I missed a call on the 3rd from a friend that usually doesn't call, so I knew something serious was going on. My immediate thought was, "It's either [abusive ex-boyfriend] or River." The former because she's my ex's brother's ex (that's how we met!), but still has occasion to see him sometimes, since she goes to his favorite bar sporadically; and the latter because I rehomed River with her two years ago.
That's right. I said before how I had to make the right choices with respect to her when I was in Indiana. I did my best to do the same once I moved to Seattleish. And there reached a point where I was working so much and my commute was so long that she was locked up/alone for far more than is fair for any dog, let alone one with her energy level. These are the two last pictures I took of her when she still lived with me:
I thought she was making funny faces at me at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized this was pretty much the only face she was making anymore.
She was miserable. And even though it wasn't really a fault of mine, it was my responsibility to do something about it.
Mina, the friend I mentioned above, was working as a bartender at the time, and thus had hours far more conducive to spending quality time with River every day. River adored her (she's actually one of the few females River was clingy with- she usually gravitated towards dudes when I had people over, but she always hovered around Mina when she visited with that ex-kinda-brother-in-law), and she adored River, and was really good with animals and had a great head on her shoulders about them (even worked at a pet store every now and then to help her friend, the owner, out).
So when I posted something about finding a new home for River on Facebook and Mina responded, I jumped on it- I knew River would be happy (once she got over me leaving her), loved, and well cared for.
So I did it. It was a million times harder and more painful than leaving that abusive ex. But I did it, because it was the best thing for her. My living situation/lifestyle was unfair to her, and I had to make the right choice as a parent. I couldn't take care of her anymore, not in the way she deserved and needed. And I knew Mina could and would.
I was a mess for a few weeks after- I spent maybe one or two nights at home alone because it hurt so much to not have her in bed with me. Instead, I spent as much time at my boyfriend's, or him at mine, as I could possibly muster.
Ironically, due to happenstance, I ended up moving in with them a few months later as I waited for my his lease to be up so he and I could move in together.
And boy was she salty at first. Which is classic River. LOOK AT THIS FACE, THIS IS THE FACE OF UTTER DISDAIN:
In the background, there, you can see Kashyyyk, the puppy one of the other peeps at the house got not too long after I moved in. River was so good with him, it was adorable to see them together. But anyway, I took this one day as I was trying to get her to join me on the couch. She refused. Which says a lot about how hurt she was, given the plethora of pictures my Facebook had been loaded with of her literally laying on top of me.
It took her almost half a year to deign to sit next to me, and one night that Mina was out of town and I tried to get River to sleep in my room, she wouldn't. Even after moving out, I'd come over to spend time with Mina (and River!!!), and she'd let me pet her and stuff, but she wouldn't sit next to me (let alone on me). And she wasn't nearly as enthusiastic about me showing up than she'd been when I'd get home before rehoming her, nor as she'd get when guests, even ones she was familiar with, would show up.
In other words, I don't think she ever forgave me. And even though I know I did the right thing, and that Mina was the absolute best dog mom I could have found, that will always hurt. She had been my baby girl, the entire center of my world, and she remained bitter about me giving her up. And no, I don't blame her for this- honestly, her ability to act so human was one of the things I'll always love about her.
So that phone call on the 3rd. I returned it, and Mina told me that River had an inoperable tumor. That she was in a lot of pain. That the best thing was to let her go, and she, Mina, wanted me there, and that River probably would, too.
So I dropped everything and went. To hell with social distancing.
When I got there, she was an entirely different dog. She looked ten years older, with grey hair and patches where she was almost bald. The tumor was in her stomach area, and while I had thought she had just grown chonky (which is apparently what Mina and her usual vet thought at first, too), it was actually the tumor itself, collecting all of her blood. And as I got closer, I could tell- the rest of her was rail thin and waif-like, but her torso was huge. Her eyes were the saddest I'd ever seen them. Her movement was slow and ginger, like every step hurt.
This is my last picture of her.
I don't know if she could tell she was dying, or if it was the painkillers she was on, but she was a lot more willing to receive affection and attention from me. I hope it was more like she was willing to put the pain I put her through aside and accept the love I was trying to show her. It's selfish, but I'm grateful for it. I wouldn't be surprised if it was because she sensed I needed that. She was always good at telling what her hoomans needed.
