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Formalities

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[1986]: After I moved out of the house I had shared with Diana and her kids it took me a while to calm down enough and collect enough presence of mind to start thinking about practical legal matters, i.e. divorce. A couple of times Diana called me and begged me to come back to her, but I knew for certain I could not. She was mentally ill and she was destroying my life. I still cared a lot about her and hoped she would somehow find a way to overcome her mental problems but it was impossible for me to go on with her.

My friend Leah, my fellow volunteer from the crisis line, recommended a lawyer and I went to see him. He was very smart and very kind. In our first discussion in his office all of his questions seemed routine and easily dealt with. Except for one, which is when he said, “When we go to see the judge he’s going to ask you why you are suing for divorce. What are you going to tell him?” Of course I should have anticipated this question but I was caught off guard and didn’t quite know how to respond at first. I stammered out something about Diana and I having fundamental personality differences that made us incompatible. He didn’t look like he was convinced by my answer but he just nodded and went on. I felt too inhibited to tell him the truth, which was that my wife had very serious mental problems and living with her was so stressful for me that I was afraid I might actually kill myself. It was the truth, but it was a truth I couldn’t bring myself to articulate. There was something much too awful and shameful about it. There was an unspeakable darkness at the center of my relationship with Diana. I couldn’t face it, at least not completely.

A few days later I walked with my lawyer over to the courthouse and met with the judge in his office. For a judge he struck me as being a little brash and rude and not terribly dignified. He wore a ridiculously artificial-looking toupee and had on a garish plaid sport jacket. He didn’t look at me as he asked his questions. It was as if I weren’t even in the room and he were addressing the wall. When he got to the question about why I was seeking to divorce my wife, something changed in me this time, a sudden lack of inhibition, and I started to talk about how Diana had unpredictable and extremely intense outbursts of rage and paranoia that would last for days, and that she wouldn’t admit that she had a problem or get help for herself, and so on. My lawyer looked like he might have been a little alarmed but he didn’t say anything. The judge actually looked at me this time, and cut me off, apparently having heard enough to satisfy him. He went on to the next question and it was all very routine from then on.
Diana was served with the divorce paperwork and she didn’t contest it. I heard that she graduated with high honors from the University of West Florida with a degree in psychology, then went on to enter their master’s degree program. A few years later I heard that she had entered a Ph.D. program in psychology at Auburn University but I don’t know what happened to her after that. My stepson Arnie went on to have a successful career as an actor and comic. My stepdaughter Deedee, who had an amazing singing voice, went to Florida State University to study music but I don’t know what she did after that. I don’t know what my stepson Toby is doing. It’s a much different world now and we are all different people than we were. I send them all my love, Diana too.

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[1985]: It was difficult. Diana and I, at her suggestion, started going to see a marriage counselor, Dr. Saywell. These marriage counseling sessions were strange and frustrating. Diana and I talked about our problems and Dr. Saywell rarely offered any significant commentary on our problems, but listened carefully to everything we said, absorbing it all. He seemed to have an unlimited capacity for absorbing other people’s anguish. Diana mainly expressed her paranoia about me and her kids, how we were all bent on destroying her life, etc., and I talked about my frustration in not being able to get through the barrier of her paranoia and communicate with her. Nothing ever came of these counseling sessions. It was all just empty talk.

I stayed with Diana as long as I could, which was probably about a year and a half. I clung to the remnants of our marriage with an instinctive desperation, like a shipwrecked man clinging to a piece of wreckage to try to keep himself from drowning. I stayed through her fits of crying and screaming that typically went on for hours (sometimes days) and that often included throwing herself against the walls and against the floor, and her paranoid rages against me and her own children, and her threats of suicide. When I finally called it quits it was because I felt I was close to my breaking point. I was so severely stressed that I was afraid that in some blind paroxysm of intense despair, brought on by another of Diana’s psychotic rages, I might actually kill myself or even kill someone else. I moved out of the house I had been renting with her and into my mother’s house. It was a strange feeling, like suddenly moving to a foreign country. Being freed up from the immediate emotional stress of having to deal with Diana, I felt as if I didn’t recognize myself. I was disconnected from the world and emotionally numb. Everything around me looked different than it had before, strangely devoid of substance. I walked around staring at ordinary things, trees, buildings, cars, people walking, as if I were seeing them for the first time. I had a feeling that a big heavy line had been drawn through my life dividing the before from the after, and that I was a different person after than I had been before, and that from then on I would always be conscious of my life consisting of these two separate parts, and of myself as consisting of these two different identities. I didn’t know yet that eventually there would be many more such cruel, heavy lines drawn through my life at various points in time, and many more different selves that I would become along the way as a result.

