Diabetic Redemption

I have a decision to make, and writing about it will help me find an answer.

When I was married to my third husband, J., we lived in a fog of dope smoke much of the time.  Follow that path, and you will understand that many of our friends were dopers, too.  I left most of them by the wayside when I left, but I’ve maintained occasional contact with T., another photographer and pothead.  Early on, when I first returned home from NC, we had a brief, unsatisfying, (for me,) sexual liaison for a couple of months — this is when I still believed that having sex with someone was equal to them loving me.  Boy, was I wrong.

Anyway, after those couple of months, I broke off the sexual contact, but we remained friends until a couple of years ago.  He met a woman he was wild for, and they built a little cocoon around themselves for two years.  She is gone, now, owes him $5,000, hightailing it to Florida with her parents and her kids.  Needless to say, T. has been vacillating between heartbreak and anger, threatening to take her to court, and then so sad that she is not around anymore.

This was the situation when he called me, one day last month, and I had him over for a soda and to talk.  He needed to, and god knows he had listened to enough of my sad tale over the years.  We had a nice time, and he went home — no problem.  Later that month, he invited me to his place, paid for the taxi, we had a much nicer talk, and I left.  No big deal.

About two weeks ago, T. called me and asked if I would please come over and talk to him.  He sounded quite drunk, and probably stoned as well, so I agreed to come over for one hour only, and I set up with the taxi driver to come back when that hour was up.  Thank goodness.

T. was as wasted as I had ever seen him — could barely form complete sentences, drifted off every couple of minutes.  He asked if I’d seen his name in the police blotter.  I told him Mom had mentioned it, and he proceeded to tell me the story — ridiculous.  A woman friend of his came over to visit, and they smoked a joint.  He passed out, as usual, and she stole $20, some Vicodin, and three big buds off of one of the pot plants he was growing in a closet upstairs.  When he woke, he called her and threatened to call the cops (!?!?!?!?) if she didn’t bring his stuff back.  After a half-hour, he called the county sheriff, and had them come to his house.  Naturally, he will be going to court in August.

I was thinking to myself at the time, do I really feel like being a friend to this man?  I sat there and watched his lovely HD TV, the only one I’ve ever seen.  T. got up, went to the bathroom, and when he was coming back I asked for a glass of water.  He brought it to me, and told me he had something to show me.  I knew what was happening, and I put both hands between my face and his dick, which he had just freed from his pants.  (I know, Too Much Information.)  I told him no, I don’t do that shit anymore unless there is some kind of deep connection; kept my hands at the side of my face, and kept saying no until he finally backed off.

Now, given my mental and emotional condition back when we were having sex, he probably wasn’t out of line thinking I’d go along.  I tried to explain, but he was already heading off to bed.  Told him I’d sit outside and wait for the taxi — it was a beautiful night, and the birds were singing away.  Ten minutes, then the taxi showed up, took me home.  He called the next day to apologize profusely, but I’ve been reluctant to go back.

So T. called today.  (I now know the answer to my problem — writing always helps.)  He invited me over for chicken on the grill, and assured me that we’d have no repeats of the last time.  And I believe him.  And I feel very sorry for him — he doesn’t have a great grip on reality and he is very lonely, as I was until quite recently.  I remember when I acted as stupidly and irresponsibly then as he tried with me.  I said I would go, but I just can’t go.  I really love this guy — he’s been a friend for a very long time — but I am not subjecting myself to any more drunken idiocy.  I divorced a man I loved dearly because he drank so much, and I certainly don’t want another drunk in my life.

This decision is a little sad — T. was my friend when no one else was. If he’s sober, I think I’ll go.  If not, I’m going to have to break off this friendship.

T. had had one beer, and was just opening his second.  So I apologized, said I wasn’t coming over, and that, furthermore, I wasn’t going to spend time with him anymore, because I don’t like being around drunks.  Whew — that was tough, but I’m glad it’s done.