144 Days of Love (give or take)
I suppose by the time you reach a certain age the statistical odds of not having dated an addict are small. Not small enough.
I’d think by the time you reach my age, and you’ve never been married, the statistical odds of not having dated an addict would be rather small. And yet, I had made it.
At least until I met Tracy (not her real name).
We met last July on a creative project we both had volunteered for. When I first saw her bounce into our pre-production meeting I felt my heart palpitate (for real). She seemed to be almost skipping in her silver glittery high-tops, cut-off jeans and her tank top that, as tank tops do, made zero attempt to cover her heavily tattooed body.
But, I cooled my jets because I had placed a moratorium on dating. I was burned out. Tired. Bored of swiping this way or that and was nonplussed with people I was meeting. While I found this girl attractive, I wasn’t there for that. I was there to do a job so that’s what I was going to do.
We did a round of introductions and I didn’t catch her name. I sat through an hour or so of . . . whatever, waiting for that first person to throw in the towel and say they had to leave. After agreeing to meet the following week, the first person left and I followed tout suite.
The next week arrives, the girl with no name is there, same bounce, similar look. A couple of new faces, so I waited for a round of introductions, leaning in to be sure to catch her name. Much to my dismay, nary a name given.
Ces’t la vie.
Fast forward to the morning of the actual project. After spending the previous night writing the script, I show up for an early morning table read. As luck would have it, the only chair open was next to the girl with no name.
As the writer of the project, and only the writer, I wasn’t that emotionally invested. I didn’t know anyone, I wasn’t being paid, this was really just something to do that I thought might be fun. It wasn’t (but that’s a story for another time).
After we wrapped shooting and were hanging out, I stayed in the kitchen and had a few beers with the girl with no name (still had no clue what her name was). We shared a few jokes and ultimately bonded over It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.
It came time to leave and as I gathered my things I had a flash of insanity. I was going to ask the girl with no name out for a drink. But sanity stepped up and usurped insanity. I said a simple good-bye to everyone and left.
When I got home, I was still restless. I hadn’t felt this way about someone in a long time. I was genuinely attracted to her, intrigued by her and couldn’t get her off of my mind. Besides, at the very least I had to know her name. I owed it to myself, right?
So I hopped on my trusty old digital delivery system and sorted through all of the project emails trying to and figure out who she was. I had spent enough time with her that if I read the tone of an email, I could figure out who she was.
It didn’t take more than five minutes and then a two minute search on the internet and I had found out who she was. I had her name, Tracy, and I had an email.
Being a man in pursuit of a woman, naturally I showed zero self-restraint and fired off an email:
Hey. Tracy,
It’s me. Keith.
We did the thing there today on — — — - short.
I wrote it. Also, played the creepy pervert you killed.
I realize it’s out of left field, and maybe even inappropriate, but I enjoyed talking to you and if you’d ever be interested in coffee, lunch or a drink, I’d enjoy a little more conversation.
No clue if you are married, single or whatever and not really prone to dig around on the internet to find out.
Woulda asked earlier but the opportunity never really presented itself.
Full disclosure, I did ask — — — — if you were single but then I decided to look on this thread he created to find your email address.
I threw caution to the wind.
So, if you ever find yourself in need of company for any of that sorta drink/food stuff, I’d be happy to meet up.
Anyway, enjoyed today. It was nice to meet you.
Take care,
Keith
So much for that moratorium on dating.
The next morning, I checked my email and there was the reply at 6:20am:
Hi, Keith. You seem to be intelligent AND have a sense of humor. I kind of like you. I have no idea what YOUR status is, but I did notice you were wearing a wedding ring. If you are involved with someone, I want nothing to do with you, as I’m pretty attracted to you, and have enough trouble in my life. If not, then **** yes, lets get some variety of beverage/ food combination and and bask in each other’s company.
Best,
Tracy
I do occasionally wear a plain silver band on my ring finger. Maybe subconsciously to be a contrarian or provocateur but, for me, it’s not that complicated. I just like the aesthetic.