Prose poems

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A prose-poem of mine was recently published on the online journal Trampset, and can be found here, for anyone who might be curious about it: https://trampset.org/when-i-lived-in-florida-sometimes-536aee6cdd2c Trampset is a new online journal that has a unique and lively personality. I hope it will continue to be successful.

This prose-poem is one of many I’ve been working on for the past few months, part of a book manuscript tentatively titled Conversations With the Horizon. They are prose-poems that draw on my own experiences but which deal mainly with themes of consciousness and the elusive nature of identity.

Dreams

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When I was young, say up into my early 30s, I used to have dreams that I could remember when I awoke, though later in life I never had dreams, or at least never had dreams that I was capable of remembering on waking. I noticed a strange and interesting pattern in most of those dreams of mine. Usually in the dream I would find myself in some vast structure made up of many separate rooms. The structure would be enormous, seeming to go on forever. It would usually be some kind of huge building of an exotic architecture, with many floors, or a network of caves of apparently unlimited extent, or something similar. In the dream not much would happen. There was not a story or plot to it, but I would spend my time in the dream just wandering from one room to another or from one cave to another. Sometimes I would be in rooms filled with books. Rarely would I see any other people. Such a dream on its face might seem like a kind of metaphor for existential dread, but the feeling that I had within the dream was a kind of peaceful awe. I was content to be an explorer, just going on and on from one room to another.

As I say, later in life I stopped having these dreams, though I’ve read that supposedly all people dream while sleeping anyway, even if they can’t remember their dreams on waking. So maybe I’m still having those same dreams even now but I just don’t know it. I’d like to think that maybe late at night I’m still exploring, still wandering through those dream worlds, on and on indefinitely. There’s no reason why it should ever have to come to an end.

The psychic

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[1984]: I met JoEllen at Help Line. She was another of the volunteers there. I didn’t know her very well but she seemed likable enough. She was in her 50s, a genial and gentle person with a direct, penetrating gaze. She was unpretentious and had a whimsical sense of humor. She also had a reputation as a psychic. She herself didn’t make a big deal out of her supposed psychic ability, and in fact very rarely mentioned it, but other people at Help Line believed that she had such ability. Actually no one else made a very big deal out of it either, everyone acted like it was just one of the things that was characteristic of her, one of many characteristics a person might have, like being a good golfer or having great taste in clothes.

Every once in a while, sometimes at a Help Line party, JoEllen would agree to do psychic readings for whoever wanted one. At such times she would dress up in a gypsy sort of costume, but the costume was intended in a whimsical spirit and she didn’t really take herself all that seriously as a real fortune-teller. At one of these events, a Help Line party at the home of one of the volunteers, I had JoEllen do a psychic reading for me. I think it must have been at the suggestion of one of my Help Line friends, as I’m sure I was too shy to initiate it myself.

While everyone else was partying elsewhere in the house JoEllen was in a back room sitting on a cushion. She was dressed in some kind of robe and had her hair tied up in a red scarf, and had many copper and silver bracelets all over both forearms that made tinkling sounds when she moved. She invited me to sit on a cushion in front of her. She was relaxed and confident, as if sitting on that cushion in that room was the most natural place in all the world for her to be and she had all the time in the world to just sit there. She sat quietly in front of me with her hands in her lap and her eyes closed for what seemed a long time, though it was probably only a couple of minutes. Her face assumed an expression of thoughtful concentration. Then she spoke.

“You are very unusual,” she said. She paused, seeming to search for the best way to formulate her thoughts. “What I am sensing is an unusual spirit, the spirit of a person whose heart is committed to a higher world, a person who has the soul of a monk or a priest.” She paused again, apparently in great concentration and searching for the right words. “But a monk or a priest who is not afraid of getting messy and who has decided, for whatever reason, to live an un-monklike and un-priestlike life among ordinary people.”

I didn’t quite know what to make of this. JoEllen didn’t really know me very well, and yet there was something about what she said that struck a very deep chord in me and gave me an uncanny feeling of recognition. Was it because I wanted to be the kind of person she described? Or was it because I was afraid of being such a person? I wasn’t sure.

