Category Archives: addiction

Separately Together*

September 5, 2019addiction, brain research, commentary, contemplation, dreams, faith, family history, gratitude, healing, human behavior, love, personal testimony, philosophy, psychology, relationships, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, truth, Uncategorized, WWIICarol Burnett, faith, living independently in relationships, living separately in relationships, love in the twilight years, old habits hard to break, seniors in love, stars aligned, The Tonight Show, trustruth ann scanzillo

I can still see her face, and hear her voice.

Carol Burnett, on the Tonight Show, crowing: “Oh, I’d LOVE to get married, again! He could live in his house – right next door – and, I could live in mine!”

Perhaps it’s simply that she and I share a birthday. Stars aligned, and all that. Needing our independence, abhoring being led around by anyone – especially a h.u.s.band.

But, just yesterday, an article appeared in the Wall Street Journal. Apparently, seniors like me – single, little baggage, or kids all grown and gone – are finding themselves perfectly content to sustain relationships without the benefit of cohabitation.

In fact, there were several couples cited by name and photograph enjoying just such a radical lifestyle. Yes; imagine that. Loving somebody, without living with somebody.

Up until encountering that societal revelation, I’d been struggling mightily with my relationship of the past two and a half years. Both of us over 60, each of us happy in our own homes, I’d been driving out more than three times weekly to spend much of my time on his property with him; after all, I’d been retired from my full time teaching position for over five years, and he was still trying to eke out the final two before he could leave his position as a dialysis nurse to our regional medical center and take his own. I rationalized that being on site had to be a help, rather than a hindrance.

But, I was underfoot. The things I did, all voluntary, were not required by him. My desire to modify my surroundings to make them feel more welcoming to me were taken as criticisms, as if he needed to make changes heretofore unnecessary. The pop of color I wanted to add to his dreary den in the form of pillows and throws pleased me but, to him, they were just more things and, invariably – considering the presence of his two Rottweilers – more laundry.

On the nights I’d spend there with him, he’d need to be asleep well before 10 in order to rise by 4:30am, while I’d need several more hours of nocturnal biorhythms to wind down. Likewise, the mornings on his rare days off he’d already be up and roasting coffee before I’d even had my REM phase of sleep.

As winter encroached, his desire to keep the house at 64 degrees F hit my small boned body like a rush of blowing snow when the door opens. I shivered until my heart almost hurt, resorting to leaving my coat on through dinner until he commented that doing so was unsettling. Wearily, I’d pull on double layers and endure, not so secretly wishing I could just crawl into my warm bed.

After the first full year, taking stock and keeping tabs became my subconscious ritual. How many times had I driven out, vs his effort to spend a day with me at my house? When I counted the dollars spent on gas, and declared them, this was cause for one of many, increasing disagreements which became verbal volleys which, in turn, escalated into a pattern of lashing out every time I had overstayed my welcome. At the height of each of these, I would pack up whatever I’d brought with me and drive away. Unbeknownst to both of us ( until the counselor intervened ) he interpreted these actions as evidence of an unstable relationship which lacked the emotional security he sought.

Were we breaking up? Were we getting back together? What, exactly, were we doing?

Admittedly, we’d talked about what we’d do, going forward. He’d alluded more than once to selling his 2 acre rural idyll and downsizing to a condo near the water; I’d openly stated that, after 30 years, I would never sell my house. This was clearly our impasse, and I wondered if it would become our deal breaker.

Imagine my astonishment.

Entering the fray: The 100th Monkey Phenomenon. The Wall Street journalist had been doing the study and, here, as by fire, were the results: couples meeting later in life were opting to stay in their own, individual homes and sustain their loving relationships anyway. And, by all accounts, they were actually happy.

Mum and Dad loved each other, exclusively. Theirs was a match made on a train, circa 1940; Providential meeting, whirlwind courtship, broken engagement (hers) and a wedding before the war. Living together, for them, was a trial. Dad took to jogging to get out of the house, and Mum sat at her sewing machine to be alone. They held out until death, leaving so much for the family to vividly recall. My brothers had long since left town, but I’d stayed as witness.

Now, I love to witness my partner drive away. I know where he’s going, and I know where I am. I’m home, where I can keep him in my heart and thoughts until we meet up in the next day or so. It’s called space, and now it’s okay to both want and need it. And, it requires faith, expressed and exercised. Trust is better nourished when tested.

