Real Love Never Has a Happy Ending

defense mechanism subconsciously designed to prevent other people from entering their emotional domain, no matter how damaged and fragmented that domain may be. The problem is: they, themselves, get locked out too.

I could not help but feel deeply sorry for the woman. Not a pity sorrow, but a sorrow of hope…hope that she would one day regain her easy smile; that wonderful laugh, her light-hearted disposition…for her own well-being. It was no skin off my ass. Not anymore. If she feared harassment from me, it was a wasted worry. These days, what non-sociopath has the time and inclination for that? Few, I’m sure. Still, in a moment of compassion, I composed a small letter explaining to her, (in a very gentle manner), that it’s okay if it was not within her to face the music of yesteryear…that it’s probably unrealistic to expect any person to address supposed transgressions that far back. And that I harbor no ill will; merely a wish that her life is (or will become) happy and content. Not even desiring a response, I shipped it.

Then I reflected and laughed. My war with booze ended a long time ago. It turns out my alcoholism was genetically predisposed, as was the mental illness. My biological mother passed it down to me, her mother passed it down to her; who knows how far back it goes. Sure, life’s situations may have exacerbated my post traumatic stress disorder and clinical depression, but not my alcoholism. Substance abuse my genetic destiny, no matter what my lot in life would be. Eventually, and against great odds and with a lot of help, I dug deep and sobered up for good, ending the family booze cycle once and for all. It was the hardest thing I have ever done…and the most rewarding.

Your daughter deleted the letter without clicking the open button. It went unread. Turns out it didn’t matter. By not pressing the open button, she handed me the true degree of her embittered spirit on a silver platter. Right then and there, I knew for sure: No matter who I was; no matter what I did, it never would have worked anyway! The chasm of stability and forthrightness was just too wide for her to negotiate. And that’s what really answered my questions, albeit in a ’round about twist. In the end, your daughter did, unwittingly, repair the tiny crack in my soul. Pure irony, wouldn’t you say?

With that realization, I felt giddy…and philosophical. Pondering the big picture, I asked myself: How odd is it when a person’s direct questions are often answered by a smokescreen of denial and omission–which is often how, quite by accident, the truth is revealed to us. Yes, gut-level truths are hard for us to comprehend, much less face, especially from a protagonists point of view. Yet we ought to meet them head-on anyway, don’t you think?

So, once and for all, the whole story has finally been told, and with absolute precision. And this is the only version you’ll ever hear that can be trusted as one-hundred percent true. I can now say what really happened in the summer of 1973 and beyond.

Everything and nothing.

I’m still grateful you gave me the job though. Granted, the price-tag may have been a little high, but that gig taught me a lot more than how to make ceramic trinkets. The experience made me smarter and tougher. And none of it could have happened without you. I’ll miss you, Harry.

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