We spent some time together, Mina and I going back and forth between hugging each other and crying and hugging River and crying, and eventually, it came time to take her. My boyfriend had arrived by then, and I asked him to drive, since God knows I wouldn't be able to. He did so, a fucking champ and hero, and I would not have made it through all of that without him.
They let Mina and me be with her. And even when in immense pain, even when barely there, she was still....
Just so River.
To start, the first dose of anesthesia wasn't enough. Just when Mina and I thought she was asleep, the nurse knocked and she grunted in the way she did when she was annoyed, her, "Ex-CUSE me, sir/madam?" We laughed.
Then, even once asleep, the nurse could not find her vein to insert the catheter- just so damn stubborn! This also brought a few chuckles. The vet had to do it, and even she seemed to have more trouble than she wanted to admit.
And then, she was gone. Mina and I stayed with her after it was over for a good twenty minutes. And as we were walking out...
...I could smell one of her dank farts. As if she was saying goodbye with style, a style particular to her.
And it made me laugh, through the tears. Through the sobs I was shaking with, I laughed.
And that, that was River.
She was silly. She was goofy. She was sweet. She was exceptionally empathetic.
And she crop dusted with the skill of a stealth assassin.
She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. This is her in that same sweater, the first one I ever got her:
I'm so, so grateful she and Mina found each other. One of the comforts I've taken in this, and something I remind Mina of when she needs it (and Mina, if you're reading this, I mean it), is that her time with Mina was filled with joy and love. Mina fell in love with her just as I had, and cared for her as if River was her own kid, too. She, too, made sacrifices for River's sake, because she was being the best parent she knew how. River loved her, so much, and it was obvious to anyone who didn't know her, and especially obvious to me, someone that knew her so well. I saved River once, but when I was failing her, Mina saved her again.
River was one of the best things to have ever happened to me. I'm having a hard time finishing this in a cohesive way, but I think the best I can do is say I'll always miss her. I had to say goodbye once, and while at first, I thought that made this easier, I think I was kidding myself.
Because it hurts. It hurts so much.
I've gone back and read old posts in which she features heavily, and they've made me laugh. If you're interested, check these out, too:
About a month after she came home with me.
She used to make me feel better.
River poopin'.
I was lucky to have her.
I talk here a bit about cuddling with her in bed.
She managed to make a super deep moment for me hilarious.
Fighting with mosquitos while waking your dog is rough, yo.
River hears neighbors banging (not on doors) and gets confused.
Again, River helped me choose happiness.
Goodbye, River. You were the perfect dog for me. I'm sorry I couldn't be the perfect mom for you. I did my best, and even though it hurt you, I had to do right by you. So I'm happy you found Mina- she was the best mom you could have had once I let you down. We'll both always love you.
I'm glad the pain is gone. Do lots of zoomies in the clouds, and roll around on your back as much as you want now.
But don't stink up heaven too much with your flatulence, ok? No innocent look will get you off the hook, young lady!
I stand corrected.
I love you, River. Goodbye, sweet girl.
For those hoping for some righteous indignation about the current political situation and some sort of treatise on the particular breed of hypocrisy and violence embedded in the American State nowadays... Sorry. This post isn't really going to be political*. It's going to be personal (and not in the "the personal is political" way, but the legit "this is my heart" kind of way).
In a previous post, before talking about getting rid of an abusive ex, I talked about my dad. He died two Septembers ago. He took his own life. And in that post, I explained how Christmas had been tainted for me, that when I was little, it was the stuff a Norman Rockwell painting- joy and togetherness and warmth. But when I got older, too much life happened, and as Dad's decline grew steeper and steeper, Christmas became more and more miserable.
What I didn't bring up is Independence Day. On the Fourth, Dad would somehow manage to get himself out of bed (or off the couch- after a certain point, he stopped sleeping in the bedroom), make a nice breakfast for everyone (I think Dad liked making breakfast more than grilling, to be honest- as things got worse, he stopped grilling way before he stopped making pancakes), and start getting The Meat ready for the grill by late afternoon. He would at least pretend to be happy, and turn back into the Dad of the Year Edition of himself. If there was a video game for us to play, we'd sit around and he'd take turns with me and my two sisters (or just me and my younger sis- my older sister stopped coming home pretty early on in everything) in shooting whatever zombies or solving whatever puzzles there were with the same enthusiasm as before he fell apart. There wasn't fighting. There wasn't anger. There wasn't malice. He was funny, charming, warm. He was sober.