After assuring her I wasn’t married, we agreed to meet around 5p that night. I walked into the bar and was knocked out by what she was wearing. It was as though though someone had taken a photograph of my ideal girlfriend from inside my head. A cross between Chrissy Hynde, Joan Jett and some Stevie Nicks for good measure and placed her right there. I was, in a word, gobsmacked.
Eventually the topic of dinner came up and since I’d never had any of our city’s famous pizza, we settled on that. What followed was probably one of the strangest first dates of my life. Which should tell you something because if you’re a man of a certain age, like myself, and you’ve never married, you’ve had a few first dates.
In any event, as we sat having a few beers and eating pizza and sharing some life stories. It began to sound like we were trying to out crazy one another. I’d share a few, she’d shared a few, a little one upmanship at play. She mentioned addiction but I, for unknown reasons, ignored it. I silently conceded defeat when Tracy said that she had Borderline Personality Disorder.
I knew nothing about BPD only that it was a thing. And the word disorder terrifies me.
We wrapped up dinner and decided to go out for another drink (first dates). For some reason the bar we went to was closed at 10pm on a Sunday. Luckily, it happened to be near my place (not planned, I assure you). So we landed at my place.
And, as these these things go . . .
The next morning we made plans to see each other again later in the week.
Later that day I received a text from her asking what my cross streets were, so I told her.
She showed up acting very odd. She wasn’t intoxicated. Not in any way that I could tell. The best way I could describe it was that she was immune to reason. I think there was some kind of thing with her daughter. I couldn’t put it together. After an hour of interacting oddly and not really communicating we said our good-byes.
She walked out of my place with her arms in the air saying “I get it, everyone finds me hard to deal with.” A few hours later she sent an apologetic text. I was, in a word, gobsmacked.
I think it was this second formal date where she told me more about her problem with drugs, or addiction.
Now, I don’t really have an issue with this. I’ve dated sober people, I’ve dated drinkers, I’ve been a drinker (pulled back years ago), I use a little weed to sleep (medically prescribed, it beats Ambien), I’ve dated people who do drugs casually (a bump of coke here or there, not my thing, but who am I to judge, just don’t do it around me) and as discussed, I am a proponent of psychedelics. So, drugs, I’m not too judgey about.
No needles, no heroin and no pills, unless prescribed (yes, those can be abused too, I get it).
Tracy said her problem was a long time ago. She got straight after being on methadone during her first pregnancy (huh?!- no idea that was possible). She realized watching her daughters father miss the birth because he was out scoring crack (HUH?!) might be a good time to shape up. I knew her first daughter to be around 12, so . . . okay, that’s far enough in the rear view mirror.
At this point, there are flags popping up all around me about Tracy. If you’ve made it this far, you may be thinking about them right now. So I won’t bother to list them. However, adding the fact that she has two kids from two different men is more a societal flag (while odd, it didn’t bug me). With that being said, the legal system having ruled the fathers (one the crack smoker -since sober- and the other a convicted felon) more fit as parents than she, that is not a societal flag. That’s a legal one.
However, I was actively choosing to ignore these flags. Why? I’ve spent a fair amount of time reflecting on this. I don’t have an answer.
I guess I was naive and believed what she told me. Tracy told me she wanted to get her life on track. She said she’d fumbled around long enough, tried it her way and it didn’t work. This was something I could identify with. While I was never an addict, I was rudderless for much of my adult life and only found direction when I decided to finally go back to school. I made the case that education is a good remedy for most things and she agreed.
Very quickly, we set out trying to get her accepted into art school. We succeeded.
While out having a drink to celebrate, I forget how, but it came up that she had been to rehab four times. I guess my face must’ve fell to the floor. Tracy was immediately defensive, “Ya know, with people I know it’s not that unusual.” I nodded and in my head, all I could think was “Yea, well, with people I know, anything more than once would be unusual.”
But what came out was “Well, it took as long as it took.”
