01-17-2020, 03:06 AM
My ex-girlfriend or 17 years. We met on 11/4/00 and turned over the keys to the apartment on 11/17/17. It was a big romance, fireworks. She liked “galoots” and I like smart, complicated women. We traveled the world together.
She was also in pain. She worked hard to deny it, but it ate at her. It came out in phobias that affected her work: Sudden fear of public speaking (she was in marketing, you gotta make presentations) sudden fear of crossing bridges (she lived in North Beach, but worked in the East Bay). She developed a drinking problem. She was a mean drunk. I took her to rehab 3 times over the course of about 5 years. She dried out and stayed clean. She went to therapy, but didn’t really engage. She could talk rings around the therapist.
She was also wickedly funny and one of the best read people I know. She loved dogs and we were “weekend parents” to Max, The Lunkhead from downstairs. She loved politics. She had attended Democratic National COnvention while working for Senator ALan Cranston when she was right out of UC Berkeley, where she graduated in Journalism and Mexican studies, She was fluent in Spanish. She used to write speeches for the CEO’s where she worked and loved analyzing political speeches. She love The Giants but was “meh” about the Niners. She was a San Francisco native, daughter of another San Francisco native. She loved this city, as I still do.
There was always drama at work and she was without a job a few times and some very long times, indeed.
Then, later, the meanness didn’t need drink to come out. She wouldn’t remember the episodes exactly, and then she would make up excuses. The excuses became lies.
I slept at my shop a lot. I couldn’t leave her when she had no job and her family relations were strained. I was afraid that she would become homeless. This was my worry in Year 12, when I had had enough.
I was lucky to have three jobs that combined allowed us to stay in our apartment. Depression had kept her bed-bound on bad weeks, apartment bound on other weeks. I had stopped accepting social invitations for us as a couple 7 years previously as she would nearly always cancel. She kept denying her pain.
The lies were becoming more frequent, and the anger. She questioned our viability as a couple many times. I finally agreed with her and said we were done. Year 17. I am a stubborn man, but we were 5 years past “enough” and that woman that I loved, funny, smart, she wasn’t coming back. So, we were done.
She moved first to the North Bay where she stayed with a high school friend who always had a crush on her. Drama followed. She ended up in Tucson, AZ, living by herself in an apartment. I don’t know how or why, as I never knew if I was going to get the truth or a story. Her health had deteriorated, aggravated by an eating disorder that she wouldn’t admit to.
This morning, I had a call from an officer from the Tucson Police. Did I know Barbara Cassidy...? I was still her “in case of emergency” contact. I didn’t ask him for any details, and he likely would not have given any.
My brother, Ross, asked me how I was feeling. I said “What you would expect. Grief mixed with relief that she is not in pain any more. It will unfold over the next couple weeks and echo for a while longer and then fade.”
She was also in pain. She worked hard to deny it, but it ate at her. It came out in phobias that affected her work: Sudden fear of public speaking (she was in marketing, you gotta make presentations) sudden fear of crossing bridges (she lived in North Beach, but worked in the East Bay). She developed a drinking problem. She was a mean drunk. I took her to rehab 3 times over the course of about 5 years. She dried out and stayed clean. She went to therapy, but didn’t really engage. She could talk rings around the therapist.
She was also wickedly funny and one of the best read people I know. She loved dogs and we were “weekend parents” to Max, The Lunkhead from downstairs. She loved politics. She had attended Democratic National COnvention while working for Senator ALan Cranston when she was right out of UC Berkeley, where she graduated in Journalism and Mexican studies, She was fluent in Spanish. She used to write speeches for the CEO’s where she worked and loved analyzing political speeches. She love The Giants but was “meh” about the Niners. She was a San Francisco native, daughter of another San Francisco native. She loved this city, as I still do.
There was always drama at work and she was without a job a few times and some very long times, indeed.
Then, later, the meanness didn’t need drink to come out. She wouldn’t remember the episodes exactly, and then she would make up excuses. The excuses became lies.
I slept at my shop a lot. I couldn’t leave her when she had no job and her family relations were strained. I was afraid that she would become homeless. This was my worry in Year 12, when I had had enough.
I was lucky to have three jobs that combined allowed us to stay in our apartment. Depression had kept her bed-bound on bad weeks, apartment bound on other weeks. I had stopped accepting social invitations for us as a couple 7 years previously as she would nearly always cancel. She kept denying her pain.
The lies were becoming more frequent, and the anger. She questioned our viability as a couple many times. I finally agreed with her and said we were done. Year 17. I am a stubborn man, but we were 5 years past “enough” and that woman that I loved, funny, smart, she wasn’t coming back. So, we were done.
She moved first to the North Bay where she stayed with a high school friend who always had a crush on her. Drama followed. She ended up in Tucson, AZ, living by herself in an apartment. I don’t know how or why, as I never knew if I was going to get the truth or a story. Her health had deteriorated, aggravated by an eating disorder that she wouldn’t admit to.
This morning, I had a call from an officer from the Tucson Police. Did I know Barbara Cassidy...? I was still her “in case of emergency” contact. I didn’t ask him for any details, and he likely would not have given any.
My brother, Ross, asked me how I was feeling. I said “What you would expect. Grief mixed with relief that she is not in pain any more. It will unfold over the next couple weeks and echo for a while longer and then fade.”
In the Tudor Period, Fencing Masters were classified in the Vagrancy Laws along with Actors, Gypsys, Vagabonds, Sturdy Rogues, and the owners of performing bears.
![[Image: magpie13.gif]](http://imagegen.last.fm/LastfmLiveJournal/recenttracks/magpie13.gif)