It was like time had shifted, or he alone had, like his old self would inhabit his current body for the day. A part of me knew he was acting, but it just made me love him more- because he was doing it for everyone else. I've only grown to understand that more, having grappled with my own mental illness and had to put on a face for people, too. Masks aren't for you, they're for the ones you love.
And I clung to that. Even if every other day, we barely spoke, or he was never sober enough to remember what we talked about by the time I was twenty-two, there, there was the proof he still cared, in how alive he was on the Fourth. The real act was when he made it seem like he didn't care. And I know that was for me, too- pushing me away out of his shame, his disgust with his own self. I know he didn't think he deserved any of us. He blamed himself for everything that happened to our family- from diagnoses to finances. I even have wondered if he blames himself for me being raped in grad school- I remember him mumbling something about how he "should have taught me to be safer" or something like that during the trip home where I told him and Mom; at the time, I took it more as a victim-blaming thing, but I really don't believe that anymore. Because while it was kind of funny and eye-roll-worthy as a kid, his tendency to take responsibility, to be a martyr, was what drove his depression so far.
-------
Fireworks.
Man, Dad loved fireworks. And the big ones, too. Not the little dinky ones the Boy Scouts sell. Nono, we're talking rockets and explosives, the illegal kind you have to drive to a Reservation to get. Fireworks were Dad's Thing, I would say even more so than the grill (or breakfast) (in the sense that he took so much pleasure in fireworks). And he was smart about it- he would start making trips to the Rez in like February, so that by the time Spring was over and cops started randomly searching trunks for contraband (i.e. in anticipation of people smuggling fireworks into town), he was done and wouldn't have to worry. Even if we couldn't afford steaks, we always, always had a great fireworks display on the Fourth.
I like to describe the fireworks on our block the way Christmas decorations get shown on TV/in movies sometimes. You know what I'm talking about, how it's a sign of status or awesomeness to have a huge Christmas display on the lawn, and competition between neighbors is sometimes a subplot (if not the main plot) of Christmas movies/shows. Well, by our third summer in our house (I would have just finished seventh grade), our neighbors were actively trying to best him with their own fireworks displays. But every year, he'd still have the very best fireworks of the block. It got to the point where our neighbors would kind of crowd nearish to our house to watch ours- they'd set up their lawn chairs and wait for Dad to finish before going back in front of their own houses to do whatever they had.
One of my last Summers in Vegas, one of the last before the divorce, our next door neighbor knocked on the door an hour or so before sunset. He had a huge sack in one hand and a six-pack of Coors in the other. He asked to talk to Dad, so Dad politely stepped out onto the porch with him and shut the door- Dad was always good at reading people, and he could tell our neighbor had something big to talk to him about. When Dad came back inside, our neighbor was gone, and Dad was holding the bag and beer.
Mom and I both kind of charged him, talking over each other but asking similar questions, and Dad shut us up by setting the beer down and opening the sack- it was filled with a LOT of expensive, fancy Rez fireworks, the same sort Dad liked. He explained that there was a health emergency in our neighbor's family- nothing super life-threatening, but our neighbor needed to go to the hospital right away. He didn't want the fireworks to go to waste, and he "couldn't think of a better place to put them than in the hands of The King." Yes, my Dad was "The King of Fireworks" amongst our neighbors, apparently, and the six-pack was a "tribute." The guy had also said he "was sorry he wasn't going to see what The King was gonna do this year," too.
Dad was so damn proud.
[I'm having trouble reading my typing, here, because of how much the whole memory means to me, but especially this moment. The big grin on his face, the way he kind of puffed up his chest to be funny, but how there was a significant part of him that so meant it. ]
I remember us all calling him, "Your Majesty," the rest of the night- once we got outside, my little brother even gestured with a wave of his arm and a bow to Dad's chair for viewing once each firework was lit and said, "Yoah fwoan, Yoah Majesty!"
It was... perfect.
And most telling, he didn't open that pack of beer until he had put the last firework in the water bucket. I told him I was proud of that as we were going inside, and he mumbled something and turned away- but not before I saw his eyes water.
-------
So, Fourth of July. It hurts.
Because I miss him, so fucking much.
I still regret not reconciling with him.
I still smile remembering the one time he accidentally dropped a smoke bomb or something, and it kind of popped and he squealed like a little kid as he ran.
I still remember the last time I saw him, and my chest tightens.
I still giggle when I think of all the times he snuck me over to his closet when Mom was busy to whisper conspiratorily and show me his latest haul from the Rez once his personal buying season started. Like Mom didn't know what he was up to. Hah.
