The (inevitable) break up

Breaking up is never easy. In the old days I used to make mix tapes and sit and smoke in the dark listening to such classics as “Love Hurts”. Or “November Rain”. Or Zeppelin’s “Babe, I’m gonna leave you”. And if it was a particularly painful split then I would bust out Air Supply’s “I’m all out of love”.

But I’m older now. And I can’t find a tape deck. Or my old mix tapes. So I’m forced to deal with stage one denial in a grown up manner. By writing a blog. And drinking red wine. And eating chocolate. Like all manly men do.

But single ladies with low standards and gay men into bears hold on. M. and I are still together. It’s our therapist that’s dumped me. And as all eleven readers of this blog know (Hi inmate #4201 at Ryker’s Island Correctional facility and Mrs. D’Amico’s third grade class at Van Scuyver elementary school in Haddonfield NJ), I’m as cuckoo as a lab rat on LSD. It’s true. I’ve stopped trying to deny it.

M. and I started seeing a children’s behavioral therapist a few months ago as an attempt to help us deal with our son’s developmental delay as well as the emotional problems that stem from said delay. And then a few weeks ago he asked that I no longer accompany M. to the sessions. He wanted to speak to her alone from now on.

And I tried telling him that I needed him. And that life just wouldn’t be the same without our Sunday night meetings. It would be so cold. So lonely. But he told me that it was over. At least for now. And all I could hear were the lyrics to Cinderella’s “Don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone”.

I drove M. to the next session. And I waited for her in the car. And I looked at that small office with it’s quaint iron gate. And I spied the fluorescent light spilling out beneath the door and thought about all the good times we used to have in that room. All the laughter. All the tears. All gone now. All lost forever.

And while I waited I came up with eight valid reasons why I thought he’d decided to break it off.

1. He’s telling M. that I’m a complete lunatic and that I should be institutionalized. Which makes sense. Particularly since I’d been trying to leverage those sessions into scoring a Klonopin prescription.

2. M. is crazier than I am. Which I refuse to take any responsibility for. Even though she was perfectly normal before I met her. And before D. was born. And before I started blogging about every fart. And every nuance. And told the world that I had sexual fantasies regarding a babysitter. Or any number of questionable blog posts that would drive any normal, privacy loving person fucking insane. And the longer I sat in the car and thought about it the more I realized how much of an asshole I really, truly am. I’ve literally driven my wife insane. In less than five years.

3. Our therapist has come to the inevitable conclusion that I am not worth the effort. I’m a real fuck up and it’s not worth the meager pittance he receives from the Kupat Holim (God Bless universal healthcare!). He’s not a private provider. If he were, a hot mess like me would be the mother lode. He could afford a yacht. Or at least a yearly gym membership.

4. Our therapist was sexually attracted to me. And so he’s cut it off to avoid any ethical quandaries or improprieties. When I was in my late teens early twenties I was told I bore a striking resemblance to Leonardo DiCaprio. From “Basketball Diaries”. Or “Romeo and Juliet”. And now that I’ve packed on a few and let my janu-hairy grow I look more and more like Jack Black. Which I’m cool with. The first half of Tenacious D is talented and funny. And some people might find that attractive. Not likely but possible.

Jack Black

5. He’s been reading my blog. Specifically the one I wrote about him. Here. And he knows that everything he says and does will be held against him. In my blog.

6. He needs his space. Because I’ve been stalking him online. Like when I went looking for him on Facebook. And Twitter. And found him on LinkedIn. But I’m not great with social media. And I didn’t realize that every time someone views your profile on LinkedIn it sends you a notification. Like, “Hey, someone’s being viewing your profile”. And I viewed his profile half a dozen times. From my home computer. From my work computer. From my laptop. Smartphone. And he’s totally freaked out by this. As any sane person would be. So he’s decided to pull an “I need my space”. And “It’s not you it’s me” bullshit.

7. He’s just not into me.

8. I’ve bullshitted my way into making him think I’m sane. Because I’m a real good bullshitter. And my mom always used to complain that I could talk my way out of anything. And maybe I did. Maybe I’ve put on such a convincing act that he is genuinely and professionally satisfied that I’ve seen the light. And I find that highly likely since I never once mentioned any one of many disorders, phobias or addictions.

As M. came out of the last session I could tell she had been crying. Which made me angry at first. And then depressed. And finally, once she had confessed that all they had talked about was her reluctance to get a driver’s license, I felt relieved. And I skipped straight to the acceptance phase.

It’s going to be okay. I keep telling myself that. Usually while getting kicked in the nuts by D. while he’s trying out his new Kung Fu Panda moves. Or when M. tells me that she loves me. And that she always will. (Though I could use to shed a few pounds. And get a haircut).

But mostly when I’m alone in the car waiting outside the therapist’s office for M. to finish her session.

Crazy, right?