I opened my eyes to another day I didn't want to face, sleep crusted in the corner of my eyes. My eyes took in the disarray. I tried not to, but I slowly took in the empty bottle of vodka, the pile of laundry the plate from last night's dinner. Evidence which spoke volumes about the slow erosion of my dignity. It was so subtle I almost didn't see it happening.
Then yesterday my friend Tommy looked at me and said he had never seen anyone fall so far so fast… what got me was he was so matter of fact about it, same tone of voice as if he had said he stopped for gas on the way to coffee, like it just is what it is. No big deal. No judgment, but no bafflement either. I think that is what got my attention the most. That he wasn't even surprised. I sure as hell was surprised, how come he wasn't?
The sad part, the utterly inescapable twisted truth, is that I really thought I was putting up a good show. I really thought I was holding it together outwardly at least. Turns out the only one I am fooling is me. Turns out I am freaking stellar at selling "everything is hunky-dory pie"…but I am the only one that's buying it. Frankly I am having a little trouble keeping it down without gagging on it.
I don't even know how to look people in the eye without wondering what they see but are too polite to say. If I can't even trust myself to be honest with me, how can I expect anyone else to?
Case in point:
Last Tuesday I had many tasks to accomplish. The primary task: pick up checks from clients. I hate asking for money. Even when I worked for it and earned, I hate asking for money. I wish they would just send it in without me asking for it. They don't. I send their ads in without being reminded, but they don't send money without being reminded. What sucks is I always feel like I have to jump through more hoops and promise them all the fantastic things I will do next to help them grow their business in order to get paid for all the fantastic things I have already done.
I feel like if I don't have some extraordinary idea for the next step I don't deserve to get paid for the last brilliant bit, which is really messed up. It isn't their fault. I set myself up this way, showing them what I can do before making them pay. That's how I got so many clients. Only now my creativity feels like a noose and that is slowly choking me. The well is drying up and it is all I can do to get out of bed in the morning and face the day.
It's all I can do to get past the resounding accusation "my fault, my fault, my fault - he left because of me" which rolls around in my brain all night and bounces off my ears and into my skull, until all I can do is drink myself into a coma to make it stop.
If it weren't for the vodka before bedtime I would not be able to function, I would not be able to sleep. If I don't sleep I can't work. If I can't work I can't get paid. If I can't get paid I can't buy more vodka. It's logical right?
Anyway. Last Tuesday.
I dressed in my suit, spent extra time on my hair and makeup, and worked hard on my polished image of a Public Relations Guru with the world all figured out. As I was running out the door I decided to brush my teeth one final time to rid myself of the coffee breath. I didn't even bother to turn the lights on in the bathroom just brushed quickly, kind of wiped my mouth with the towel and ran out the door.
That day I had meetings with two realtors, and a group of six developers. The meetings were piled on top of each other and lasted all morning. I did the best dog and pony show I could muster and walked away with checks from all of them. I was feeling pretty good around 2:00 when I walked in to see my landlord with my checkbook and a Bic pen (which I had pretty much chewed the end off of earlier in the week when I was stressing over my rent.)
John Lewis my landlord is something of a quirky bird. He looks like Ichabod Crane with a fashion dysfunction. Besides owning all the buildings connected to my loft, he owned and used personal money to restore most of the buildings in Cartersville's town square. His tenacity and bullheaded force brought new life in a downtown that Wal-Mart almost turned into a ghost town. He is a veritable one man historic revitalization committee.
Most people aren't even aware of what he has done. The ones that are aware, are split rather inequitably into two groups: those who like what he did and respect him for it, and those who like what he did but hate him for how he went about getting what he wanted. The haters tend to outnumber the respecters. I vacillate back and forth myself.
I sometimes wonder if he dresses like he does just to thumb his nose at their sense or propriety and "good taste". Either way, the man is just not right with his wardrobe. More than likely, he is color blind to boot.
Today he was wearing plaid pants and a white polo shirt with really poorly done graphics of one of his buildings on the back. I always tell him when he wants me to design a better looking shirt he should let me know. He always asks what is wrong with the one he has and I usually back peddle quickly and tell him its fine for what it is. Except its not, it is really freaking ugly and he paid way too much for it. The colors are muddy and the illustration looks dated, in a bad eighties clip art sort of way. I hate that shirt. He has given me two of them.