But the moment I start thinking of "doing something" for the Fourth, I just want to cry. I feel hollow again, like I did when Mom told me what happened. The more I think about it, the farther I move from "want to cry" to "actually crying." If I think long enough, I start sobbing.
I don't know when I'll be able to genuinely enjoy a Fourth of July without putting on a mask, or at least pushing something down deep. Maybe never. Dad is gone, and fireworks will never be the same for me. And honestly? I'm not sure if I want them to.
*Although yeah, if you know me or this blog, you know I could totally write the shit out of a post about that.
If you haven't read it yet, at least skim my last post, otherwise a lot of this will make zero sense to you.
I want to address something important. While I keep hearing that I'm "brave" and "strong" for leaving my ex, I want to speak as a victim about what all of this bravery is, and where it started.
I started out brave. Like I said last time, I knew abuse at an early age. And I came out on top, stayed a good person, even make efforts every day to be that way. Even when it's hard, I try to do the right thing, do right by others, and help decrease Worldsuck, as some* would say. And despite seeing some of the worst of people, even having that aimed at me directly, I continue, to this day, to usually by default expect and see the best from them.
So I was brave for trying. I've been hurt every time I attempted at even a chance at love before. When I first met the person I discussed in my last post, I had no intention of letting him in. I had big, thick walls up, with trebuchets and a moat with a big goddamn dragon. I've talked about this before. Obviously, that post was before I met him.
I took a leap of faith, like what I talked about there, when I let him in. I was scared as Hell, but I did it. Because I was brave enough to try again. And you know what? It felt good, at least for a while. I'm reminded of a line from The Nightmare Before Christmas, "Well what the heck, I went and did my best, and my God I really tasted something swell. And for a moment, why I even touched the sky..." There were moments where I was flying, where I thought I'd die I was filled with such joy. I did feel safe, and loved, and beautiful. And I was happy. With myself for having taken a chance, with my situation, with him. And as I said in that last post, at least I was actually loved- I never doubted he loved me, which just made the bad parts hurt more. But I kept on, and hid it from the world, because of that love.
So I was brave in staying. It isn't just that I kept telling myself it (i.e. the abuse**) would never happen to me. I also cared for him, even in the middle of his worst outbursts. That Joan of Ark aspect of me... I know a part of me wanted to help and save him. He didn't want to be saved, of course, but that didn't matter to me, not until I found my line again. I kept loving him, even though it was often hard. I hoped and prayed that maybe my love for him would be enough, that he would see the damage he was doing to himself and us and me, and that he would then turn a new leaf, and we'd be happy more, I wouldn't be walking on eggshells.
But my love wasn't enough. I was a saint, but it wasn't enough. I comforted and forgave, but it wasn't enough. Belle was brave when she tamed the Beast; I was brave in trying, in holding him when he fell, in picking him up when he had finished crashing. I was brave for wiping his tears before my own.
I was brave to start getting my own help. Therapy and mental health issues (not to mention medications for "head stuff") are so stigmatized, it's easy to feel like you're less of a person for going in and seeing a professional. I had known I needed help for a long time. I kept making excuses, but I eventually ran out of them when I was promoted to full time and thus had corporate benefits (as opposed to state). So I started going. And it was (and still is- my counselor is amazing) hard. It was brave for me to open up in that office. About the things that have been haunting me for years, say nothing of the relationship of focus, here. And as I said before, I was hoping I would eventually feel ready to get back in touch with my dad. I think a part of me also hoped that if my ex saw how much I was improving because I had and maintained a self-care plan that was working, he would want that for himself, too. Naive, I know.
And no, I wasn't stupid. I just hoped, because I believed in him. I wanted to, I needed to, otherwise what was the point of letting down those walls in the first place? I didn't want that risk I had taken to be for nothing.
I was brave to be as honest as I was with the friend I talked about in the last post. I kept as much as I could hidden for a long time, but I know most, if not all, of my friends knew things weren't good with my partner and I. I was afraid to tell my friend what was going on, but I did it, trembling and crying. That's bravery. It's strength.
