| Essay Non-Fiction posted October 12, 2008 |
  |
Feelings of desperation and loss.
Drowning
by zeezeewriter
Art work by NooYawkGurrl DiviantArt
My third husband was Fred Dughetti.
I can say his name. I can ... just did, Fred Dughetti. For years I could not utter his name, much less type it.
F R E D, four simple letters.
I met him while married to my second husband. He walked into a bar where I was working as a cocktail waitress in Peoria, Illinois. My second marriage was on the rocks, my husband had barred me from working in the restaurant he managed due to my fit of jealousy after he allegedly slept with one of the waitresses. Well, I alleged that he slept with her, he denied it.
Fred was different, not terribly good looking, but charismatic, glib and clever, and ten years older than me. I liked him immediately. Within a month I moved in with Freddie. It felt right. I was where I belonged. I had arrived.
Shortly after moving in, I noticed empty scotch bottles laying in the shape of a pyramid in the cupboard. I remember thinking it was odd.
We were married within days of my divorce and a month later Fred lost his job as Vice President of a catalogue retailer.
He was hurt by the loss of his job, felt betrayed, and I felt sorry for him. I shifted into overdrive, took the helm and allowed him time to recharge his batteries. Does the word "enable" come to mind?
We moved to Chicago to begin a new life. It was so romantic. I would go to work and he would cook spaghetti sauce and run my bath. At night we would walk the streets of Chicago, hand in hand, and come back to our little apartment, where we listened to jazz and made love. He had so much to say and I was a sponge, soaking up his ideas and his visions and his knowledge.
Money was tight. I worked several jobs, waitress during the day and hat check girl at night. He got a job at GoldBlatts as a floor manager. He lasted less than a month.
I remember ... he took me to dinner at a place called Biassetti’s, our favorite restaurant, and we were having a lovely evening when he told me, “I got fired today.” Just like that.
I remember thinking I needed to go to the ladies room and throw up, but I shifted into overdrive instead.
Six months later, we moved back to Peoria. He got a job selling insurance with Bankers Life and Casualty. I got a job as a waitress.
He hated his job, hated selling insurance and seldom went to work. I workd all night, he drank all night. He made great spaghetti sauce.
A year later we move to San Jose, California. He got a job as a sales representative for a Diamond watch company. We rented a lovely townhouse. I got a job as a waitress.
He hated his job and seldom went to work. I work all night, he drank all night. He made great spaghetti sauce.
Within six months he was transferred to Denver, Colorado.
I got a job as a waitress.
(Repeat above paragraphs.)
Two months later, he was fired.
We move to Decatur, Illinois, open a costume jewelry store in a small mall. I worked the store all day. He stayed home and made spaghetti sauce. At night I strung jewelry to sell in the store, he drank.
We opened a second store, then a third. He hired people to work the stores. He stayed home and, well ... you get the picture.
One day a man came with a van and took all the merchandise ... Fred had forgotten one little detail, he failed to pay for most of the goods. He was management, I was labor.
From that point forward we spiraled out of control. We moved to Southern Illinois then to downtown Chicago, then to the suburbs. Just repeat the scenario above; it never changed.
And still I loved him and continued to shift into overdrive, always feeling I could save the day. I wonder now if I had an ego problem.
Many things happened, shit I won’t even tell you about, things too awful to speak of, too embarrassing to say. In the end I left him believing that I could save his life, believing he would sober up and go to work. I thought I could force him to take control and I would no longer be an enabler.
The spiral was now in full force, like a mighty cyclone, sucking everything down and down into the abyss. We were lost. He called and begged. I cried. He called and begged. I cried. I wished for death. He was dying. Welcome to life in hell.
I ask you, have you ever left someone you loved, adored? Have you ever left someone to save them? Have you ever turned your back on someone that you loved while they begged you to stay? I don’t recommend it. The possible result ... a nervous break down.
He moved to Florida, got a job and stopped drinking. I put one foot in front of the other, day by day, week after week.