A couple of weeks later I had to go away for about a month for business. Tracy offered to stay and watch my dog and cat. I was a little uncomfortable about this for three reasons.
We still barely knew each other.
I’d like to say that I didn’t think about her addiction and the threat that it could return at any given moment. I couldn’t say that, I did think about it.
I always paid someone to stay and I didn’t want this to be a transactional relationship.
Look, I spoil my pets and I want them to be looked after as close as possible as I look after them. Tracy’s argument was “I have two daughters, I haven’t managed to kill them.”
In my head, all I could think was, “Yea, but you don’t have custody of them.”
For some inexplicable reason, I ignored all flags and acquiesced.
I set up some some rules, not to be a jerk but because of my dog. He’s part pit bull and I didn’t want some half-wit coming over and provoking him. He’s not aggressive at all but he is very excitable and that’s easily misconstrued. 74 lbs of dog jumping around can be intimidating if you’re not expecting it.
So we agreed that there would be no “riff-raff” allowed in the house. We also agreed that I would pay her.
Within days after leaving, I got a phone call that the dog had to go to the vet. He has an ear thing that if he itches too much he can burst a blood vessel and his ear swells up. This typically happens when he’s left alone. At least, historically that’s when it happened.
What could I do? I was 800 miles away. I called the vet, made arrangements to pay with a credit card (was she hoping I would give her the number?) and she took him.
The following week? Same thing. So I asked what was going on because he only gets this when he’s left alone for long periods. Tracy claimed innocence and to not know. Again, still 800 miles away, what could I do? Called vet, credit card and she took him.
The following week? Same drill. Call vet. Credit card. She took him.
Allow me to place some perspective on this dog/ear situation. He had it once in November of 2016, then again in August of 2018 and now three times in September 2018. When I’m not home and on a three and a half week business trip. That’s odd.
With any other pet sitter I had between December 2016 and September 2018, he never had an issue. Not one.
What could I do? I wasn’t there. I was beginning to wonder if Tracy was.
Right before the third trip to the vet, Tracy sent me a text:
Can you talk?
Yea
I call her and after some idle chit chat she gets down to brass tacks. She informs me that she’s pregnant. To which I ask how that’s possible because she had her tubes tied (and yea, I know better, the only assurance is abstinence, but still . . .), was she sure? She assured me she was, this wasn’t her first rodeo.
She had taken the OTC pregnancy tests but it was still too early so they were not showing results. She had made arrangements to go to the doctor, but again it was too early. Tracy kept telling me that she knew she was and I believed her. I’d always heard that women know. And she struck me as someone who would know.
And then I do that AWFUL thing that I’m pretty sure a lot of guys do when faced with this. I asked “Are you sure it’s mine?” (I had no reason to think otherwise).
What followed were about six long and tense days of discussions about what to do. This relationship had gone from dating to something very complicated. Very quickly.
A few days before my flight home, Tracy sent me a text:
I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m in the hospital.
Too late. What’s wrong?
I’m bleeding.
I don’t understand.
I’m bleeding.
So you said. Did you hurt yourself?
No. From there.
Where?
You know.
Obviously, I don’t.
Between my legs.
Okay, so why are you at the hospital?
I’m having a miscarriage.
My heart broke and my stomach fell. I asked if she was alone and she said she was. All I wanted to do at that moment was go to her. At that moment I wasn’t 800 miles away, I was 800,000.
I told her I would look into coming home earlier. Tracy said not to bother, it wasn’t that important, she’d see me soon enough. There wasn’t anything I could do by being there anyway. I double and triple checked with her but she told me not to worry. I’m not so sure that was true, but it’s what she said.
I came home not knowing what to expect. I guess I expected a little bit of a mess. That’s not really what I got.
Tracy had all but moved in.
The place was in complete disarray, bags of clothes all over the place, dishes stacked in the sink and an odd funk to the place. I noticed the bedspread was laid out in my office because she had to wash it. She said the dog peed the bed. Something he had never ever done in the the seven years I’ve had him. In fact, he’s never had ONE accident in the house. Sure, he’s puked, but that’s it. Now he’s peeing the bed?
