Better A Used Sofa Than A Used Me

I used to live with an Arab. He worked as a pilot for the government, or so he told me. Although he never said WHICH government, I don't think it was ours, as we used to vacation in places like Syria and Libya. And other places where I was told not to leave the hotel.

Didn't I find this suspect? Hey. They were nice hotels.

Oh yeah, and then there was that strange time I was cleaning out the closet and found a loose grenade. That was suspect, even to a less-than-conscious me.

I lived with this man for six years in my twenties. The reason we lasted so long was that he was out of town nine out of twelve months of the year. Even I could maintain a "relationship" for three months a year.

But those three months were hard, because he couldn't drink. And that's pretty much all I did from sun up to...sun up again. I mean, he would have a beer and a half and start to giggle like a little girl. And then we'd have to go home, which was, at that time, nothing short of excruciatingly painful for me.

And yet I would suck it up and try to stay home and wear an apron and learn to cook Lebanese. Oy. Today about all I can cook is a mean piece of toast.

And so this went on for years, three months of bizarre domesticity and nine of what I then thought was cool cosmopolitanism but was really pretty much just drug-induced oblivion. Lots of stories to tell, some of them fun and funny but many of them simply stupid and dangerous.

It didn't end pretty. I became a victim of domestic violence once my life's cat got out 'o the bag and began to live a life filled with dread and horribly low self-esteem, putting up with things I would personally physically drag someone else out of today - or call someone who could.

And then, one day, I got sober. Certainly not that simply, but I've got other posts about that, and this one's about taking back what was and still is mine. Me.

About a week later I got a sponsor, and together we decided that I would tell my guy that he had until my 90th day to pack up his stuff and find another place to live.

Oh yeah, at this point he lived in the living room and I in the bedroom. Except when we fought, when he lived anywhere he freaking wanted to.

And so. He did not believe me. And on my 90th day, my sponsor Judy came over with two other women and a locksmith and we changed the locks. And we waited. And he came home and tried to stick his key in the lock and...

Wow. Luckily I knew his pride was waaaaaaaay too powerful to ever allow him to show up again, particularly when others had witnessed his demise. One of them being the locksmith. Poor guy didn't make it out of there before what's-his-name came home. He looked more frightened than the four of us huddling on the sofa.

Was this then end of the Arab? Nay. About a month later he called me, sweet as could be, wanted to make sure I was okay, getting along well in sobriety - and asked if he could come over and pick up his stuff. All I could think was that I really didn't want to be there while he did this, so I said, sure, I'll leave the door open between 3:00 and 5:00...

Say what?! you shout on my behalf!

And so, that's how I ended up living in an empty apartment. He wiped me out, of course, and I went back to sleeping on a mattress on the floor, collecting discarded furniture off the street at night from the Upper East Side to refurnish my abode.


Yet another chapter in Nancy's Book of Gratitude.