NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

I Lost it

When it came to the children, Nina was consistently loving, fun, animated and attentive. I know after what I've shared how highly unlikely to be possible that sounds. It was a bizarre dichotomy where intensely pleasurable moments were tainted with the dread of what was to come; however, gratefully, those dreaded moments were mostly hidden from our kids.

Chaotic as it sounds, I loved the softness that she and the girls brought to our lives and believed my boys benefited. I watched their rough edges smoothed as they played with her daughters. My boys were often recipients of the girls' love of grooming and dutifully remained still as demanded by her precocious daughters, as each brushed the boys' hair. They must have liked it, clearly evident, as they allowed it to happen.

Except for rare circumstances, she was able to control her outbursts when around them. If triggered by something said or done in their presence, she could hold it back until later, usually in the privacy of our room or afterward when alone in the apartment, she would be free to unleash the pent-up storm of emotion. Although grateful for her restraint around the children, a resentment toward her began to develop.

Nina's rants cycled through a myriad of subjects. She complained that I enabled my ex-wife's actions, which, in Samantha's own words, she did not react well to being replaced. Samantha would often incense Nina with her snide remarks. Unflattering references such as "skinny bitch" caused more damage than Samantha could hope. My parenting was an often subject of Nina's criticism. From her view, I allowed the boys to watch inappropriate movies and play too violent of video games, and was often ineffective in dealing with a son's lack of school progress. Nina believed I was disloyal to her and lacked commitment for continuing to see my parents and siblings after, in her view, they did not support our relationship. At times, she scoffed at my apparent lack of intelligence, believed to be displayed by the vocabulary I used in our everyday conversations, admittedly inferior to hers.

The list of criticisms were endless, and not entirely without merit.  It clearly tortured her to go on about, but she couldn't stop herself.  At first, before I became familiar with the warning signs, her reactions appeared as sudden mood changes that were bizarre and over the top. The strength of those responses that were triggered by even the most innocent of situations characterized her personality disorder. 

My physical reaction to her sudden changes alarmed me. It felt as though the rug were pulled out from beneath me. I would become confused and inarticulate. My mouth turned dry and I would feel dizzy. My hands would tremble.  These reactions, though concerning, were not the worst.

Of all the boys, John, my youngest son, was the one most taken by Nina and her daughters. Whenever we were forced to take separate cars, he would beg to ride with them. Nina let him sit in the front passenger seat of her powder-blue BMW, where he for once, was the eldest child and enjoyed being treated as such.

[It hurts to remember how much my little boy loved those sweet girls and their pretty Mom.] 

Nina and John had a special game where he, shoeless and in socks, standing at rapt attention on our king-sized bed, and she, positioned in the corner of our master bedroom, armed with a wrapped toilet paper roll, would do her best to make him miss, as she juked and pump-faked, eventually releasing her throw, aiming where John wasn't.  John would dive and attempt to catch, and whether successful or not, it resulted in peals of laughter erupting from them and all who watched.

[I loved the sound of their laughter, and see myself easily falling for her again, remembering how great she was with them.]

At times, the three youngest, John and the girls, would disagree. I was keenly alert to those spontaneously arising moments, stealthily swooping in, attempting to resolve before Nina was made aware. I was not always successful.  She was hypersensitive, especially when it came to her girls, and if triggered resulted in some of our ugliest fights. I could withstand the damages from the storm of insults hurled at me. Insulting my child was much harder to stomach, particularly when aimed at my youngest.  Although John was not present during her tirades, the thought of him subjected to them, especially knowing how much he revered Nina, how he was always trying to please her, and how much it would have hurt him if hearing, enraged me. 

The confusion and dizziness I described earlier was replaced by a hot, laser-like anger. I needed her to stop, but could not make her. I tried to hold back the imminent loss of control as she continued her attacks on my Jonathan:

She pushes and pushes; her cruel words piercing and unstoppable. I push back, but I'm no match for her as she continues to land her verbal blows.  I resort to my physical dominance and pin her against the wall. Now cornered, she lashes out and becomes a flurry of flailing arms and kicking legs, and scratches me. Warm blood trickles down my face and God forgive me the pain feels good, and I am released.  I reach back, close my eyes, and blindly throw my fist, aiming where I visualize her face, that face, so fucking beautiful, but now a twisted and grotesque version; the face of a monster. I want to smash it, anything to stop that filth-spewing mouth. But at the last moment some semblance of sanity returns, and I'm able to pull it back, and the blow glances off the top of her head. A wave of guilt crashes over me. The hysteria is now gone, and with it our monsters. Nina is on the floor, subdued and softly crying, and I leave.

Standing in front of the Denny's Restaurant waiting for my brother to show, whom I had called after leaving the apartment, I welcomed the cold-night air and shivered as I took deep drags off a freshly lit cigarette. The events replayed over and over in my mind. I forgot about the scratches, until realizing the source for the look of wide-eyed concern that was strewn across my brother Mike's face.

I stayed with Mike and his family that night.  Lying awake and alone in their extra room, I tried to reconcile the irreconcilable, and make sense of how my life had gone from bad to worse.  In the morning, I called Nina and told her I would do whatever she wanted. I assumed she understood this to mean I would either move out, or help her find a new place to live.  Instead she offered, "I just want you to come home." 

What must have been seen as crazy by my brother, I returned to her without hesitation.  I knew for the moment that all would be good and I just couldn't refuse her or deny myself the opportunity to feel that love, even if only once more.

We met her ex-husband at the park that morning, a frequently used and centrally located pick-up/drop-off spot for her daughters. He had already brought the youngest to day care and was now delivering Sasha, the eldest, to us so we could accompany her on a class field trip to Brooksby Farm. I remembered feeling self-conscious with my bandaged face as I filled the awkward moment with excuses of an old razor and shaving cuts.

It was a crisp and brilliantly sunny, fast-paced fall day spent hurriedly moving along, with a sea of students, from one event to another. A surreal, picture-perfect family occasion that began with sipping hot cocoa, and ended with a rickety ride through the pumpkin patch, sitting together in the back of a straw-filled, tractor-pulled wagon. We chose to let go of the prior evening's actions, and experienced one of the best days remembered, and a return to our illusion of hope.

[No other snapshot from our time together better serves as an example of the volatile nature of our relationship.]

My father, who referenced this period of my life as The perfect storm, quipped during one of our late night conversations, "It's like you've jumped out of the frying pan, and into the fire." To regard the relationship as failed is an understatement.  My life had begun to look like the mother of all failures; catastrophic by anyone's measure. Our relationship that started fast should have ended fast; but, unfortunately endured for three years, reminding me of that old adage that begins, "Be careful what you wish for...."

I was in love though, and in it for the duration, for better or for worse.  Desperate this time not to let worse win again; deluding myself into believing that it hadn't already.