As I walked in the door he looks at me and says with his slow southern drawl, "well Tiffney, either you just had a little lunchtime fun with that boyfriend of yours or you have toothpaste all over your face, I think I would prefer not to know which it is."
I look in the mirror and my jaw dropped, It was toothpaste ALL over MY ENTIRE CHIN. White toothpaste. Not one person had said a word. Three meetings, Two realtors, SIX developers….
Not
One
Word!!!!
So yeah, there was the toothpaste last Tuesday, and Tommy yesterday and thus here I lie today, brand spanking new day in front of me and the last thing I want to do is get up and face it and start the whole pretend "I am fine" charade it all over again.
I am not fine.
I am scared and sad and I don't know how in the hell this happened.
I don't know how my marriage fell apart without me even being aware. I don't know how one day I was loved and adored and cherished and the next day I was reaching for something solid to hold on to as my husband's words "Who the hell do you think you are, I saw I a lawyer, I want a divorce" yanked my world out from under feet, spun it around me, and left me falling into an abyss.
The only thing I have to hold on to is my work and my business and I just don't care anymore.
I don't want to draw pictures.
I don't want to write words.
I don't want to plan parties.
I only sort of want to design the cover of "The Bartow Trader". I say "sort of" because I adore Rick Richardson and he has been very good to me, but every week it is getting harder and harder to find any sort of creative juice, and I really wish I could stop.
I want to get back in my covers and sleep.
I want to dream about a place that is different than this. I want to go back to when I was blissfully unaware that my husband was dying inside. I want to go back to when I was not aware I couldn't fix it. I want to get to the place where I was sure of myself and sure of our love and sure of our faith in God. I want to go back to the place where we were untouchable and set apart. I just want to go back to where ever it was that I did not feel like I feel now.
I tell myself I am not mad at God.
I tell myself I am not mad at Ryan.
I tell myself I am not mad at me.
But I AM mad.
I am pissed as hell.
I want to scream and throw things.
I want to make a scene in public and scream at the top of my lungs that this is not fair. This is not how its supposed to end up.
But I don't. And I won't.
I won't allow myself to be that woman, that bitter ex wife.
I won't allow myself to appear at all ruffled.
I won't allow myself to feel it or it will be real.
Deep down I am positive this isn't real. This is not happening, if I can keep from feeling it I can keep it from being true. Irrational sure, but it's my irrationality and I am clinging to it as firmly as I can with one hand holding a bottle of vodka thank you very much.
Instead, I will drink myself into a stupor every night and wake up every morning and pretend. It's a patch but it is working… or it was working until Tommy and the toothpaste. Now I wonder if I am the only one who is fooled, why do I even bother? Is it even worth it?
The dog barks and across the loft I see a piece of paper slide under the door from the hallway. There are three doors to my 3875 sq. ft loft. One stairwell in the front on the Main street side which leads up to my front door, one stairwell in the back on Museum drive which leads people right into my bedroom, and one upstairs which leads to the hallway between my loft and John's office. The paper came from the hallway door. This cannot be good, it is obviously from John. I paid him last Tuesday, but I am behind on cleaning the back stairwell and planting those flowers in the planter I promised him I would.
I sigh and get myself together, make-up hair, brush my teeth, (this time I check the mirror carefully before I leave) grab my shoes and my phone and head to his office. I might as well just get it over with.
As I walk in his office I try not to grin at his ensemble -Red Corduroy pants, yellow shirt with a starched collar, green suspenders and a straw hat which makes him look like a gentleman farmer, penny loafers, no socks, no pennies. I shake my head and grin as I sit down.
"Well Tiffney Taber!" He bellows as he leans back in his seat "How's the world treating you this morning?"
"Just fine, I suppose, it's a brand new day just waiting to be filled with sunshine and joy" I quip.
"Your hands are a bit shaky, you scared or did you just drink a little too much last night?"
"I am scared of you actually John, your fashion sense terrifies me. Do you pick your ensembles solely based on the fact you can get away with it and you don't give a shit or did you actually look in the mirror and think 'I look good today!'?"