I was brave in telling the ex not to come home. In all of the time we had been together, during all of his tantrums, I had stood up to him maybe half a dozen times before, most of them being on behalf of my dog (because, as said, he would get unnecessarily and unwarentedly*** mean with her when he was grumpy). But I did it, I found my line, set it, and told him exactly what it was. It wasn't a request, I didn't downplay it (with something like, "I know this is going to be hard/ I'm sorry but..." etc.). And it was so hard to do. My hands were trembling as I sent the text. And my chosen method being text may seem cowardly, but that I did it at all was huge. IS huge. And I knew that if I heard his voice, I would be weak and give in, lose that line, so I texted him. So sue me. That I told him an any way at all I didn't want to see him again that day was a HUGE act of bravery, yes. That's the main one everyone thinks about. But there's more.
I was brave somewhere in the middle there, when he was at the house the second night to get more stuff. At that point, I was still thinking it would be a break. And I was brave in two big ways then. First, when he was saying goodbye to my dog. It was like my heart was breaking again, as if it was possible, watching him kneel there as she gingerly licked his chin. She knew something was wrong, and the way his voice cracked... She's my kid, and he was her Daddy. It was as if I was getting a divorce, and my child was saying goodbye. Involuntarily, I jerked a little bit toward them. In a flash, I saw myself throwing my arms around both and having that be the end of the episode. But I didn't. I grabbed the counter, squeezed it so tight that my hands and forearms were sore the next day, and I didn't move. That was brave.
And then, as he hugged me goodbye, he said, "I've fucked up big time," I said, "Yep, you did. Now fix it." I was brave for saying that. SO fucking brave. The older me would have taken some of the blame off of him, "No, honey, it's my fault, too, it's not just you." But it WAS all just him. And I knew he wanted that, wanted me to absolve him, at least partially, right there, because that's what I always did. But the difference this time was I saw it for what it was: manipulation. And I was brave for standing my ground in the face of it. It was hard, it hurt like Hell, but he left. No matter how badly I wanted to say it was okay, I didn't, and that's bravery.
I was brave in finally saying the word "abuse" out loud. I didn't even mean to say it, it just came out, flowed naturally with where I was going when I was on the phone with him. And it clicked. It made sense. It gave me the momentum to be firmer. I was brave in standing by that, too, because of course, while he didn't say much to it then (it was the first day that happeend), he had all sorts of nasty comebacks later about how I was overdramatizing it, how that wasn't what he was doing, he says and does those things in anger, that's not abuse. But it is, it was, so I didn't back down, and that was brave. He was yelling at me while I was on the phone with him in my counselor's office (I really wouldn't have survived this without her, too), and I was brave for not letting him gaslight me, change the topic, change the goal posts during that conversation shouting match.
And I've been brave for not asking his mom (whom I've needed to have some contact with for logistical reasons) or brother (still good friends with him and his girlfriend) where he is, if he's okay. Do I worry for and about him still? Absolutely. But I can't let myself go down that path. And the braver, stronger part of me is protecting the other side of me while she heals.
But I want to clarify something, too.
I didn't stay out of weakness. I don't think anyone has even remotely implied that, except possibly me, maybe, here and in person. Because while in the middle of being emotionally and psychologically beaten down by my significant other, I became a better version of myself. I improved, against those odds. I do owe a lot of that to getting professional help, but as she told me, she's only helping me tap the resources I already have within me. So little did he know, even as he was wearing me down, I was building up. If that isn't strength, I don't know what is.
Also, it wasn't weakness, the falling for him, falling into his net. Like I said, it was brave to try. Letting someone in, even if that person does end up hurting you (like all the rest, in my case) is brave.
Bravery can mean trying to save something because you thought it was worth it. And yes, it's admitting that thing isn't worth it anymore, giving it its proper name, and letting it go.
Love always comes with a risk. I took it. It got me down, but...
I'm getting better each day, like I said, but I'm not brave enough to try again yet. I will, sooner or later. I still want a family of my own. I mean, my dog is great and all, but I want a husband and kids and the whole nine yards. Call me a traditionalist, but, well, there it is.
And it's already brave for me to think about that future. I know I'm not ready to try for it again, no, but even being able to consider it again, in the face of what just happened to me, is brave. And someday, I still want to believe, that bravery will pay off, and I'll get what I want. I know I'm worth it, I know I deserve it, and for fuck's sake, I HAVE EARNED THE SHIT OUT OF A GOOD LIFE. Amirite?
 |
| You, right now. |
So it'll happen. I'm still swimming through all of the emotions. But I'll take that brave step and open those gates again.
*Nerdfighters, aw yeah!
**And again, let me say, I was never deliberately physically harmed. Sometimes intimidated, but he never hit me, pulled my hair, nothing like that.
***Totally just made that word up, yo.
