The names have been changed....

The Writers Online Workshop Personal Essay class has a little more bite to it. That's why I like it. I looked forward to all the assignments and found several that made me say "I can't do that." That's when I knew I needed to take the class.

The first assignment was as follows:

1) Choose a “first” in your life—a first kiss, a first communion, a first parking ticket, a first marriage, etc.—and write up to 500 words describing what happened and how you felt about it at the time it was happening. 2) Write an additional 250 words discussing how you feel about that same experience now, through the lens of hindsight.

For this one, I chose a chapter from Below Sea Level and took it from 3,900 words to 750. It was like moving all my belongings from my two-story house into my one-car garage. I think I will post the full chapter here as well (give me a day or two) for comparison.

Click on Read More for "First Commitment."



At 7:15 a.m. in the morning, adrenaline coursing through my veins like Turkish coffee, Eric climbed into my truck and we headed for Idaho Falls. The silence in the cab was deafening, so I reached for the radio. The Rolling Stones’ “Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown” was just beginning. God has an unrivaled sense of humor.

“Do they know we are coming?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m supposed to be at work—”

“I’ll handle it.”

I had called the hospital at 4 a.m., an hour after I was convinced my husband was dead to the world. They expected us at 8 a.m.

I lost count of the drunken episodes in our years together, but that night was the worst I’d endured. He was delusional, paranoid and, I believed, having a nervous breakdown. I didn’t think he, or I, could survive another one. My anger finally trumped my fear, and when he was hung over and groggy at 7 a.m., I gave him two choices: Watch me leave, or go in for treatment. Could have gone either way. I had no idea where I’d go in a pickup with two dogs, a cat, and four guinea pigs, two thousand miles from family. I desperately needed him not to call my bluff. Thankfully, he did not.

Anyplace else, I’d have taken off when he started ranting against me, against the world, against himself; but that summer we were set up in an RV at the foot of the Grand Tetons, so unless you were a pack guide with a good rifle, there was nowhere to go at night without risk of attack by bear, mountain lion, or even wolves. After hours of “Fuck you!” all these possibilities started looking better than the situation I was in.

Shortly after eight, we pulled into the emergency room parking lot. Eric was still as death, yet alert as a rattler. I was shaking so hard at the reality of committing him I dropped the keys on the floorboard as I shut off the motor.

Two large men checked him in. They made him hand over everything which defined him: cell phone, massive key ring, some guitar picks, the hunting knife he always wore, and his Copenhagen. That was the only time I saw anger flash in his eyes. He relaxed after they assured him it would be kept behind the nurses’ desk.

I had never seen him unarmed, defeated, and I felt an overwhelming sense of shame at humiliating him publicly. This I had not expected. The man had disappeared, leaving only the child abused and abandoned so long ago. I felt criminal, and began to lose my resolve.

“It’s okay, babe,” he said. “You did the right thing.”

I collapsed into the nearest chair, pulling my knees to my chest just as I had all night long. I soon got looks from the staff indicating they were no longer sure who needed hospitalization more. They were right, and it was the first time I saw it myself.

****************************************************

Eric stayed a week at the hospital, and I slept better than I had in months. Together in counseling at the hospital, we heard the diagnosis “Borderline Personality Disorder” for the first time. It gave me hope—he had let himself be admitted, we had a diagnosis. He was finally going to get the help he needed…

It took fifteen months before the next hospitalization. Twelve until the next. I became an expert liar, covering for his job by fabricating stories about his dad’s sudden heart attack, etc. He’d do well for weeks, then run out of whichever drug they prescribed him (which he would always wash down with alcohol) and we’d be back at ground zero. I grit my teeth on such a regular basis I am surprised they survived the relationship.

Though it is unfair, I still blame myself for not having the strength to load up my truck and leave him in his drunken stupor that night (or any other night); yet, at the same time, I am proud when I remember taking that first step towards self-preservation, even if it was in the context of taking care of him. Just as you don’t fall into an abusive relationship overnight, nor do you escape from one in one night. Stepping out from under the shadow of the mountains is sometimes the most you can do, and it’s the only way to learn to become your own pack guide.