Given the circumstances of the miscarriage, I just took a breath and let it all slide. Well, for a day.
That weekend we got into a blistering argument. About what, I can’t recall. I’m sure it was just the manifestation of our disappointment/anger/frustration/hurt/pain/relief or wherever we each fell on the emotional spectrum about the miscarriage.
Over the next next few weeks, Tracy just stayed until we had a discussion about making her moving in official.
I told her I would cover her while she was in school. She could just focus on school. I’m not sure if she was serious but she asked for some kind of allowance. I laughed it off and said no while ticking off the reasons.
That’s absurd, I’m not wealthy and don’t have that kind of money.
We’re not married (even then, that’s weird — I may be a little old school but even an allowance is out of my comfort zone).
That’s just ridiculous to ask, I’m not your parent.
So, Tracy moved in. Officially.
At this point we agreed I should meet her younger daughter. The older one Tracy was in some sort of court ordered thing . . . frankly, I just didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. I was beginning to learn that things with Tracy were best kept on a need to know basis.
Right around when she moved in I gave Tracy a pair of diamond earrings that belonged to my mother. I said “Look, no matter what happens to us, I just hope you’ll hold on to these.” She said she would. They weren’t fancy earrings, but they were real diamonds. And they belonged to my mother. They meant something to me. At the time, so did Tracy.
She wore them for about two weeks. And then I never saw them again. I’m certain she pawned them. If she didn’t then, she has by now.
As the weather grew colder so did our relationship.
I began to notice odd little things. Tracy would only make her side of the bed. Tracy would only do her laundry. She never cleaned. Ever. She never cooked. Ever. She seldom did dishes. Tracy never volunteered to walk the dog. She never emptied the litter box. Tracy didn’t contribute. I began to feel I was being taken advantage of and was growing resentful.
Also around this time I noticed some changes in her. Some serious mood swings. And some wild accusations coming out of nowhere. To try and articulate them here would be challenging because even now, with distance, they’re nonsensical. I was seriously lost. And afraid.
I began researching Borderline Personality Disorder. Well, that’s just an unpleasant one in’it?
Explosive anger? Check.
Extreme emotional swings? Check?
Impulsive behavior? Check.
Substance abuse? Check.
Tracy ticked off most of the boxes for BPD, which shouldn’t have surprised me. She mentioned she had it on the first date.
I was also becoming increasingly convinced she was doing coke on a regular basis. She seemed to have a perpetual runny nose. No one has that kind of cold and nose issue for six weeks solid. Could’ve been allergies. But, no.
Look, I’m not an idiot. I’ve done my share of drugs. Maybe she thought she was fooling me because I never said anything, I don’t know. How/where she got the money? Not a clue.
In November, I had to go to Colorado for a week. About halfway through the week, I got a text asking me if I was going to pay her for watching the dog and cat. I felt the steam leave my ears like I was in an old timey cartoon.
I let that text sit there for a few minutes. Eventually, she replied that it probably doesn’t make sense since she lives there too. Instead, she asks to “borrow” $50. I don’t reply and send it to her knowing I’ll never see it again.
By now it’s the holidays and I have to find a way to muscle through them. I begin thinking my situation is bad and that I had to get out of it, but how? We got through Thanksgiving without incident. Maybe because we spent more time actively avoiding each other than attempting to be with each other.
And then I had to spend two weeks in NYC for work in December. Which I thought would be a nice break for both of us.
When I left on Sunday for that first week, the amount of pressure that was released as I closed the door behind me was incredible. Despite my luggage, I felt like I just dropped a 110 lb backpack.
We texted very little throughout the week. I presumed the pets were taken care of because by now she was, at the very least, cognizant of how I care about the pets. Whether she cared was anyone’s guess. Before I came home that Friday night, I met a friend for a drink in the city to both numb the pain and delay the inevitable.
