(no subject)
I believe that I have actually set a record for longest lapse between updates of a journal without actually abandoning it.
Granted, I've been on to read, done some noting, done some lurking, stirred some shit up, but in case anyone's curious, here is my attempt at summarizing the numerous events that have taken place in my life since April 8th of 2007.
I've posted a couple entries in the last two years, but have been deliberately vague about my actual day-to-day. I justify this by saying that hindsight is 20/20. Sometimes you are standing too close to a thing to be able to see what it really is. Sometimes distance and maturity is required to give it proper analysis. Sometimes time is required before enough shame wears off for one to be comfortable discussing such matters.
Disclaimer: much of this will be boring, some will be over-dramatized, some will fall under the category of TMI. I apologize in advance.
At my last update, I was living in Dodge Shitty, Kansas breaking babies (yearlings coming 2) for Butch and Tyrone Gleason. I had my own apartment, a basement one bedroom. I was riding as well as I ever have. I had my finances in order and was poised to make a real start for myself at Arapahoe Park, weeks away from opening for the 2007 racing season. But all of that was soon to change because, while I was there, I got involved with a man named Schad Ruhe.
I will swear until the end of time that there was something really special between us. That unexplainable connection, spark, that "something extra" above and beyond ordinary chemistry and simple compatability that really sets a relationship apart. But there are only so many tendencies toward being a colossal douche-bag that a special connection can overcome, and unfortunately, I was slow to learn this.
To this day, I don't know how I convinced myself to overlook so many red flags. Maybe it's that famous red-cross syndrome so well-documented in women; the thinking that by being the one to soothe his broken-heart he would be overcome by devotion to me and only me, eternally bound by his gratitude. The assumption that having had his own feelings hurt would automatically make him sensitive and considerate of mine. The assumption that an older man is automatically more mature, more emotionally secure, and more settled. And of course, there was my history, born from a childhood of parental depravity and social ostracization, of doing too much, too soon, with too many men in exchange for them simply showing an iterest in me. Only recently did I finally realize that high school is over and that there will be many, many men in the world who would trade their right arm for a piece of this ass, and it is therefore unnecessary to latch on to the current one even when all signs indicate a severe case of Wrong One-Right Time. As the joke goes, as long as I've got one of these, I can get as many of those as I want. Funny thing about women is that in our heart of hearts, we really only ever want one. The One, which is what I thought he was. Whatever the reasons, and I'm not saying that any of them were good ones, I was head over heels in love with this man, and I'm sure everyone has experienced how severely such a thing can impair your better judgement.
It was a toxic love affair. Looking back it seems like we did nothing but fight/break up/kiss/make-up. In spite of our common ground in horse-racing, a lack of which is a major-sticking point in relationships I've attempted with people outside the industry, we basically didn't get along about anything. He had a domineering way with people and with horses. You can imagine how well this went over with me. He was determined beyond reason to turn me into a lady. You can imagine how well this went over with me. He was completely irresponsible with his money. You can imagine how well this went over with me. He was a pot-head at best and later spiralled into worse things. You can imagine how well this went over with me. And he was completely stuck on his ex back in Kentucky, with whom he seemed to have a similar relationship pattern to the one he and I displayed. Being the jealous type, you can imagine how well this went over with me. I think his emotional turmoil over that situation is what sent him diving into me for comfort so quickly and completely, and also what accounted for a lot of his back-and-forth shit with me. I wasn't the one he wanted, but he was sure ready to grab hold of what he could get every time negotioations with the ex weren't going his way. In spite of all this, and I think increasingly that insecurity on both our parts had a lot to do with it, we couldn't keep our hands off one another.
Sometime in March, a rabbit died. Urine induced two blue lines. Panic ensued. Vomitting occurred. We had discussed early on what was to be done in this situation, but now that we were actually in it I had a growing feeling that it wasn't really what he wanted although he didn't come right out and say it. In spite of never having had any interest whatsoever in children, I was so overcome with love (or something I was mistaking for love) for Schad that I was ready to do anything for him.
You will recall that at the time of my last entry I was home from Dodge, "getting my head right" from a lot of apprehension I was having about working for Butch, who ineveitably trains the legs off his horses. That was the least of my worries. The previous summer (2006), as a result of my aforementioned history of bad man-decisions, I'd had an early term miscarriage. Uncertain of what was going on, I went to the gynecologist, who told me what had happened. As a result of the exam, we also caught another problem early: uterine tumors. Completely benign, but extremely dangerous in the event of a pregnancy via the probability of a ruptured uterus leading to catastrophic hemorrhage. 70% chance of me OR the baby dying; 20% chance of BOTH of us dying; 10% chance of both of us living, and that was if I only carried it to seven months.
Time lapse back to April 2007. Fetus's daddy wants to keep it. Fetus's mommy is freaked, thinking the only way to keep her man is by keeping the baby even though she has no desire of her own for a child, but also knowing that the best way to continue living is by terminating the pregnancy. Fetus's daddy knows none of this. Less than a week before The Appointment, fetus's mommy, an emotional wreck, makes a trip home to "get her head right," secretly seeing her own GYN, who confirms what she already knows: the only smart decision is to go ahead with the procedure.