Yes. We are two old habits, and we cannot break. And now, we can still love each other, thank God.

Even if, on this particular night, we only see and hear each other in our dreams.

littlebarefeetblog.com

A Letter From The Law.

June 26, 2019addiction, civic commentary, commentary, contemplation, Deep Questions, health and wellness, human behavior, letters, personal testimony, politics, psychology, relationships, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, thoughts, truth, Uncategorizedabortion, AC360, amoral action, Anderson Cooper 360, assault, collective position, definitions of rape, delusionals, E Jean Carroll, generational definitions of sexual fantasy, generational definitions of social behavior, husbands forcing themselves on their wives by law, law as enabler, law as scapegoat, law vs conscience, loopholes of law, notions of sexual domination, patriarchal domination, President Trump's behavioral history, rape, rape fantasy, removing the mask, reproductive rights, sexual assault, sexual connotation, sexual gratification through domination, social conversation, the bounds of the law, the letter of the lawruth ann scanzillo

Sometimes realization comes in the strangest costume.

Last night, I spent several significant minutes concluding that the latest female Trump accuser was, at best, unbalanced.

Watching the excerpted clip of the final two minutes of her interview with Anderson Cooper, I declared E. Jean Carroll a delusional loon with a rape fantasy. Tonight, taking the entire interview – which gave the final two minutes their proper context – I discovered a lucid testimony maker making a bold assertion: the man who attacked her was living out a rape fantasy. And, the point missed by so many: she claimed this within the framework of generational context.

Perhaps only old people will get it. Those, say, over 60.

What was society’s collective position on rape when a husband could force himself on his wife, by law?

I doubt that husbands behaving within the bounds of a law which served their patriarchal domination considered themselves rapists; to them, it was their estimable right to have their wives, whenever and however they so chose.

As such, this accuser described her attacker in the very terms; she implied that he acted within his perceived right, the embodiment of the residual effect of the letter of the law.

Now, how is it a different conversation to ask what society’s collective moral position was on abortion, prior to the connotation of the term “reproductive rights”?

For every option a man took, within the law, a woman had none; now, the law states that a woman can dispense with the very life carried in her womb. Could one law have led to the other? Whether or not, in both cases the letter of the law acts as enabler, driving morality to drink.

So, which leads: law, or conscience? How much longer will humanity use the law not as judge but as scapegoat for amoral action against another, before semantic label becomes libel?

It takes courage to remove the mask.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Polar Bears.

March 7, 2019addiction, Christian fundamentalism, commentary, gratitude, healing, health and wellness, human behavior, humor, mystical experience, psychology, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorized, winter woesabsolution, addiction, Biafran starvation, bigotry, Boscov's, brake pedal, candy counters, carnauba wax, catholic indulgences, chicken pox shingles, chocolate addiction, diabetic chocolate, diabetic diets, diabetics, epiphany, escalator PTSD, first generation immigrants, flagellates, fleece sheet sets, gluten free chocolate, inadvertant racist stereotyping, indulgences, Leanness unto the soul, LED track lighting, mother's voice from the dead, orthodontia, overactive imagination, polar bears, post-herpetic neuralgia, pseudo altruism, redemption, saved as by fire, self righteousness vs goodness, simple math, single mother immigrants, sins of the flesh, specialty confections, subliminal racism, subliminal stereotyping, Suzanne Somers, the desires of thine heart, theobromine, whipped by addiction, winter colds, winter viruses, word problemsruth ann scanzillo

[*formerly entitled: The Tail of Winter.]

Boscov’s had chocolate.

Upstairs, above the endless racks of merch ( likely special purchases from the south that didn’t sell ) three whole glass cases of it, at least a third of which: gluten free. I’d been craving since 3:30 pm, and this was the tail of winter, the flagellate, whipping us into a frenzy on the final frigid night of the year.

Parking lot nearly empty, normally packed to the gills during the day and across the weekend, it was Thursday night, the cusp, and see above. I’d fought the craving for over four hours. At 8:02, time enough to get there before closing, the flush of rationale; hustling into the store with one other straggly woman, braving the ascending escalator, straight ahead I saw them: not confections — end of season sheet sets. My having just ordered a dog print flat and pillow shams from catalog for a resounding 93 bucks, these fleece for 19.99 tempted redemption. Grabbing a King of pale blue polar bears, I rounded the corner of packaged displays to the candy counter.