"Harummph"
I wish I could spell out what John's snickers sound like but I can't. The sound is something between a cackle and a hiccup, a snicker and a choking rooster. It is uniquely John and I never know if he is amused or irritated when he does it.
But there it is now... the snicker.
Just waiting for a response, hanging in the air between us. I have none.
I just laugh uncertainly and settle into the chair and wait to see what the wizard behind the curtain has summoned me for today.
"Well Tiffney, I noticed you were writing your check the other day with that cheap plastic pen, surprised it wrote at all with the end chewed off like that…"
I have no idea where he is going with this so I just raise my eyebrows and wait.
"You'll notice when you come in my office I always write with a nice pen, here feel this," he hands me his pen for inspection and continues...
" See feel that doesn't that just feel nice in your hand?"
I still have no idea where this is leading so I kind of bounce the pen up and down in my palm and then switch its position in my fingers as if I am going to write. The pen is Navy Blue and thick with a gold clip and a gold tip. It does in fact feel awfully good in my hand so I remark "yup this feels awfully nice John, you have great taste in pens, much better than your taste in pants actually."
"Harrumpf"
There it is again. I still don't know what to make of it, so I choose to believe he is amused.
I set the pen down and wait for him to continue because I am sure there is more to this little show and tell, and despite myself, I am curious.
John reaches into his drawer and pulls out a little blue pouch. By blue, I mean robin's egg blue, and by robin's egg blue I mean that certain shade of Tiffany & Company robin's egg blue. The particular hue of blue that makes girls get all mushy. He opens the pouch and pulls out a slender silver pen. The clip of the pen is shaped like a capital "T". The Tiffany and Company logo is engraved discreetly along the tip.
"I had this other pen at home in a drawer and after seeing you with that god awful plastic thing, I polished it. It was really black and tarnished but its pretty now, it looked like worthless junk, buts it is a nice pen. See?" He hands it to me for inspection. Again I take his pen in my palm and feel the weight before twirling it around and scribbling on a peice of paper with it.
"It's a pretty pen John, looks real nice." I say as I hand the pen back to him.
He motions my hand and the pen away from him and does not take it. "It doesn't do me any good sitting in a drawer, so I am going to give it to you. I want you to have it because you just feel better when you have a nice pen to write with. You look like you could use a nice pen right about now Tiffney."
As I sat there dumbfounded he continued "now I filled it up with fresh ink and if it runs out you come on back here and I will fill it up again, but don't expect me to fill it up for you forever! You hear me? Pretty soon you have got to fill it up for yourself. I can't be refilling your pen all the time 'cause I am very busy and I just don't have time for that, so you can come back again if you need to, but don't get in the habit of coming back to me for refills. You need to start refilling it on your own sometime soon. For now though its okay if you need a refill"
This was just one of the unaccountable things John Lewis did for me. All of them were so simple, so subtle I almost missed most of them. Only in looking back clear headed over a year and half after going to rehab and taking my life back do I see the many lessons John taught me. Only now can I appreciate the days he knocked on my door and gave me silly tasks to accomplish. Tasks which forced me out of bed, tasks which got me out in the sunshine and working with my hands, sweating in the Georgia sun, tasks which made me curse at him.
I only did them because I was behind on my rent. I didn't do them with a good attitude and I rarely did them the first time he asked.
I did them so he would leave me alone and let me get back to drinking. Every darned time I finished a task he would knock on my door with another innocuous request which I was beholden to him to complete.
I was not ever very gracious about it... I might have even cursed at him once or twice. He would curse right back and sooner or later I would feel bad and get on to completing whatever it was he "needed completing".
He was a strange and quirky bird. He dressed like a retarded clown. I disliked and adored that persnickety man with equal vehemence.
I still have that pen. I took it to rehab with me and wrote many rambling thoughts, until it ran out of ink. It has sat in a box with all my journals from that time when I got to imagine a life full of hope despite my failures.
Today I went and I refilled that pen myself, because even though I feel pretty good, you just feel better when you have a nice pen.
I think I will write John a letter and ask him what he is wearing.
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