After the train ride and Uber home, I walked up and she was out on the stoop smoking a cigarette. Something I had never seen her do. As I approached, she looked up at me and before she could say anything I said that she looked tired. Admittedly, I used much more colorful language. She grunted a “thanks”.
I walked in and the place was a disaster. I now know what my mother meant by “pig sty”. I spent the next couple of hours unpacking, going through mail, sorting laundry, emptying the litter box, walking the dog, doing dishes, taking out the trash, cleaning. Daily normal things I thought would have been done while I was gone. Each time she saw me do something it was met with “Oh, I was going to do that.” After the third one, it was all I could do to not ask “Yea, why didn’t you?”
Finally she asked me “Aren’t you going to talk to me?” I simply said, “I’m home for 36 hours, I have a lot do to.”
I did have a lot to do, because she wasn’t doing anything.
She left the next morning while I was at the gym to begin celebrating her “birthday weekend”. Maybe I’m being a little harsh but are “birthday weekends” really necessary at 38?
She peppered Saturday with intermittent texts that she was “too drunk to drive”, was “going to eat”, “oops another shot”, “drunk again”. Her last text let me know she’d be home Sunday. Which was fine by me.
I came home from the gym on Sunday and Tracy had just gotten out of the shower. We said hello and I said that I hoped she had fun (I didn’t care). I went about packing for my next week in NYC.
As I was packing I went in to the kitchen to grab my medicine. Now, I’ve always had Xanax in the house (doctor prescribed). I seldom, if ever, would take it. I just kept it. I probably had, well, I don’t know, a lot . . . the last time I looked. I wanted to grab a few because I always like to have a few in NYC.
Even though I lived there for 14 years, it can still be a little much at times.
I pulled open the drawer and popped open the medicine bottle. There was easily more than half missing. How can I be sure? I knew I had a lot and now I had a lot less. So, I grabbed the container and tossed the whole thing in my suitcase, shaking my head.
Did Tracy steal them? I don’t know, but yea, I think so.
Could I prove it? No.
The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve come to rely on facts. These are the facts. Did I know that Tracy had access to street level dealers? Yes. She told me she did. Did I know there is a black market for Xanax? Yes. I do. Was Tracy in need of money? Yes.
I also know that I had a lot of Xanax. I went away and returned and about 2/3 of the bottle was missing. To my knowledge, Tracy was the only one with access to the apartment. Those are the facts that I know.
Given her history of drug abuse and the erratic behavior I had been seeing over the past five or six weeks, I don’t think it was much of a stretch to think that she took them. But no, I couldn’t prove it.
At this point, it’s only fair to point out that the success or failure of any relationship is hardly predicated by the actions of one person. It takes two. I’m not the easiest guy to get along with. I can be quiet, a little cantankerous and ill tempered sometimes. I’m sure there are loads of things I’m missing that any ex of mine would be more than happy to tell you about. I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination and I don’t pretend to be.
Anyway . . .
I gathered up all my things and went out to say good-bye before I left for NYC. Remembering her birthday was on Tuesday, I asked her if she wanted her birthday gifts. She got excited and said she did. Since I had no real schedule, I sat down and watched her open the things I had gotten for her. Tracy seemed to genuinely like them. I didn’t really care. To be honest, I just wanted to leave.
A few minutes later she came in from the kitchen asking if I had any Xanax. I said that I didn’t.
Minutes later I ordered my Uber to take me to the train station and I left.
The next night I had dinner with a friend and after I detailed the missing Xanax story, he said, “Well son, you have a stand-off.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, she knows you have some and you know she stole some. Who’s gonna blink first?”
“Eh, she’s probably figured out I know.” I said.
“Dude, she definitely knows you know.”
Let me be very clear again, I can’t prove Tracy stole Xanax from me. Do I think she did? Absolutely. Did she sell them? Just take them? At this point, I no longer cared.
The whole week I just kept thinking about what I was going to do to get out of this situation. Her behavior had become so erratic, I actually feared I might have to call the police to get out of it. And then I went down that rabbit hole. It was awful.
For once, work was a welcome reprieve.
