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CHASING NORMAL

By Chrystal Caudill

Abbott Press

Copyright © 2011 Chrystal Caudill
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-0127-0

Chapter One

People say, "it'll get easier. It's going to hurt less. Just give it time."

I say, Fuck That.

If I hold a burning hot poker to my tongue, it's going to hurt, a lot. Even after I take it off, it will still hurt for a very, very long time.

After the injury is dressed and scabbed and eventually healed, an ugly, thick scar will impair my speech.

I will feel it forever and it will affect how the world hears my voice.

Well-meaning friends, parents, bloggers and therapists insist I will heal, my heart will mend. I say, OK, but silently, I curse their misplaced optimism. When the gush of tears and figurative bleeding stop, when I can eat again, the wound in my soul may close. But I will never be the same.

I will feel this forever and it will affect how the world hears my voice.

I don't wish to wallow. I probably will though. At the end of the day, I'll lie down and try to ignore the room around me. Forget I am alone in the bed where we conceived our son. Forget I am inhaling dust particles likely made up of his dry skin. Forget I am staring at framed black and white photos of bridges I hate but he liked so I put them on the wall. Forget I am fighting off the impulse to open his nearly empty closet, sit on the floor and hug his dry cleaning bag as hard as I can. I want to wake up from this nightmare.

Gloria Gaynor was wrong. I will not survive this. Not intact anyway. Not without pieces of myself strewn, compromised and forgotten.

Chapter Two

Would it be crazy if I went all 1980s rock star and trashed my bedroom? I mean, if I just really broke some shit? My sister gently says, "Stop moping around the house," when what she really means is "Quit drinking so much or you'll become a big mess of an alcoholic."

My friend says I should do whatever I want since I've become an unwilling divorcee. She says I can take three months to be a drunk, moping smoker.

But I have a son. He needs me.

I've read books and seen movies about single mothers who are lauded for being strong for their children. I always thought, well yeah, you have to be strong for your children in the face of any tragedy. Of course you'd forget about your own problems and be a fantastic mother. No matter what. And I am a great mother. I love being his mom more than I love my own life. More than anyone has ever loved anything.

Ever.

Yet, I am discovering, little by little, that forcing a smile for him is exhausting. Playing hide and seek makes me want to vomit, then take a nap. When I hear him wake in the morning, I don't rush in to his room right away. The tiny face beaming at me is identical to his father's. His face lights up when I walk in. It wants to be close to me and his innocent little heart truly loves me.

But I lie in my bed, listening to the baby monitor babble with his irresistible chatters and squeals. I dread going to him. I don't want him to see me cry. Or sob. Or choke back tears, forcing myself to say, "Good morning," when I really want to scream, "Your fucking father is an immature, selfish prick who proudly admits that his needs are more important than yours! Want some Cheerios?"

So to all those single mothers who were strong for their children, never had a breakdown in front of them and avoided talking smack about a jackass father: I am sincerely sorry I was flippant about your resolve. I assumed being a rock for your kid would be second nature.

It's hard. It's lonely. Most of all, it compounds this overwhelming feeling of failure.

So, it sounds appealing, but trashing my bedroom would make hide-and-seek even harder. I may feel volatile, but not to the extent of a coked-out lead singer who doesn't have to worry about jagged edges scraping tender baby knees.

I did break a glass on purpose, so I suppose that counts. I think my mom cleaned it up. I broke it in the sink because, despite towering rage and swirling confusion and crushing rejection, broken glass all over the floor is never good.

Chapter Three

Brad is handsome by anyone's standards. He's just under six feet tall and smells wonderful. Even when he vigorously exercises, he doesn't sweat much. He can also wear the same pair of socks for two days because his feet do not emit odor of any kind.

He has an appropriate amount of body hair, not a werewolf, not a hairless cat. He has knobby knees and dry elbows.

Brad knows how to dress. He owns more than fifty button-up shirts and twenty argyle sweaters. He replenishes his wardrobe whenever there's a test of the emergency broadcast system.

Brad enjoys wine, filet mignon, beer, pizza, poker, running, Olympic figure skating, Beethoven and fast cars. He also drinks too much and chews Skoal Mint Tobacco.

He was raised in a nuclear family, the youngest of several older brothers. Everyone was seriously Catholic and got a seriously Catholic education. It was a blue-collar household where money was often tight and kids suffered from asthma while parents lit up cigarette after cigarette.

His childhood was superficially normal. So he wasn't the victim of anything too traumatizing or abusive. In other words, a typical Midwestern upbringing.

I don't really know where Brad went wrong. Somewhere between tee ball and bad sweaters and Space Camp and massive glasses, Brad turned into a real asshole. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first time I saw Brad, the Earth shook. I am not being dramatic. It shook and tilted the wrong way.

He'd had a car accident on the road near my childhood home. Traffic crawled, so driving by, I was able to survey the aftermath of a Suburban-meets-station-wagon debacle. Brad was unhurt, so he sat on a patch of grass on the side of the road while a gaggle of cops assessed the damage.

Not much happened in our hometown, other than a stop on the PGA Tour each July. Therefore a car accident with no injuries warranted every available emergency responder.

I was a passenger in my grandmother's Cadillac. Being just as curious as the next passerby, I rubbernecked. We locked eyes.

A prolonged gaze was inevitable because we were moving so slowly, but also because I was stunned.

I cannot explain exactly what I saw. It's like when alien abductees lose all recollection of alleged ass-probing events after being blinded by blaring spotlights attached to the UFO's landing gear. I looked at him and something happened.

No, I did not psychically predict I was going to marry that guy and have his baby. Something in his eyes grabbed me though. It was like an intense, radiant heat emanated from his being and addressed my brain.

My mouth hung open, stupidly. My eyebrows dipped intently over analytical eyes. Who was this guy and why did I care? Stop staring!

I forced myself to look away, but I was speechless, thoughtless and gob smacked. When I could cohere again, a color guard team marched through my mind, wildly waving fiery red flags. They unanimously chanted, "There's something weird about that guy!"

Did I mention I was on my way to cheerleading practice? I was fifteen years old.

Scoffing? I would be, if it weren't me.

Remember that part in The Godfather when Michael sees Appalonia on the road in Corleone? His bodyguard snickers and indicates that his boss has been "hit by the thunderbolt."

Yeah, it was kind of like that. I couldn't get him out of my head. I had had boyfriends here and...