He called me a year later and asked if I would join him. He said he’d straightened up, gone sober. He said he still loved me and wanted to make it up to me.
I was thrilled, all the suffering had been worthwhile. So, I quit my job and left Chicago in an old beater car and drove to Florida.
If I live to be a hundred I will never forget the night I pulled into the apartment complex.
He was standing by the curb, waiting for me. My heart did a flip at the sight of him. I was filled with indescribable joy as I got out of my car and ran to him. He picked me up and swung me around and around. Then I realized ... he was drunk.
His room mate told me he’d not taken a drink in 6 months, and here he stood before me ... drunk.
He stayed drunk for four months, lost his job and wrecked his car and moved in with me. I worked as a bartender and he stayed home and made spaghetti sauce. I remember praying, My god, merciful God, please take me from this place … please take me.
On a Wednesday afternoon, as he lay passed out on the couch, I walked to the kitchen in search of a clean glass in the cupboard. That’s when I found them, the bottles, stacked like pyramids, all empty.
I went to the closet to get my suitcase and It fell from the overhead shelf, crashing to the floor. It was filled with empty scotch bottles. I carried them to the garbage container beside the little studio apartment we were staying in and drove away, leaving him there on the couch, asleep.
I don’t remember the trip. I only remember crying tears of desolation and sorrow.
He quit drinking and married a school teacher. He died 3 years later from cancer.
I cried for years. I became tears and melted into nothingness. And then one day ... I had no more tears to cry. I would live.
My third husband was Fred Dughetti.
I can say his name. I can ... just did, Fred Dughetti. For years I could not utter his name, much less type it.
F R E D, four simple letters.
I met him while married to my second husband. He walked into a bar where I was working as a cocktail waitress in Peoria, Illinois. My second marriage was on the rocks, my husband had barred me from working in the restaurant he managed due to my fit of jealousy after he allegedly slept with one of the waitresses. Well, I alleged that he slept with her, he denied it.
Fred was different, not terribly good looking, but charismatic, glib and clever, and ten years older than me. I liked him immediately. Within a month I moved in with Freddie. It felt right. I was where I belonged. I had arrived.
Shortly after moving in, I noticed empty scotch bottles laying in the shape of a pyramid in the cupboard. I remember thinking it was odd.
We were married within days of my divorce and a month later Fred lost his job as Vice President of a catalogue retailer.
He was hurt by the loss of his job, felt betrayed, and I felt sorry for him. I shifted into overdrive, took the helm and allowed him time to recharge his batteries. Does the word "enable" come to mind?
We moved to Chicago to begin a new life. It was so romantic. I would go to work and he would cook spaghetti sauce and run my bath. At night we would walk the streets of Chicago, hand in hand, and come back to our little apartment, where we listened to jazz and made love. He had so much to say and I was a sponge, soaking up his ideas and his visions and his knowledge.
Money was tight. I worked several jobs, waitress during the day and hat check girl at night. He got a job at GoldBlatts as a floor manager. He lasted less than a month.
I remember ... he took me to dinner at a place called Biassetti’s, our favorite restaurant, and we were having a lovely evening when he told me, “I got fired today.” Just like that.
I remember thinking I needed to go to the ladies room and throw up, but I shifted into overdrive instead.
Six months later, we moved back to Peoria. He got a job selling insurance with Bankers Life and Casualty. I got a job as a waitress.
He hated his job, hated selling insurance and seldom went to work. I workd all night, he drank all night. He made great spaghetti sauce.
A year later we move to San Jose, California. He got a job as a sales representative for a Diamond watch company. We rented a lovely townhouse. I got a job as a waitress.
He hated his job and seldom went to work. I work all night, he drank all night. He made great spaghetti sauce.
Within six months he was transferred to Denver, Colorado.
I got a job as a waitress.
(Repeat above paragraphs.)
Two months later, he was fired.
We move to Decatur, Illinois, open a costume jewelry store in a small mall. I worked the store all day. He stayed home and made spaghetti sauce. At night I strung jewelry to sell in the store, he drank.
