I first met him in, oh, 1992 or so. The cutest little redneck you ever saw. Tight blue jeans, gorgeous red hair, helluva pool player. I fell madly, deeply in love.
I knew he had problems. He had been run off from home (with a shotgun) when he was 14. Finished 8th grade, that was it. He was a carpenter by trade, a damn fine trim carpenter. I never saw him measure anything. He’d take a look, cut a piece, and nail it up. Perfect. But he can’t read.
Bless his heart, he was a violent, abusive alcoholic. He’d come home in the middle of the night to drag me out of bed for an “ass whuppin’”. I eventually got a gut full and left him, took our two little babies (one 3 yrs and one 6 mos) and never looked back.
Over the years (16 now) he’s had what I’d call politely a “strained” relationship with my children. They love him, they just can’t stand him. My daughter will talk with him on the phone; my son refuses to acknowledge his existence.
Last week he called, and he was … weird. He wasn’t drunk. He was … waaaaaay out there. He was talking real strange stuff, about his phone bill, and he thought “they” were watching, him … just real creepy.
Saturday afternoon, he called again. Just sitting on the phone, breathing . … talking in a weird small voice. I asked him if he was “havin’ a spell” as the old folks say. To be honest, I was fearing that he’d had a stroke. Anyway, I was busy with work and got off the phone.
I called his sis Saturday nite, and she told me some things that curled my toenails. He’d asked her to come by and cut his hair. She took her scissors and went over there. He wouldn’t let her go in the house. He’s convinced that “they” sprayed his house with poison. He told her to take the hair clippings and burn them. He insisted she wear a pair of gloves, so the “poison” wouldn’t hurt her. And, to be sure to take a shower and scrub real good when she got home. He says “they” have a satellite beam on his house and are watching him 24/7. He’s convinced that “they” have sprayed him, his house, and his land with poison.
As of this writing, he’s locked in his house. He won’t even go to work. This is a man who went to work, drunk or sober, at 7 every morning for 30 years.
Mental illness runs in my family. No, it gallops. My sister suffers from Bipolar and my dad from Depression. I’m no stranger to mood disorders. But, all these years I thought my ex suffered from emotional problems, not brain-chemical problems.
Now they’re thinking he’s schizophrenic. Goodness, all the signs were there, years ago. I keep thinking, if I had a clue, for god’s sake, I could have helped him.
I’m afraid. I’m very afraid. I’m afraid that he’ll go down quickly, that he’ll refuse to go to the doctor and take meds. I’m frustrated that my son won’t talk to him. I want to shake my son, say “wake up !!” You have a very tiny window, to connect with your dad, to know him before he slides down that slippery slope.
And, I’m stunned. I’m stunned by the big soap-block smack of emotion. At one time I hated him. With a burning passion. One night, while he was asleep, I almost put a bullet in his head.
So why am I crying now? I see a little boy, so full of promise, that his mom and sisters remember. I see the good potential of any child of god, ground up in the gears of life.
And I’m mighty damn sorry about it. 
But there’s not anything I can do for it either.
:crying:
