blame – adj : expletives used informally as intensifiers; “he’s a blasted idiot”; “it’s a blamed shame”; “a blame cold winter”; “not a blessed dime”; “I’ll be damned (or blessed or darned or goddamned) if I’ll do any such thing”; “he’s a damn (or goddam or goddamned) fool”; “a deuced idiot”; “tired or his everlasting whimpering”; “an infernal nuisance” 1: an accusation that you are responsible for some lapse or misdeed; 2: a reproach for some lapse or misdeed.
I was 45 years old, divorced and raising two sons on my own and for six years I had needed someone to blame for my predicament. I was finally able to blame someone after a conversation with my son. He was having some difficulty, emotionally, with the financial problems we faced to keep him enrolled in his college courses.
He was struggling at a time when his only concern should have been what courses he would take and living the carefree life of a college student. He was upset and through his tears, he said to me, “Mom, if we had played a role in this I might be able to deal with it. If I held some responsibility for the way things are with Dad it wouldn’t hurt so deeply.”
I began to reflect on my role in the pain of my divorce and the damage done to my children. Isn’t it human nature to want someone to blame your problems on? If there is someone to blame then we might be able to extract some justice and feel vindicated for our suffering.
As I sat thinking back I realized that the ultimate blame lay with me, the person who had fallen in love with and married his father. I had looked across a room one night a little over two decades ago and with one momentary look at his face, my fate and the fate of my children had been sealed. What came in between then and now has been, at times, powerfully loving and incredibly cruel.
How I Met my Narcissistic Ex-Husband
Connie and I chose a table close to the door and ordered a couple of drinks. We hadn’t been there long when I glanced over at the bar and noticed a group of guys sitting at the bar. I had an immediate and intense attraction to the looks of one of them.
He had a square jaw line, full lips with a perfect receding hairline. If there is such a thing!
He had a little boy look about him. He smiled at one of his friends and there were dimples, deep dimples that lay right below beautiful, icy blue eyes and rosy cheeks. He had a sweetness to his face and before I had even spoken to him, I knew, from his look, that he would be able to grab my attention and hold it.
I look back now and realize that look was the look of the “walking wounded” and that my attraction to it had to do with my need to rescue, take care of and love unconditionally anyone who needed to be fixed.
And, wounded he was. Wounded beyond fixing no matter how hard I tried. He was one of nine sons raised by a devout Catholic mother who thought it her religious duty to procreate but not mother and an absent father who thought raising the children was women’s work. He became the love of my life, the father of my children and a man who would do immeasurable harm to those who loved him most.
To be continued…