We opened a second store, then a third. He hired people to work the stores. He stayed home and, well ... you get the picture.
One day a man came with a van and took all the merchandise ... Fred had forgotten one little detail, he failed to pay for most of the goods. He was management, I was labor.
From that point forward we spiraled out of control. We moved to Southern Illinois then to downtown Chicago, then to the suburbs. Just repeat the scenario above; it never changed.
And still I loved him and continued to shift into overdrive, always feeling I could save the day. I wonder now if I had an ego problem.
Many things happened, shit I won’t even tell you about, things too awful to speak of, too embarrassing to say. In the end I left him believing that I could save his life, believing he would sober up and go to work. I thought I could force him to take control and I would no longer be an enabler.
The spiral was now in full force, like a mighty cyclone, sucking everything down and down into the abyss. We were lost. He called and begged. I cried. He called and begged. I cried. I wished for death. He was dying. Welcome to life in hell.
I ask you, have you ever left someone you loved, adored? Have you ever left someone to save them? Have you ever turned your back on someone that you loved while they begged you to stay? I don’t recommend it. The possible result ... a nervous break down.
He moved to Florida, got a job and stopped drinking. I put one foot in front of the other, day by day, week after week.
He called me a year later and asked if I would join him. He said he’d straightened up, gone sober. He said he still loved me and wanted to make it up to me.
I was thrilled, all the suffering had been worthwhile. So, I quit my job and left Chicago in an old beater car and drove to Florida.
If I live to be a hundred I will never forget the night I pulled into the apartment complex.
He was standing by the curb, waiting for me. My heart did a flip at the sight of him. I was filled with indescribable joy as I got out of my car and ran to him. He picked me up and swung me around and around. Then I realized ... he was drunk.
His room mate told me he’d not taken a drink in 6 months, and here he stood before me ... drunk.
He stayed drunk for four months, lost his job and wrecked his car and moved in with me. I worked as a bartender and he stayed home and made spaghetti sauce. I remember praying, My god, merciful God, please take me from this place … please take me.
On a Wednesday afternoon, as he lay passed out on the couch, I walked to the kitchen in search of a clean glass in the cupboard. That’s when I found them, the bottles, stacked like pyramids, all empty.
I went to the closet to get my suitcase and It fell from the overhead shelf, crashing to the floor. It was filled with empty scotch bottles. I carried them to the garbage container beside the little studio apartment we were staying in and drove away, leaving him there on the couch, asleep.
I don’t remember the trip. I only remember crying tears of desolation and sorrow.
He quit drinking and married a school teacher. He died 3 years later from cancer.
I cried for years. I became tears and melted into nothingness. And then one day ... I had no more tears to cry. I would live.
I can say his name. I can ... just did, Fred Dughetti. For years I could not utter his name, much less type it.
F R E D, four simple letters.
I met him while married to my second husband. He walked into a bar where I was working as a cocktail waitress in Peoria, Illinois. My second marriage was on the rocks, my husband had barred me from working in the restaurant he managed due to my fit of jealousy after he allegedly slept with one of the waitresses. Well, I alleged that he slept with her, he denied it.
Fred was different, not terribly good looking, but charismatic, glib and clever, and ten years older than me. I liked him immediately. Within a month I moved in with Freddie. It felt right. I was where I belonged. I had arrived.
Shortly after moving in, I noticed empty scotch bottles laying in the shape of a pyramid in the cupboard. I remember thinking it was odd.
We were married within days of my divorce and a month later Fred lost his job as Vice President of a catalogue retailer.
He was hurt by the loss of his job, felt betrayed, and I felt sorry for him. I shifted into overdrive, took the helm and allowed him time to recharge his batteries. Does the word "enable" come to mind?
We moved to Chicago to begin a new life. It was so romantic. I would go to work and he would cook spaghetti sauce and run my bath. At night we would walk the streets of Chicago, hand in hand, and come back to our little apartment, where we listened to jazz and made love. He had so much to say and I was a sponge, soaking up his ideas and his visions and his knowledge.
