Baby I Got Your Number…

I love this song, loved it even more when I was young and in love and crazy, head over heels with a man who drove me out of my mind; and, at times, it didn’t take much.  There was so much passion back then, not that there isn’t now-we know how to push each other’s buttons; and more often than not?  The fire goes out when we calm ourselves and look at the big picture.  We have been married for 26 years this September, and I wouldn’t trade the time we have shared for anything in this world.  Okay, maybe chocolate.  LOL!

I don’t want to sound trite, but people give up too easily on marriage.  One big fight and that’s it-out the door they go.  I see these relationships in one of two ways:  either the love and passion were never there, or they think the grass is greener on the other side of Dodge.  I am here to tell you-IT ISN’T.  There will always be the first time you see him on the commode, the dirty underwear, the utter fascination with every sport on planet Earth, and then some.

You will still have to deal with his parents, and children if they are involved.  I was the step mother to a boy I was not allowed to correct, or admonish-I had the responsibility, not the power.  To this day I wonder if it would have made a difference, but narcissists are created in one of two ways, for the most part.

  1.  The child is abused or neglected by one parent and spoiled by another;
  2. The child is never asked to take accountability for their actions; they are just perfect, allowed free reign, to bully their way through life, using and manipulating others they “need” for supply.

Frankly, I am rather tired of the subject, and this isn’t about him, it’s about us, and what we have was worth the struggle, the sleepless nights, the crushing pain.  I could have given up, and wanted to on several occasions.  It wasn’t the money-I had some stored away just in case-it was that bad.

After an evening of drinking too much, I was so upset with Dwain that I called 911.  I cancelled the call, but they came anyway.  I won’t go into the details, but I wasn’t hurt, just pushed.  I had been abused as a child and young adult-it triggered me to the point of fear for my life.  The town cop came, and Dwain took him out to the garage to show him the empty beer bottles.  My empty beer bottles.  He then sat down with us and tried to mitigate our rage.  It worked, for me anyways.  The next day I was greeted by a Sheriff’s deputy, who came to serve me a PFA.  I was morbidly embarrassed as at the time?  I was an executive secretary to the President Judge of Lebanon County, and I knew everyone in the municipal building.

“Come on in Jake,” I stammered.  What fresh hell is this?

Michele, I’m really sorry to have to do this, but you are being served a Notice for PFA Hearing, and if you don’t show up on Thursday, there will be a warrant issued for your arrest.

Shakily, I signed said papers.  My heart sank.  I hadn’t done anything wrong.  Later, my husband would tell me he withdrew the court order, and I was NOT there the morning of the hearing.  Only later, much later, would I come to find out that he hadn’t revoked the PFA.  Going on a hunch, I called the Prothonotary’s office and asked my girlfriend to check.

“Yes, the Judge signed a Protection From Abuse, umm, for three years.”

How did he convince the judge to let me stay in the house?  Why did he lie to me?  I was livid and frightened-this is as close as we came to divorce.  Dwain’s reasoning: he was afraid I would leave him and take half of his net worth, which wasn’t much at that time.  His first wife had done so, and he was paying two mortgages already.  No excuse, not even close.  I called the Chief of Police that evening, enraged.

“Why is it that I called the police in fear, but I am the one with the PFA?”

I went on a rant for twenty minutes.  Good ol’ boys stick together.  You don’t care for my welfare, you know Dwain but you most certainly don’t.  How is it going to look if he hurts me and you did nothing…….on and on I went.

Bags packed.  Waiting on a return call from the owners of a cozy farmhouse who were renting it out-and dirt cheap at that.

Dwain is in the driveway.

“I am so sorry.  I didn’t know what else to do at the time, I can’t lose everything again,” he cried.

“PLEASE, please don’t leave me, I can’t live without you and you know it.  I promise I’ll make this up, somehow, some way.

And he has, in small and rather large ways.  He forgave me my drinking career, drug addictions and Irish temper (when mom died I kicked every window out of our home,     in a drunken rage) so who was I not to forgive him?

So, if he gives you just one reason to stay, you better turn right back around.


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