Blast From the Past

If today’s entry is muddled, please forgive me. I’ve got tons of thoughts swarming about this brain ‘o mine, and I’m finding writing difficult. But, it’s the only thing I really want to do, so bear with me.

I received a phone call from my Aunt yesterday. She gave me two wonderful bits of news. Firstly, my cousin had a healthy baby girl. Yay! Congrats Genny! Secondly, my Aunt received a phone call from someone who has been searching for me. An old friend. One I have not spoken to in about six years.

I'm elated. For real. You know that 80’s song, “Walking on Sunshine?” Well, that’s me today. And given all the tears that have been shed in the past few days, it’s a welcome respite.

We spoke yesterday for hours. Years ago, we adopted one another as sisters, and last night we discovered that each of us still has our crayola created adoption papers. I love this girl. Love. Talking to her brought the past clamoring to the forefront of my mind.

I got to feeling all reflective and shit, so after hanging up, I pulled out one of my old journals from that era. The first page I opened to was dated July 22, 1999. There I found, scrawled in black pen* and all capital letters, my tearstained entry:

SOMETIMES C.J. YOU CAN BE A REAL FUCKING DICKHEAD.
Sincerely, Zube Girl

I've touched on the subject of C.J., AKA Assface, in my 100 things, and here. He liked to throw things at me, and tell me how lucky I was that he didn’t beat me up. Yeah. A real charmer.

The journal entry was written the day after my birthday.

I had planned a little soirée to celebrate with friends. C.J. had to work. When I’d asked him if he would take the evening off to go out to dinner with me, he told me I was being selfish. And besides, he only took leave of work for his children’s birthdays. I should’ve counted my lucky stars because a few weeks later he would lose his job and I’d spend five days a week being a legislative aide to a politician and four to five evenings a week waitressing just to keep food in the cupboards and diapers on his kids.

C.J., only after discovering that I’d planned a birthday party at our apartment, decided to bestow me with the dubious honor of his attendance as my birthday gift. I’d invited about twenty or so friends. I doubted that C.J. was as concerned with making me happy for my birthday as he was with missing out on the action of a party. For what other reason was he not willing to take off of work to go out to dinner with just me? I can’t think of one.

The party was in full swing and C.J. was manning the tunes. I’d managed to get myself a little tipsy, and having tired of the dance music he was playing, put in a Blues Traveler disc. This started a fight.

C.J.: What are you doing?

Z-Girl: I’m, just, I’m, well, I kind of wanted to listen to this.

C.J.: No one wants to listen to this shit.

Z-Girl: But, well, I just thought, since it’s my birthday…

C.J.: Why is it that you think your birthday makes you so goddamn special? Everyone has birthdays.

He started to pull out the disc I'd put in. I laid my hand on his, looked him in the eye and said, “Please keep this disc in. Just play a few songs, and then you can change it.” He didn’t say anything. Just stared at me. “Please?” I smiled.

C.J.: You’re an evil conniving bitch. You’re smiling, but I can see the evil in your eyes.

He'd yelled this. Everyone started to shift uncomfortably, rustling for keys and such.

The party was over, and as he would tell me the next day, it was all my fault. I know better now, but I believed it then. I mean, it was just music. Why did I have to make such a big deal about it?

I spent the rest of the night crying in our bedroom. He slept in his kid’s room. He always did that to punish me.

Here’s where I get kind of fucked up in my thinking. I’m glad that I dated a guy like him. If I hadn’t, I don’t know who I’d be today. He forced me to find the strong Zube Girl I'd had hidden inside. The Zube Girl who said, "Either kick my ass and leave bruises so I can call the cops, or get the FUCK out of my house!" It took about three months after this incident, but I happily reunited with her. Thanks to him.

And I'm thankful, too, for my old friend resurfacing and bringing all of these old memories to mind. It's nice to reflect on the past, and how far I've come. And for that, she's been the catalyst.

*I hate black pens. I never use them in my journals unless I'm very upset or angry.