At the time, nothing could possibly have felt more wrong to me. Looking back, I believe that everything happens for a reason. That there is some force at work in the world, though I still hestitate to call it "god," that intervenes when you're about to get really off track in your life. Getting knocked up the first time, especially in the manner I did (by fucking everything that walked on and off the track, any of whom might have been the daddy) was stupid and irresponsible. I'm lucky I never caught anything besides a parasite. But had I not had that first miscarriage, I wouldn't have found out that I have another, more dangerous problem. Getting knocked up the second time, knowing I had this problem, was even more idiotic. I still can't tell you what I was thinking. Maybe at that time in my life I didn't care whether I lived or died if I had to be alone, and I thought I had a shot at not being alone by comitting this one unjustifiably irresponsible act. But if it hadn't been for knowing, I would have had that baby, or tried to, and maybe not be here to tell of it.
If I had had it, I would now be faced with raising it by myself because the father is a worthless deadbeat. There was a long period of time during which I wouldn't let myself see that he didn't take care of the kid he already had; he'd dumped him with his first wife's parents in Kentucky. Not the ex he was stuck on who I've already mentioned but one he was married to before that. The money he claimed to be sending back from his paycheck every week, his reason for why he was always broke, was actually getting spent on pot and probably coke, the latter of which he hid extremely well up until Round 2. If I had died, the baby would have been dumped either with his other kid at his first wife's parents' or with a member of my family, none of whom want the burden or would be good for a child (case in point: me), or been dumped in The System. Either way, my life as I know it and everything I've dreamed of would be over, and I wouldn't have a man to show for it regardless, and the baby wouldn't have had a great start in the world.
Pro-lifers can get bent. They know nothing. They are like what PETA did with the game cocks, trying to have everything their way without thinking through the logistics or ramifications of their method.
Schad Ruhe can also get bent. The day of the abortion he did everything wrong that he could have. I drive this 1976 F-250, right, so I get 11 miles to the gallon driving at a reasonable speed. If I go very much above 60 this mileage declines rapidly. Having carefully planned the trip from Dodge to the clinic in Wichita, I had determined the time of morning at which we needed to leave and notified him of this in advance. According to him, he'd already informed our boss that he needed that day off completely and it was all set. Morning arrives and he proceeds to take five head out to gallop and resultingly we leave an hour and a half late. I think he would have galloped the whole barn to avoid making the trip if I hadn't, in my already edgey state, sent him a couple pretty snotty texts and voicemails to get his dumb sorry lazy ass in gear.
Not in the truck five minutes when I find out he doesn't have his half of the money. What little he does have is the exact amount I left with him to pay the vet some money I owed him while I was gone to Denver, a bill which never got paid. He took money that was mine in the first place to pay less than a fourth of what should have been a 50/50 expense. Detour to my bank to pick up more cash. Lose another half-hour. Haul ass to Wichita, costing an additional $30 above what it should have in gas, arrive 45min late, resulting in me getting in with the very last group of girls, which he complained about all. day. long. while we sat in the waiting room. Told me to "knock it off" when I buried my face in his chest on the brink of bawling at one point.
Had a panic attack on the table. They thought I'd been coerced into having the procedure; the reality was that I just couldn't get myself to spread my legs for some stranger. How very ironic, since that's essentially what I'd been doing all along that had landed me in the situation. To this day a pelvic exam is about the most humiliating thing I can think of. Worse than pissing myself in gym class in third grade. Worse than falling off as we pull up after a race because my legs are so tired. Worse than queefing or farting on stage at the strip club or that nightmare people complain about where they're speaking in front of their classmates and realize they're naked. Worse than a prostate exam, because, let's face it, it's just a whole different kind of vulnerability to a woman. Worse than finding out you've been used, abused, and played by someone you really loved while he accused you of doing all the same things and said you were paranoid for your suspicions. Doctors finally just sedated me and I guess got me in the position themselves. Dreamt about what would have been our daughter.
When we finally left the clinic, dumbass forgot the prescriptions I'd been instructed to leave with him rather than taking them to the exam room with me: an antibiotic to ward off fairly dangerous infections, something to help my uterus retract to it's normal size, and a month's worth of the pill. Shit supposed to keep me from dying. You think that was important enough for him to remember? Nope. Another $80 bucks I had to spend on top of everything else. Money I'd already spent once, included with the abortion.
Stopped to get food. I puked. He said "Nice," stepped around me and continued on his way to the truck. My truck, which he proceeded to drive back to Dodge at 80mph. Another $40 above what it should have cost in gas. Guess he just couldn't stand to be in the same vehicle with the baby-killer one second longer than he had to. Like he was the one who had to live with it. Like he was the one whose body and life were at stake. Like he was the one who had to get on the fucking table and let people touch him. Like it was so terrible for him. A woman's right to choose; apparently also her responsibility to pay. A man does his job just by showing up. They take so much pride in being able to father children, when truthfully they have very little to do with it. They can spill and have a child. It's that easy for them. They just expect it from us, like a womanly duty, and never give one single thought to everything we have to go through to accomplish it. Like, seriously, I'm so sorry that your ejaculation is such an exertion for you.
And I told him as much and more, loudly, after we stopped for gas and I discovered he'd forgotten my prescriptions at the clinic, now 200 miles behind us. Just flipped my lid. Anyone would have, given the day he put me through, even without the hormonal crash no one had bothered to warn me about. But my dumb ass not only forgave him in the days that followed, sitting alone in my basement apartment watching Dragonfly, but begged him to forgive me for my behavior after he decided he'd had enough of my neediness. If it was possible to die of a broken heart, trust me, I would have done it. I was breaking down. Hanging on by a thread. But I hadn't hit bottom yet. Not by a long shot.