‘When You Are Not Well’ is about my long-term relationship: the love and the struggles we had leading up to my blowing up my life. Here are the links for When You Are Not Well — Parts I: The Beauty & the Shame and II: Getaways.
If you are new to my Memoir, you may wish to start with Labour Day or go to the Memoir tab on my page and read in reverse order.
It’s late 2018, and I’ve decided to leave the business I was a part of for eleven years. My relationship is under duress.
Not once in our nine years together did Jason and I walk into his parents’ house for dinner or even a coffee. We’d swing by on Mother’s Day or a birthday to drop off a card and flowers, hanging them in a plastic bag on the front door. And then drive away.
I sure as hell didn’t want to go inside for a visit.
His parents were constantly at each other’s throats. Jason, an only child, was dragged into their battles since he was a toddler. Sent private school, he hated every day of his attendance. He was bullied at a time when the only solution was to ignore it; he boarded at school even though his parents lived less than thirty kilometres away.
He could have chosen any number of careers, but Jason’s parents’ sacrifices meant he joined their construction business after graduating high school. He’d been picking up nails on the job site since he was old enough to walk. He’d never leave, no matter the tension and frustration he experienced. I internalized the anger and resentment that I thought he should feel. Why didn’t he stand up for himself or find a new career?
Jason had a malignant loyalty to his parents I couldn’t comprehend.
As a young person, I’d moved across the country several times, changed careers, and started over in new cities. Staying in a toxic situation like his was unimaginable. I wanted more for Jason. Every day, I saw the physical toll his work took and the emotional damage wrought by his parents’ endless squabbling.
I encouraged his gifts as a photographer, master carpenter and a jack of all trades. Jason could fix anything and often did for friends and family, dropping everything to help. He was appreciated and taken advantage of in equal measure.
I believed he could build his own business. I overheard him patiently talking to customers. He spent extra time with his elderly clients, knowing more than anything they needed someone to speak to and listen to them. He’d come home sharing their lovely stories. He cherished those conversations, building a loyal clientele.
We dreamt about so many options that might free him. We scrambled up those mountains of hope only to slide backward as his confidence faded. I wanted change for both of us—to alter the tune of our lives, his day-to-day. But he feared his parent’s business could not sustain his departure. Their vulnerability was his kryptonite. He had never ventured away. The longer he stayed, the more stuck he became. I blamed them, not him. I didn’t acknowledge his agency.
They had a hold on him, no matter how bad it got. And it got bad often.
Jason worked side by side with his dad, a sad, bottled-up man who stayed away from their family home for hours and days to avoid Jason’s mom. She answered the business phone and dispatched work to them via text. Jason raced around trying to fix the disasters they created: of their cell phones when they downloaded apps they shouldn’t. When they fought over advertising, they didn’t fully understand. And when he had to redo jobs because the quality of his dad’s work began to slip. He wasn’t allowed more authority in the business, but he was their first call when things fell apart.
His mom’s behaviour was bizarre on a good day. Jason sheltered me from as much as he could. I saw her as outwardly sweet but manipulative and vengeful. We spent as little time as possible with her. For years, I thought Jason had exaggerated her worst behaviour. I regret my skepticism now.
I learned that his mom would send fifty rage-filled texts in rapid succession, declaring him an ungrateful son and much worse. After a particularly hateful day, Jason would come home in tears. I seethed but was not allowed to do or say anything. I poured a double Jack & Ginger and watched helplessly as this cycle destroyed him.
Within days of pummelling Jason by text, shopping bags were dropped off apologetically. His mom bought us stuff we didn’t need— like another throw for our sofa when we already had three. Teas, cake mixes, multiples of scented soaps, lotions and shampoos we couldn’t possibly consume in a lifetime. Socks, hats, mittens, and throw pillows were added to the mountain she’d already bought us.
I learned not to ask questions after an episode. We’d go out for dinner or plan a weekend escape. Jason preferred to ’getaway’ rather than talk about it. He believed there was nothing to be done. He couldn’t change anything. That was impossible in my mind. Surely, we must be able to do something.
Magma built inside me. When I could no longer tolerate the abuse he seemed to accept, I erupted. I felt worse after Jason and I fought, insisting he push back with his parents. It only seemed to crush him. I clamped down on my emotions and opinions, starting the build-up again.
Jason’s mom, in my opinion, was fully aware of her cruel behaviour. She acted like a coy, giggly schoolgirl toward me; I suspect she knew better than to test my restraint. Jason needed me as a buffer on the rare occasion we met in person.
We leaned on all manner of booze to get through the twice-annual brunch or dinner with his parents. His mom talked non-stop about her health problems, including diabetes, and then ordered cake for dessert. I didn’t say a word; my face was a picture. Jason and his dad drank and kept their heads down as they ate. I pounded cocktails.
I wanted to flip the table and scream at his mom: You are a fucking fraud. I see your games!
Jason begged me with his eyes not to get into it with her, knowing he would pay the price via text for days to come.
Throughout our relationship, his parents represented a constant hum of disruption and sadness. Punctuated by the occasional bewildering explosion, Jason tried to protect me from it. I felt powerless. I convinced myself it didn’t impact me; it was none of my business. Eventually, I pretended not to see the issues. I joined in the family blindness.
This is not a footnote to a disastrous relationship but a regret that I couldn’t ‘fix’ what was deeply broken. I didn’t recognize the line between my choices and Jason’s. I believed if I only worked harder, I could make a difference. His trauma knew differently.
In the Spring of 2017, my dad died suddenly. My relationship with him, unresolved.
Late that same year, Jason entered his parents’ house for the first time in twenty-five years. Once that door opened, there was no turning back.
"We do the best we know to do." Yes, I couldn’t say it better Gary.
I’m struck by the bulldozer load of wisdom and agony in this piece