Help Line

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[1982-1984]: Looking back on this experience so many years later it seems an odd and uncharacteristically bold thing that I did, to join this telephone crisis counseling service, Help Line, as a volunteer. At the time I just felt the need to take on a challenge of some sort, because I was tired of my usual routine and felt “stuck,” needing to change my life somehow, and I also hoped that by taking on something challenging I might learn more about myself.

So I plunged rather recklessly, as it seems to me now, into this new adventure. It did in fact turn out to be a significant learning experience. I learned something about principles of good communication, and I learned how terribly vulnerable people can be, and that people’s true inner lives are generally very different from their public personalities. Help Line changed my way of looking at people. Up until then I’d never really thought about what people are like underneath their outward appearances, but after getting so many calls from people pouring out all of their secret sorrows and fears, people suffering and often deeply in conflict with themselves, I came to have a greater intuitive feeling for what human nature was, for the great complexity and difficulty of the inner conflicts that almost all of us carry around with us.

When I was on my shift in the phone room I felt I was part of a huge web, composed of the invisible inner lives of all the people in the city, people confused and not knowing what to do about themselves. What must drive a person to call up a total stranger on the phone and talk about his or her personal problems? Even though just a very small percentage of the population of the city actually called us I had the feeling that they must be representative of the general population. I wondered if maybe there was really no one who was well and happy after all, but that all were secretly suffering in some way or other. We were all in it together, whether friend or stranger, talking, listening, needing help, trying to help.

Many of the calls were low-urgency, being mainly requests for information,and many more calls were from people who were troubled by relationship and communication issues such as problems with a spouse, partner, child, parent, or sibling, and who were looking for someone to talk it out with. On such calls I tried to take a (hopefully) common-sense approach and try to help the caller see his or her situation more clearly, to bring them back down to reality and try to get them to focus on what was really going on. As a volunteer one had to resist the temptation to be overly directive and try to “fix” the caller’s problem. Only a very few of the calls were of a crisis nature and those could be challenging, such as the fellow who called, drunk and upset, and said he had just found out that his wife had been having an affair with a friend of his. He said he had a gun and was planning to kill them both. Fortunately I was able to talk him down from this and let him see for himself that this was not a good idea.

I only did Help Line for three years, as it eventually did start to become too routine and a little wearisome to me. But they were good years, years of personal expansion and learning for me. I helped some people and I made many friends among the other volunteers. I learned that I was not as neurotic and screwed-up as I thought I had been, that I was, though somewhat troubled and awkward, basically okay, as was everyone. And that everyone was essentially incomplete and searching, sometimes desperately, for the missing parts of themselves. I felt more connected to other people. I came to have a lot of respect, even a reverence, for people’s vulnerable souls.

To enter the dark marriage

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[1982-1983]: I was living in Pensacola, working as a programmer and still feeling aimless and disconnected from other people, as I had in fact all my life. I had been seeing a counselor at the University of West Florida, a gracious and kind young woman named Susan who had a wisdom far beyond her years. One of the things she told me in the course of my many sessions with her was about the importance of being open to trying different things in my life, so that I could find out for myself which things worked out well for me and which things didn’t. She said it was important to keep the spirit of experimentation alive in one’s life so as to avoid getting stuck in a stagnant life. This meant being unafraid to meet new people and to have new experiences, even if you have to push yourself a little bit outside of your comfort zone (actually I never really had a comfort zone, so for me to push myself to do something that made me feel a little uncomfortable was not much of a stretch). In other words it’s unwise to try to stick to playing a safe game all the time. This advice rang true for me, and I took it to heart. One of the things I decided to try, which seemed quite bold to me at the time, was to volunteer at a local community mental health center as a volunteer telephone crisis counselor. I thought it might be an interesting learning experience. I took the training class and then I started doing it, taking the calls, and it turned out to be a fascinating, though sometimes challenging, experience. I learned a great deal about human communication in the course of doing this volunteer work and I developed some great friendships with my fellow phone counselors. The volunteer group even became like a family to me.

Eventually I had enough experience in phone counseling that I was asked if I’d like to lead a training group of new volunteers. I did, and one of the people in my first training group was Diana, a divorced mother of three kids who worked as a data-entry clerk at the Navy base. She was clearly very smart and talented, with an engaging wit and a charming smile, and I thought she liked me. After the end of the group training I called her and we went out on a date.

Over the course of a few dates I became increasingly impressed with Diana’s brilliance and creativity. We always had interesting things to talk about. It seemed sad to me that she had been relegated to such a stupid job as a data-entry clerk, just entering numbers into a computer screen all day every day, when she obviously had a great deal of intellectual and creative potential.