She was stooped over the open rear of the fudge case, sweeping crumbs into a tray, when I called out. A short, ponytailed woman with a Latino accent and what would be a penchant for calling me “honey”, she had a cold.

This, of course, was God. This was his reprimand for my weak, sniveling sin of the flesh. He would let me have the desires of my heart, but send leanness to my soul. I would eat a bag of chocolate, but be exposed to a virus likely potent enough to cause pneumonia and a reactivation of the chicken pox. I would get shingles, followed by post-herpetic neuralgia, and be in excruciating pain for the rest of my life.

In reality, selecting thirteen pieces with sugar and two without, I’d pay for everything, take the elevator down to the first floor because of descending escalator PTSD and head home in the solitary dark.

The cold. The God forsaken dripping nose. The two sugar free were packed in their own box; I could tear open the end, where she didn’t touch, and pull one almond bark out for the car.

So as not to break the last, number six stainless wire of orthodontia, I went for the first bite with two molars, rear left. Coasting down Peach Street, I thought of every diabetic I’d ever known and how relatively grateful they’d be to be eating something shaped right that sort of felt recognizable under the teeth. Like some chocolate with your carnauba wax? Anyone?

But, the total price was gnawing. $34. 95? for a box of chocolate? Not even Suzanne Somers charged that much for her cancer-safe creations.

She’d said, albeit nasally, that the sugar free was 19.95, honey, and the regular 17.95. I’d always let mum do the math. And, money was no object to addiction. But, mum was gone now, for almost twenty years, leaving me quite adrift when it came to tallying up indulgences, let alone the flat out mortal variety.

Pulling up to the curb, I crawled out, locking the driver door, and headed in. Dispensing with the bag would prevent transmission of the virus to the edibles within. Reaching the kitchen sink, I grabbed a plastic container and poured the bag’s contents into it. Even under the LED track lighting, this stuff was the shit; dry, faded, even the white peppermint bark lacking luster, I stared at thirty four dollars of specialty confection and felt nauseous. The girl who’d called me honey had ripped me off. At this price, there should have been twice as much candy.

After one phone call to the Boscov’s operator and the courtesy desk, I was already out the door. I-79 was a bleak vista at this hour, but a straight shot back to the mall. I’d find a manager. No; I’d confront her, quietly. No; I’d get the courtesy desk, which “didn’t know anything about the candy, let me put you through to can —” No; I’d say nothing – just dump it out, onto the counter.

Maybe the caffeine, theobromine, maltitol had created a synergy. Maybe the dark highway, and me alone on it. But, I began to follow a different train, one which took me deeply into the psyche of the candy woman. She had a family, at least some children. She made minimum wage, working the candy counter. She was a first generation immigrant, and she was sick.

Just ahead of the parking spot closest to the Boscov’s entrance, I’d resolved my intention; I would speak confidentially, my voice hushed. We’d be the only two who knew what had been done, and I’d tell no one else. She needed to feed her family. And, she could have the chocolate. The receipt had indicated 9.95 for two “seasonal” candy purchases; she’d falsely categorized my purchase, too. There was the 19.99, and a grand total of 34…….my lungs filled with the purest air, swelling my chest with a powerful self righteousness that could have been true goodness on a better day.

Then, I spied them. Sitting on the front seat. The pale blue polar bears, dancing across their fleece sheets inside the plastic see through case with the PAID sticker on it. And, mum, faintly, speaking from the world beyond, calculating out loud again, rising vocal inflections reaching the slightly hysterical, and me, seated again at the corner of the kitchen table against the wall, feet over the heat vent as she “helped” me with my math word problems. Now, listen to me!!! Nine ninety five plus nineteen ninety nine for the seasonal sheet set equals: $34.95 !!!

My foot was still on the brake pedal.

Turning the key in the ignition, I thanked my own for saving me, as by fire, from public humiliation and full on, single mother first generation immigrant retaliation. Every scenario ever devised by my oppressively overactive imagination converged, in a flood of expulsion. Thrust back into the present, I flew down Interchange Road to the interstate, stuffing chocolate absolution into my gullet like a starving Biafran.

The candy was disgusting.

I’d been whipped by addiction, for the last time.

Boscov’s had nothing on epiphany.

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