Money was tight. I worked several jobs, waitress during the day and hat check girl at night. He got a job at GoldBlatts as a floor manager. He lasted less than a month.
I remember ... he took me to dinner at a place called Biassetti’s, our favorite restaurant, and we were having a lovely evening when he told me, “I got fired today.” Just like that.
I remember thinking I needed to go to the ladies room and throw up, but I shifted into overdrive instead.
Six months later, we moved back to Peoria. He got a job selling insurance with Bankers Life and Casualty. I got a job as a waitress.
He hated his job, hated selling insurance and seldom went to work. I workd all night, he drank all night. He made great spaghetti sauce.
A year later we move to San Jose, California. He got a job as a sales representative for a Diamond watch company. We rented a lovely townhouse. I got a job as a waitress.
He hated his job and seldom went to work. I work all night, he drank all night. He made great spaghetti sauce.
Within six months he was transferred to Denver, Colorado.
I got a job as a waitress.
(Repeat above paragraphs.)
Two months later, he was fired.
We move to Decatur, Illinois, open a costume jewelry store in a small mall. I worked the store all day. He stayed home and made spaghetti sauce. At night I strung jewelry to sell in the store, he drank.
We opened a second store, then a third. He hired people to work the stores. He stayed home and, well ... you get the picture.
One day a man came with a van and took all the merchandise ... Fred had forgotten one little detail, he failed to pay for most of the goods. He was management, I was labor.
From that point forward we spiraled out of control. We moved to Southern Illinois then to downtown Chicago, then to the suburbs. Just repeat the scenario above; it never changed.
And still I loved him and continued to shift into overdrive, always feeling I could save the day. I wonder now if I had an ego problem.
Many things happened, shit I won’t even tell you about, things too awful to speak of, too embarrassing to say. In the end I left him believing that I could save his life, believing he would sober up and go to work. I thought I could force him to take control and I would no longer be an enabler.
The spiral was now in full force, like a mighty cyclone, sucking everything down and down into the abyss. We were lost. He called and begged. I cried. He called and begged. I cried. I wished for death. He was dying. Welcome to life in hell.
I ask you, have you ever left someone you loved, adored? Have you ever left someone to save them? Have you ever turned your back on someone that you loved while they begged you to stay? I don’t recommend it. The possible result ... a nervous break down.
He moved to Florida, got a job and stopped drinking. I put one foot in front of the other, day by day, week after week.
He called me a year later and asked if I would join him. He said he’d straightened up, gone sober. He said he still loved me and wanted to make it up to me.
I was thrilled, all the suffering had been worthwhile. So, I quit my job and left Chicago in an old beater car and drove to Florida.
If I live to be a hundred I will never forget the night I pulled into the apartment complex.
He was standing by the curb, waiting for me. My heart did a flip at the sight of him. I was filled with indescribable joy as I got out of my car and ran to him. He picked me up and swung me around and around. Then I realized ... he was drunk.
His room mate told me he’d not taken a drink in 6 months, and here he stood before me ... drunk.
He stayed drunk for four months, lost his job and wrecked his car and moved in with me. I worked as a bartender and he stayed home and made spaghetti sauce. I remember praying, My god, merciful God, please take me from this place … please take me.
On a Wednesday afternoon, as he lay passed out on the couch, I walked to the kitchen in search of a clean glass in the cupboard. That’s when I found them, the bottles, stacked like pyramids, all empty.
I went to the closet to get my suitcase and It fell from the overhead shelf, crashing to the floor. It was filled with empty scotch bottles. I carried them to the garbage container beside the little studio apartment we were staying in and drove away, leaving him there on the couch, asleep.
I don’t remember the trip. I only remember crying tears of desolation and sorrow.
He quit drinking and married a school teacher. He died 3 years later from cancer.
I cried for years. I became tears and melted into nothingness. And then one day ... I had no more tears to cry. I would live.
 Recognized |
I lived through this. He did not. Choices ... we all make them. We just hope we don't die from them.
Pays
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