Tracy and I exchanged pleasant enough texts throughout the week. Friday rolled around and I told her what train I was taking home and when I would be home. On the train I was mapping out my strategy and playing out different scenarios. About halfway home, she sent me a text saying that she had her daughter and that they were going up to her mothers for the weekend.
“Grrrrrrrrrreat!” I thought. This prolongs things.
Okay, I replied and groused about the delay the rest of the way home.
I walked in to a quiet apartment. Curiously so. Which was to be expected but there was no presence of Tracy. Anywhere. Suspicious, I looked around and noticed a folded white 8.5 x 11 piece of paper on the dining room table with the silver ring I had given her for her birthday. My heart sped up a little and then it hit me. She’s gone.
She had packed up her things and left me.
I should’ve been sad, right? I couldn’t have been more relieved! It was the greatest Christmas gift I’d ever received.
I opened her note to read it even though I genuinely didn’t care. Should I have cared? I figured she put some thought into writing it so the least I could do was read it. Literally, it was the least I could do.
In it, she made some accusations about me that I’d heard before but it was a mostly feeble and emotionally bankrupt letter. Which is probably a fair way to describe Tracy. But I did read it.
Once I finished reading, I walked around and took stock of the apartment. Everything seemed in order. She left a big pile of dishes, naturally . . . yet took the dish soap (revenge is so sweet).
I spent the weekend cleaning the apartment and ordered a Smudging Kit to cleanse my apartment (not that I necessarily believe in all of that, but it couldn’t hurt) and called the landlord to make arrangements to change the locks.
Did I trust her? Absolutely not. Do I think she lied to me? Yes. Do I think she stole from me? I have little doubt.
I have loads of faults, I won’t deny that. I consider myself to be a work in progress. But two things I just wouldn’t do to someone I loved? Or had proclaimed to love? I wouldn’t lie to them and I wouldn’t steal from them.
I’m sure I’ll be scolded and told “that’s the addiction.” Maybe it is. Or maybe Tracy is just a bad person with an addiction. I’m not convinced one begets the other or that those two things are mutually exclusive.
Truthfully, I want to feel that it’s her addiction or the Behavior Personality Disorder that drives all of this, maybe both. Maybe it is. From what I understand, and what I learned in my anecdotal research, neither of these are insurmountable.
I willingly admit that I’m not an expert or trained professional on either, so I won’t speak too much. However, I do know this, you can only overcome them if and when you’re ready and willing. They won’t disappear on their own.
I guess Tracy wasn’t ready.
Over the past few months I’ve spent a lot of time, too much probably, reflecting on this time period and here’s what I’ve concluded. I dodged a bullet. If that makes me a bad person to say that, I’m going to have to live with that. I’d rather live with that for the rest of my life than being tethered to Tracy with a child for the rest of my life.
At times I’m angry at myself for not seeing the flags. Or rather ignoring the flags, all the big giant, brightly colored flags waving in my face. In Tracy’s defense, she was not shy about any of it. She was an open book about all of it. I’m not sure if that was full-disclosure or braggadocio but she didn’t hide anything.
There was, maybe still is, a lot going on with Tracy and maybe one day she’ll want to correct those things. Maybe she won’t. If she wants that, then I want that for her.
The first week of January, Tracy received a check at my apartment which I forwarded to her mother’s address. I presumed that’s where she was. A few days later she sent me a text (actual text):
Did you write me a letter?
No. You got a check. I sent you that.
I then went in to get my hair cut. This is what I came out to, the caps are hers:
And that’s ALL you sent? After saying ZERO to me about anything involving our relationship and what I did and the fallout for you from that, you still have ZERO to say, you just sent my check?
And you can’t even answer THAT?
Yo even my mom is like “oh! That’s it??”
That’s fine Keith. You enjoy your sad place in your unremarkable life. Maybe your miserable lonely death will be more note worthy than your life.
I really wanted to reply that noteworthy was one word.
Edith Hamilton said, “Love cannot live where there is no trust.”
Godspeed Tracy.