But it's all in the game
The door to my bedroom opened slowly.
I could hear the children upstairs, the dog barking at them, ...
The murky brown of a cardboard box peeked in and then a hand.
Before I could comprehend what was happening, cloths flew out of my closet.
I should have known it would not be easy. At the same time, I was happy, relieved that she could not let this, me, go. But this was not the way my life should go. Do I not have enough gumption to stop this? I blamed Debra for my inadequacies regarding the commitments I had. I blamed Jackie for leaving the window open after he closed the door. I blamed Anna for not loving Debra enough to make her happy. I blamed Debra’s parents who did not get her the help she needed to fight her past demons (therapy is expensive and popping bubble wrap is cheap). And ultimately, I blamed myself for my lack of self control. My life is as secure as a floating crap game.
I was through.
I went to the closet door and was hit in the face by a pile of shorts and a shoe.
“Oh my God, Dianne, I am so sorry” she continued to gather up as many things as she could, no rhyme, no reason. Some of this clothing I no longer wore, some did not even fit me. She was out of control. The kids were running up and down the stairwell, putting their various treasures into cardboard containers, all in all, packing as children do. I didn’t correct their choices. We were going nowhere.
I closed the door and turned to Debra who had stopped to light a cigarette. She laid her arm on top of a tall chest of drawers, picking up a cup that had coffee from some long-ago morning. She put the cup next to her elbow, using it for an ashtray. She leaned against the bureau, crossed her right foot over her left and waited. The furniture was at least 5’ tall, yet she was resting on it as if it were on the arm of a chair.
I beckoned her to sit next to me. She plopped down, holding the cup in her left hand flicking ashes from the cigarette in her right.
“What?” she sounded irritated. She knew what was coming. Too bad. I was going to say it anyhow.
“Debra, I cannot do this. We have been living in a dream, it is turning into a nightmare.”
This is a true story. The names of some of the characters have been changed to protect the idiots who believe someone actually gives a shit. The truth has witnesses.
The writings on these pages by Dianne Schuch Lindsey are the ownership of said author.
Ó All Rights Reserved.