Whenever we were together our conversation seemed to take on a life of its own, drawing both of us into it, with an energy and momentum that carried us along. It was a close and engaging rapport such as I’d never experienced with anyone before. Diana did mention at one point that she used to be under the care of a psychiatrist, when she was going through a period of great stress after her previous husband had left her for another woman. I wasn’t at all put off by this revelation, in fact I felt an increased admiration for her because she had been through some difficult life challenges and had overcome them. After all, I too had suffered a great deal of emotional difficulty in my younger life so I felt that I could relate to her troubles. We were two kindred spirits, two people who had been through a lot of emotional crap and had (mostly, I thought) overcome it.

So we became a couple. In the course of our dating though I started to notice a few things about Diana. She was mostly very positive in her outlook and in her emotional demeanor, but every once in a while she had attacks of acute anxiety and depression. Sometimes she became very upset about her job, sometimes she was upset about her kids, but sometimes she was upset for no reason that I could see. It was also clear that she still had a lot of emotional distress about trauma from her past, especially her two ex-husbands who had both dumped her, and about the death of her father.

I loved Diana but I felt frustrated and helpless at these times when she was in such emotional difficulty, and of course I wanted to help. Unfortunately I was at a loss as to what I could do to help her. In my naïve and idealistic romantic way I hoped that my presence in her life would be an emotionally stabilizing and positive influence, and that in time she would learn to relax and enjoy her life. After all she was obviously very intelligent and so it must become clear to her eventually that there was really nothing to be upset about, right? So I thought. I thought the natural way of things was for us to inevitably become closer and to be joined by a bond of understanding, and that certainly took a certain amount of time to develop so I had to be patient. Sometimes Diana’s responses really puzzled me though, such as the times when she became fearful because I had expressed a liking for a book or a movie or a work of art that she didn’t like or didn’t understand. Her anxiety response seemed out of proportion to the thing she was anxious about.

As things went on, there were a few times when I would find Diana sunk into such profound despair that it actually scared me. At these times she would sometimes blame her depression and anxiety on her job, which was tedious and stupid for sure but then most people probably work at tedious and stupid jobs, don’t they? So it seemed to me. Sometimes, and with increasing frequency, she blamed, with a great deal of accompanying rage, these deep dark moods on her kids. I found this to be especially disturbing because I thought this blaming of the kids was completely undeserved, and furthermore no mother should have such hostility toward her own kids.

But Diana could also be charming, warm, witty, and full of enthusiasm. Everyone who met her liked her. I was probably the only one other than the children who knew of the other aspect of her personality, the strange dark depths of her. All along I kept expecting that she must eventually come to a point where should would be able to relax and just enjoy her life. But her “episodes” continued. We had agreed to marry but I was developing some misgivings about it. I felt a great sense of responsibility and commitment to my fiance. I couldn’t abandon her. Yet I had the growing feeling that I might very well be heading into a very difficult, and maybe even disastrous, situation. I was committed and felt that it wasn’t possible for me to change the path I was on. I was like a train on a track heading toward something that might or might not turn out to be a wreck, but there was no turning back.

A few days before we were to be married, feeling great anxiety about the coming marriage and in need of some kind of reassurance, I called a woman a knew named Leah, a friend (in whom I had no romantic interest) and fellow volunteer from the crisis counseling service. I asked her if she would take a walk with me. It was early spring and the weather was clear, cool and very windy. We met in downtown Pensacola and walked down South Palafox Street down to the pier that goes out over Pensacola Bay. I can’t remember now what Leah and I talked about but I think it was probably nothing of any great importance. I was very anxious about my relationship with my fiance and the upcoming marriage but I don’t think I talked about that. I think I just made small talk. What I remember most was a beautiful day of brilliant sunshine, and the winds whipping up whitecaps in the bay as we walked, and pelicans hovering in the wind over the pier, and that for a little while I was in the presence of someone who simply cared about me and respected me. That was all. Nothing big and deep, it was just a matter of being with a good person who allowed me to be myself. But just to be in the presence of such a friend was an enormous comfort to me. I never forgot it, after the marriage to Diana and the terrible divorce that followed, and even after all the subsequent bad relationships and painful breakups, so very many sad experiences, all down through the years. It’s strange how some very small and apparently insignificant act of caring can stand out large in one’s memory after so long a time. After all the years of sorrow I would still remember that brief walk in the sun and the wind.

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