughing, and the low mumbling of conversation within the door. A man and a woman were in there - or was that a television?

U thought the man belonged to her. This was of course a delusion because that was not the case at all. She is feeling very threatened. She thinks of the time when she was the one laughing and kissing, having a conversation with this man. She had caused these feelings of having your "prize" stolen from your grasp by another woman who now thought of him as her own.

They had met at a party. He had been warned not to have contact with U because this woman believed or thought somehow that U was a threat.

The man was inclined to do things that he was forbidden to do, so at the end of the party, he had taken U home, much to the dismay of his present woman, who returned the next day, questioning the man in the kitchen, "What is she still doing here?"

Through the years, U had become too secure in her position as his woman. This assumption had driven the man away, seeking out another woman who might not assume such things.

U felt anxiety. Her heart was racing. She jumped at sounds she heard within. A moved chair caused her to quickly run down the hall and hide around the corner in terror. What would happen if she was discovered? Noticing that no one was coming out of the apartment, she walked down to the door, again putting her ear close to listen. This was futile! She decided to go outside to see if anything was happening.

Outside, she scanned the surroundings for elevation. She decided to climb a tree that was nearby for a look. This view was not sufficient and she gave up after 5 minutes or so.

She was in the same place: she could hide out somewhere and wait for them to come out - but what door would they use? If she chose the wrong hiding place, it would be too late.

U decided to go back inside. Within seconds she was in the hallway, at the door again. Taking the keys from her pocket to fiddle with them, she struggled with the decision to either use them and discover the man in bed with his lover or pretend she knows nothing.

U had pretended a lot about not knowing about the man and his others. She had dressed up to look like someone else and watched him with others.

She decided she might as well get it over with. She knows it will destroy her relationship with the man, but she has had enough pain. More pain than she thought anyone could bear. It had changed her.

She thought she must be quick as possible in order to catch him in his betrayal. She tried clumsily to put the key in quietly, but her hands were shaking too much. It was too late. He was aware and had rushed to the door. U turned the key, he on the other side, tried to prevent it. The door is unlocked. Push. He pushes back.

She does eventually have the door open. She is insane with rage. She wants to get inside. She uses her body as a tool not caring what becomes of it. She squeezes in and sits on the floor,  her back to the closed door, emotionally and physically unarmored. She is a rock. She is not going to move.

The other woman has fled to the other room so as not to be seen - or is that the television playing in the background?

"I expected this U", the man says, standing before her like she is the plague. He wants to get rid of her but knows not how to go about it.

U sits. She is staring madly straight ahead. She has accomplished her mission. Her heart is beating fast. She is sweating and shaking. She is not going to move, ever again.

This is an actual account of me breaking into my husband's apartment after we had split up. I had stolen his keys while he was making breakfast for the kids one morning and walked to the corner hardware store to make copies. I slipped them back before he noticed. I would break into his apartment when he was at school to read his journals, to snoop around. I was looking for more salt to rub into my open wounds. It was painful, and undeniably wrong, but I did it. I own it. 

The actual event described in the story above ended in the hallway, a physical altercation. I flicked my burning cigarette at his chest. He shoved me back. He took my keys. He ordered me out. There was another woman in the apartment at the time. I never climbed a tree to look inside.

 Below is a shot list for my video production class I was taking at MCAD. I was planning on filming this story. When it actually came down to the video shoot, Cris had come home in the morning after spending the night with another woman. I was angry. He attacked me. Cris picked me up around the waist, bruising my ribs as he threw me down on the bed. He choked me. I used my legs to kick him off. The children were watching. They were crying. I called my sister to come. I called my friend Halle to come. 

Halle took me to Stillwater to visit a friend, whose husband ironically had just took their kids and left that very day. I filmed her talking. I had to shoot something. I had the video equipment checked out. The assignment was due. I called the video "Halle Driving". I earned a "B" for the project - oh well. If I can find it, I will post it.

Video Shot List

1. Walking down street, turning into apartment building. Using keys to open doors.
2. Walking upstairs to the door - listening intently - she is going to listen.
3. The man and woman (or watching a television) inside unaware, laughing, kissing, talking.
4. The woman listening intently.
5. Inside the apartment, a chair pushed back, man gets up to get something.
6. The woman in the hallway leaping away to hide. The woman freaking out.
7. Vision of man coming out and finding her.
8. Woman hiding, decides to go back to the door.
9. Man and woman talking, kissing, laughing in the apartment - or is it a television?
10. Key in hand.
11. Vision of man and woman in bed.
12. Key near lock.
13. Another different version of man and woman in bed.
14. Open lock.
15. Man leaping to door.
16. Woman's struggle.
17. Man's struggle - as woman flees.
18. Woman gaining - leg getting crushed in doorway.
19. Woman getting in, plopping down.
20. Man staring at her.
21. Woman staring straight ahead insanely.
22. Vision of man and insane woman happy together.
23. Man confused.
24. Woman staring.