love blossoms...or...marry your dad, at least you'll know what you're in for

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I met my honey, Michael, when I was nineteen. He worked with my roommate and would come home for lunch with him. I couldn’t stand him at first. He liked me and was always staring at my ass or whatever. I could feel him staring and it was pissing me off. We started to spend more time talking. I took him to a reggae show on my birthday, just to see if the sparks would fly. They didn’t. And on the way home he pissed me off cause he wanted to drink a beer in my car on the ride home. We continued to hang out, though, all together. Then he had a moving-in party at his new apartment. How different would my life be now if I had stayed home that night?

By the end of the evening, everyone had left but me. I was far too drunk to drive home. So I was sitting there on the couch with Michael and his roommate, Chris, who incidentally, is the single most retarded and obnoxious person I have ever met, to this day. I guess Chris felt like he needed to exercise his ball sack or something cause he started talking a bunch of shit to Michael about how he was such a loser and he wouldn’t have that apartment if he hadn’t called Chris to be his roommate and help him pay for it. Michael kept his cool, told Chris to fuck off a couple times. I got mad however, and I felt this uncontrollable urge to slap the shit out of Chris. So I did, with my sharp ass tongue. I took Michael by the hand and proceeded to cut Chris as far down to the ground as I could. I felt like I needed to defend him. It was a very strong feeling. A very powerful feeling. I felt like Michael needed me. It was like some overwhelming biological urge.

I stayed with Michael that night, and I tried to get laid, but he wouldn’t have sex with me cause I was sloppy drunk. What a sweet guy, huh? So that was the beginning. We’ve been together for four years now. Seems so long ago.

Within the first two months of our relationship, he had his first drunken episode. We had driven my car to Newport, on the coast, to visit his mom’s old boyfriend. We went to a chowder house and the two of them had drinks, and all was well until the drive home. He somehow got fixated on the idea that the dentist I was working for at the time wanted to sleep with me. A totally absurd, baseless idea, but he just wouldn’t stop. He punched my windshield out while I was driving 60 mph 80 miles from home. He passed out and I drove home in silence. I don’t even remember what I was thinking at the time, but I remember what I was not thinking: that this was outrageous, off the wall , disturbing behavior and that I needed to run far and fast from this guy. That is what I was not thinking. Sad, isn’t it? My own dad would shudder to think that he had conditioned his own daughter to think that this was acceptable behavior. I knew it was fucked up, but I wasn’t as shocked as I might have been had my own daddy not been an alcoholic.

Michael is the man of my dreams. All of the things that make me difficult are things that he can tolerate. Isn’t that romantic? Really, though, I don’t know that there is another man that is so compatible with me. He is smart and patient and thoughtful. He works hard. He’s a wonderful daddy. He’s almost exactly like the man who raised me.

After two years we decided to make a baby. We were so happy together that it seemed easy to dismiss the drunken episodes since they only came every other month or so. The times in between were bliss. I never once thought about leaving him when he was sober. It was literally like living with two completely different people.