The Beginning/End (part 1)

I suppose if I'd been in my right mind and not so far into my weirdness I would have seen it coming.

G. and I had been married for almost nine years. I had proposed to her ten years earlier, after one whirlwind drunken evening. Lately, things had been a little cool between us. I knew she was irritated for me, but it was for the usual reasons: I'm a slob, I can't manage my money, I drive like an asshole (six tickets in as many months, and the consequent suspension of my license), I don't do anything besides go to work, come home, sit on the couch, drink a lot of wine, and pass out/go to bed. The usual minor crimes and trespasses in our comfy little home.

It started on Friday, May 6, 2005. It was the day after Cinco de Mayo. G. had a bunch of her gal pals over for drinks before they went out. As it was near Cinco, I volunteered to make margaritas (I made killer margaritas-- even professional bartenders would beg me for my recipe). I had recently gotten into top-shelf tequilas, and needed a good excuse to try them out, too.

After a few pitchers, we were all well on our way. I provided some low-key entertainment with my flamenco guitar (very amateurish, but sounding like Paco de Luca to drunk people who don't know what it's supposed to sound like). I remember seeing them off, and then went into my office for awhile. That's where my memory goes blank for several hours.

G. and her pals came home several hours later, and found me, passed out in the bathtub, with vomit on my t-shirt. Once again, I had embarrassed G. For the one millionth-plus time in our marriage.

The next day, we were going down to visit my mother for Mother's Day. Needless to say, I was hung over to hell, and G. drove the 90 miles to Rochester. I felt awful the whole weekend, although I never let on it was because of a hangover.

The following Monday night, G. went out with her best gal friend. She got home late (around midnight), and insisted on sleeping on the couch. Not unusual, as I had a tendency to snore and she was a light sleeper. On Tuesday, she didn't come home at all, and stayed over at her best friends' house. This was getting strange. And I was getting anxious. When I get anxious, I retreat to some place safe. In this case, it was back down to my mom's in Rochester. I drove down that night, missing a concert by the reunited Gang of Four, one of my favorite bands, which I had been planning to see for months.

G. had been planning to start couples counseling again, and had our first appointment in a couple weeks. I called and had it changed to that Thursday morning. Between Tuesday night I spent my time on my mom's couch, staring at the TV, scared, unable to do anything, even cry.

Thursday morning comes around, and my mom drives me to the therapy appointment. G. is there, and is decidedly detached-- cold, even, in her black suit. We sit near each other (not next to each other), wordless, in the waiting room. After waiting for what seems like an eternity, we're called in to see the therapist.

I took a seat on a couch, G. sat down on a chair next to it. The therapist introduced herself, and asked us to do the same, and describe why we were here.

I told her I knew that we had some problems. I knew I was hard to live with. I knew I was emotional, and sometimes that was scary. But I also knew that I loved G. more than anyone, and that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, and was willing to work on our relationship.

Then she spoke. She said that she didn't love me anymore, and hadn't loved me for years, and had been living a lie. She said the marriage was over, and didn't see the point in working on it. She wanted a divorce, now.

I was crushed. As a child of divorce, I'd always told myself that when I got married, that would be it-- forever. I even naively thought that because my marriage lasted longer than my parents', that I was in the clear. After all, people tend to get divorced after a few years, not nine years. By then, you've pretty much got it sussed, right?

I was crying, and had an overwhelming desire to kill myself-- more so than usual. The therapist knew I was in trouble, especially after I had described how I'd been the past few months. She called over to Regions Hospital, and got me a bed in their acute psych ward.

I'd had several significant mental breakdowns in the past, but I'd never been hospitalized. I'd have episodes that would leave me unable to work for a month or two, but I'd never been to the hospital. THAT place was for wackos, not for people like me who had a little problem with depression once in awhile. What the hell was I supposed to do at the hospital?

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. My mom took me to the hospital, and I sat in the emergency room for eight hours, curled up on an examination table, feeling numb. I didn't cry much after the initial revelation-- I think I was in shock.

Finally I was admitted. They took inventory of all the meds I was taking, took away my belt and shoelaces (ain't nobody gonna hang himself in OUR nutjob ward, amigo), got me some pajamas, and sent me into the dayroom with the rest of the crazies...