Why I Believe

My husband is an agnostic. I call myself a Christian. Husband doesn't know if there is a heaven or a hell - and he doesn't care. To his way of thinking, if you make the best of life on earth, it doesn't matter what happens when you are buried under it.

I suppose if I had lived Husband's life, I wouldn't care either. Husband has already spit the Devil in his eye and climbed out of the fiery pits. What Husband doesn't realize, and would probably make him laugh, is that when I doubt, when my faith waivers, I think of what he has been through and I am restored.

Husband was born with the cards stacked against him. He is almost completely deaf in one ear, and partially deaf in the other. He refuses to wear a hearing aid (macho pride!), yet most people never realize that he is hearing impaired. Husband taught himself how to read lips and somehow to maintain his balance perfectly. His hearing impairment was the least of his childhood problems.

Husband's parents both failed him through a systematic program of neglect, abandonment and physical abuse. Their myriad sins are impossible to enumerate here. I don't even know what all of them are, although I am cognizant of what Husband's father did every time I hug him. Thanks to my father-in-law's "wrestling" with Husband, I can not squeeze Husband as tightly as I would like because his ribs were broken numerous times and never healed properly.

Husband's mother - I hardly know where to begin, or where to stop. I think the best way to describe her is "sociopath." His mom does what she wants, whenever she wants, with no care how it affects others, including her children. She abandoned Husband's father and her two children when Husband was a toddler. A formerly successful engineer, she has lost everything due to her selfishness and never ending search for the next high.

By the age of thirteen, Husband was short for his age and wiry. Husband was also an alcoholic. I have heard three separate stories from different family members about finding him literally passed out drunk in the gutter. Evidently, in his family, this was a source of amusement for them. The stories weren't told with sadness or guilt, but as if they were describing how their son and brother blew up his science project in the basement. Cue the laugh track.

At fourteen, Husband turned to his mother's choice of drugs, crystal meth. He was a tweaker. About the time he started tweaking, he escaped his father's house and became homeless. On a good night, Husband would crash on a friend's couch. On the bad nights, and most of them were, Husband slept in the sewers. The streets are not kind to anyone, but they reserve special tortures for slightly-built pubescent boys. While Husband generally doesn't hesitate to talk about his past, he has never told me much about those times. Part of me doesn't want to know.

Then at the age of 17, Husband received news that would change his life forever. His girlfriend was pregnant. Husband realized that he was in no position to be a father, but he would do what little he could. He contacted a friend in South Dakota and he asked if he could live with her while he tried to get clean. As he told me years later, "I figured in South Dakota, there were no drugs."

Husband's friend agreed, and he left San Diego. Husband lived in South Dakota and did indeed get clean. His oldest daughter will be 12 years old this July.

When I reflect on Husband's life, I praise God for seeing him through those hard times and bringing Husband to me. Husband bears his scars with grace and dignity - most people would never guess all that he has been through.

Husband is by no means perfect. He remains an addict, although now his drugs of choice are Dr Pepper and cigarettes. When we argue, he uses the defense mechanisms of the addict: manipulation and redirecting the blame. But when I call him on his bullshit, he will sit quietly for a minute and then we can begin to work through the problem.

The miracle of Husband's story is that despite the hell Husband survived, he is a loving and trusting spouse and father. I have met many of the people he knew when he was a tweaker. Many of them are still doing illegal drugs, and/or have HIV or some other STD. Some I will never meet because they are dead. At best, they are surviving, but are incapable of functioning in a relationship with their partners and children. They are the new generation of abusers and perpetuation that demon cycle.

Furthermore, Husband has forgiven his parents and loves them without blame or resentment. If God can work such a powerful miracle on Husband's heart, I know there is nothing that He can't do and nothing that He can not heal.

Back at Work and the Bitterness is Subsiding

It's been a little over a month since I got canned and I'm finally getting back into the groove of working again. I'm back to the freelance web development shiznit and I even designed a brochure today. Hella fun.

As I noted in my narrative about the Employment Misadventure of 2007, when the shit came down I really did not know what the exact reason was. I knew that I was having difficulties with the job, but I thought it things were still workable. It wasn't like I was stealing office supplies and shoving company secrets into my panties before clocking out each day.

Well, lesson one for the day children is that if you want to know why you got fired, file for unemployment.

Figuring that I wasn't a pen-stealing, panty-stuffing asshat, I filed for unemployment under the theory that since I paid good money into that particular social safety net, I deserved to get some of that fundage back.

An unemployment commission chick called me up about a week or so after I filed online. She asked me what the circumstances of my termination were. I told her as much as I knew at that point. She let me know that she would be contacting my former employer for that side of the story and then the Powers That Be would make a determination. So far, so good.

I got another call from the unemployment commission a week ago. This lady (could have been the same one) said that when they first contacted my employer, they substantiated what I had reported. Then the employer followed that conversation up with a four(!) page memo that I affectionately call, "Inventory of the Myriad Ways in which April Doth Suck." In Verdana.

Why the follow up memo? My guess is that the unemployment commission indicated that it was inclined to approve my claim.

To be fair to them, some of the accusations were true (alas, I was not punctual during my last week on the job). To be fair to me, some of the accusations were complete and utter [unprintable words]! I especially enjoyed the doozy wherein someone at the company engaged in so much CYA that there is currently a shortage of Depends in the Charleston Metro area.

Due to the length of the Inventory of the Myriad Ways in which April Doth Suck, there was no feasible way for me to rebuke every item over the phone. I went down to the unemployment commission and typed up my own five (ha!) page side of the story. I even attached a photocopy of the two Gold Stars that I received during the course of my employment.

End result: Denied!

I would have appealed to the Powers That Be further (I've got a kid to feed after all), were it not for the final sentence of the determination letter, "The record states that you have excessive tardiness."

Lesson two: don't be late, kids.

What is funny to me is that I wasn't even pissed about getting canned until I read the Inventory. Disappointed? Yes. But not angry.

I actually had a great deal of respect and care for the person that wrote the Inventory up to that point. I won't go into details about exactly what the inaccuracies of the Inventory were. They aren't important except to say that it hurt that someone I personally liked very much would disparage my character and flat out lie to the end of keeping food out of my kid's mouth.

Time will heal that wound and I've learned at least three lessons from the experience. I shared two of them with you today. I hope for your sake you never have to learn number three.

As I was driving home today, a Lexus SUV (comedy gold, all by itself) passed by car on Old Trolley Road with a bumper sticker that extolled the virtues of my former workplace. I felt my stomach tighten and my right hand rose from the steering wheel...

In the early '90s, my father was terminated from his job as a design draftsman at General Dynamics. As it turns out, Dad was shoving office supplies into his panties before clocking out each day (and he got unemployment checks too). For at least a year afterwards, when Dad drove north on the 163 freeway in San Diego past Geedee's monolithic buildings, he would stick out his tongue and extend his middle finger in their direction. Then he would turn to us kids and we would all laugh at his silliness.

I re-gripped the steering wheel with both hands and heartily laughed as I hit the gas and passed the pretentious vehicle.

Thanks, Dad.