I don’t blame you.

December 30, 2006 at 3:06 PM (Uncategorized) (, )

You said it again. Last week on the phone.

“It’s all my fault.”

I know you’re ill now, and that’s playing into things in a big way.

He used it as an excuse to get wasted constantly until the day he died, and sang the same song.

I don’t blame you.

And I don’t blame him.

I’ve heard *several different versions of this story* from several different people over the decades.

Maybe, on that Tuesday in November 1961, he was already drunk. Maybe he’d never quite gotten undrunk from the Sunday football game. And yelling at his twenty year old pregnant wife. And as drunks will, he got fixed onto some idea. Locked like smart bombs.

Maybe it went like this:

“S—-, how many times do I have to tell you! *MOVE* the goddamn sofa!” Again and again, that morning, nothing else mattered. His hygeine. The smell of gin. Your discomfort. Other things that needed doing.

And, finally, that yelling got to be too much.

I know about husbands that go off on yelling matches. It gets to the point that you’ll do whatever the dumb*** thing they want is, just to *shut them the he!! up!*

You were pregnant and twenty, and did not ask to be pregnant and *not a parent yet.* So anyone that got sanctimonious with you about “protecting your child…” Your universe had not yet shifted…you had not held your child yet.

So maybe, you got up and helped him move the damn sofa. Just to shut him up.

Or, worse yet, the lazy sonofa*itch made you do it all on your own.

But, he was only twenty one. And his judgement was possibly impaired by alchohol.

You were both *kids* and I cut twenty year olds, even drunk ones, a lot more slack than I used to.

Or, it could have gone like this:

You might have been having an OCD kind of moment. A precursor to the yellow sticky notes, and the notebooks full of facts and the neat stacks of papers.

There was no one you knew who was more out of control than your husband.
Stuck with him, and his child, and the worst part was you weren’t even in love.
Your life must have felt *profoundly* out of control.
And going to the hospital and having some kind of surgery, that medical intervention was the ultimate surrender… that was just more control over yourself that you weren’t going to lose…no hospitals. No way.

But, the sofa could be perfect. The sofa could *go where you wanted it to go,* and probably stay there.

Everything else seemed going to hell, but the *sofa…* By god, *it* would stick.

So you took some control and stopped waiting for he of the sharp breath and fogged brain to do anydamnthing at all….

And *moved* *that* *piece* *of* *furniture.*

And I got born that afternoon…Early.

Perhaps because of the sofa with the lousy reputation.

And…*perhaps NOT!*

S*** happens.

Fate.

Or…randomness. nothing at all.

You used to weep and blame yourselves, but take no action for change.
Or use it as a vindictive weapon, one against the other…

I’m the only person who has the right to blame either one.

*I* *don’t.* And if I do not and did not and will not, because I think it was just a metaphorical brick falling on my head. The first of a few.

Then you need to *stop!*

Put it away, and look after yourselves, both here and in the After.

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