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Chapter Eight - We Need To Talk - |
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We need to talk. That’s the official start of the end. When you need to talk, it’s invariably something you don’t want to talk about. “We need to talk about our relationship.” “We need to talk about your future with this company.” “We need to talk about your test results.” It’s never good. The first time I remember hearing those words they came from the Other (a.k.a. Significant Other). The Other, whatever its current form, uses several similar catch phrases. I believe the origin of the catch phrase, “catch phrase” stems from how, as soon as you hear such a phrase, you’re about to catch hell. The Other said, “I need some space,” four more innocuous words that loosely translate to: “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” “He’s such a jerk,” said another Other about a co-worker. Three months later, she was staining his sheets. It’s always the first few words that send the biggest chills down my spine. The innocence of the opening is inversely proportionate to the shit storm that follows. “Where do you think we should eat” leads to “We really have nothing in common,” and out you go. Sometimes, before someone becomes the Other, they can undermine their chances of becoming the Other by prematurely posing a simple question. Something like, “So, what are we doing here?” That’s what psychos ask after you’ve slept together twice and visions of new curtains for your apartment are dancing in their twisted little heads. AhhÉ the smell of burning rubber. Shortly before the start of That Year, I came home from work one day and found the missus on the couch in tears. “What’s wrong, honey?” She gathered every ounce of strength she could muster and cleared her throat. “We need to talk.” I paid close attention.
•••
I hadn’t paid attention. Not to her, not to life, not to myself even. I got lost in Los Angeles culture and a career that held no real interest to me. I bought into a lifestyle that I couldn’t support. Credit card companies kept sending me pre-approved cards that I couldn’t afford to use but did. Before I knew what hit me, I became imprisoned in the system. Now I couldn’t possibly leave my job because I owed the fucking bank so much money. Debt enslaved me. I was so unaware of 3b I didn’t see her wander away. She should have handled the situation differently, but ultimately that didn’t matter. If I were a different person, a braver person, I would have handled situations better and maybe life would have turned out different. Tragically, I was not without intuition. 3b and I hadn’t had sex for a long time. As we lay in bed one night I sensed something was not right. Her body signals were off. She didn't smell right. Though I was afraid to speak, I literally opened my mouth to say that if I didn’t know better, I’d swear we’d just had sex. One of us had. Shortly after she broke the news we arrived at a therapist’s office. Forty-five minutes later it was embarrassingly apparent that I had my own issues that needed sorting out before we were going to be able to address the problems between us. That therapist was good. 3b had been begging me to see her for a while, but of course I resisted. There was nothing wrong with this know-it-all. 3b may have had her problems, but I was a-ok. A few well-placed questions from the shrink changed all that. We never saw her as a couple again. I continued to see the shrink by myself. There were some stormy waters under my cool surface. I had become a raging insomniac. It never dawned on me that not being able to sleep might have been a symptom of something else. As usual I knew better: I was a night owl now forced to live nine to five, of course I couldn’t adjust. As usual, I didn’t know cock-dookie. The shrink tried hypnosis on me. To check if I was under, she instructed me to move my left index finger. It gave a small wiggle, enough to satisfy her that my upper levels were present. Then she asked my subconscious to move my right finger. The entire right side of my body lurched into a contorted spasm. Apparently those stormy waters ran pretty deep. Tears streamed down my face as she whittled away at my subconscious. Not sadness, not joy, it was just water leaving my body out of sheer momentum. I was a pressure cooker and my lid had just seriously pooped. It turns out your subconscious is like a guardian angel -- the It’s A Wonderful Life kind, not the scary paramilitary vigilante kind in the red beret. It protects you from yourself. The things most people know instinctively, like not to jump in front of a bus, are handled by our friend the subconscious. Apparently mine thought it had failed me and was having a hard time dealing with guilt, hence the tears. So now, not only did I have all the surface crap to deal with, I had a subconscious with its own guilty conscience that needs attention. Can a brother get a break? As much as I loved having the shrink beat the shit of me every week, there was only so much she could do. 3b and I had been through a lot and loved each other deeply, but our marriage was irreparably damaged. We’d waited too long, done too little too late. Maybe if we’d caught the problems earlier we could have patched things up. I couldn’t say for certain that I truly wanted to save the marriage. Something gnawed at my subconscious and blinded me to the trouble brewing in our relationship. Did my lower self cause me to turn away from 3b? Is it possible that the little bastard actually pushed me off course and was the reason I got so distracted in life? If so, I was going to kick its little sub-ass. I started questioning everything. Did I actually love 3b? Did I ever? Did I bury myself in a stupid job to escape my other failures? Six of my friends’ bands got record deals since I left Milwaukee -- maybe if I’d stayed, I’d have one by now, too. Was moving to California one giant fuck up? And most importantly, was there anything I could do about it? Or was it too late?
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