Chapter 3: Grandpa Knows Best
At the end of Chapter 1, Micah & I had broken up, and I bought a condo in Lakeview with the help of my Dad. In order to get you up to speed, I have to fill in some details here.
Micah and I break up in January of 2018. He moves out that February, and in with some of our mutual friends. The apartment he moves into in Wicker Park is a party house. It’s a first floor, 4-bed place with a giant back deck. We partied there together over the past two years a LOT. In fact, the night we first *connected* (read: I took him home blackout and we had s*x), we met there. It was Halloween weekend 2015.
ENTER THE FLASHBACK: FALL 2015
I’m 25. And I’m out in Wicker Park in Chicago dressed as slutty Minnie Mouse. If you’re unfamiliar with Wicker, it’s a hipster but upscale neighborhood on the west side of Chicago. Two nights prior, I had dressed as a slutty Devil and posted a mirror selfie. Micah tells me later that he showed all of his friends that pic: “This is the girl I like.” Big smile.
They approved hugely.
That night, the Saturday, he borrows his roommate’s Knight costume. His own Halloween stuff didn’t make the cut for the move from Manchester. He feels confident as he puts it on, but “weird and American” too, he’ll say later, cracking me up.
Shortly after me, Mel, and Penny (my roommates and best friends) arrive, Micah corners us in the kitchen, offering us drinks and quickly engaging them. He’s flirty and smart. My roommates laugh at all of his jokes. I see this, and I approve of him even more. My mind opens to the possibility of him and I.
We talked a few weeks prior at the bar after a game, but I hadn’t thought about him much since. Hmmmm, I think now. He’s cute. And smart.
My roommates migrate into the next room and I’m left with him and my Solo cup of margarita. He smiles at me. I smile back.
“You’ve been jogging to the games each week?” He says, his accent making me melt. I play it cool though.
“Yes,” I say, knowing how ridiculous I look showing up to practice out of breath and in hot pink spandex (my yoga clothes). His face lights up at my embarrassment, and we are both thinking the same thing.
“I think it’s cute!” He says, referencing the Team giving me shit the other day for my outfits. I hadn’t bought soccer shorts yet. We both laugh.
To make me feel better, Micah tells me about his move to the States, making me spit my margarita out as he explains arriving at his new flat in the rain only to find out that building doesn’t exist.
I’m forgetting about time in this conversation, and the next thing I know, we’re leaving for the bars.
“Let’s GO!” Sharon is calling to everyone.
We manage to take ONE team photo before heading out. And somehow, only five of us make it in: it’s Napoleon Dynamite front and center, Angela as Dumbledore with a full white wig, James as a Construction Worker, me next to him, and Micah right at the front, mid-sentence, looking like he’s telling a joke and brandishing his fake sword.
Game on, Micah, I think. Out to the bars we go.
BUT BACK TO 2018 (UNFORTUNATELY)
It’s winter and my heart is SHATTERED. Micah is moving into that apartment with our friends. We split up furniture, me taking mostly everything and him taking the framed World Map we both loved. An Etsy find. My heart breaks more.
I had picked out the furniture, so I keep it (and Venmo him). But I would’ve given it all to him if it meant my heart wouldn’t have changed. I would’ve lived in a shoebox. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be with him. The idea of having a family had been on my heart for a long time. He was so funny, smart, and kind. He knew me inside and out. And he adored me. The word, “adored” does not even cover it.
Anyone we knew would tell you: two drinks in, Micah is going to be shouting about how much he loves Emily. And not just that, he may be singing about her! He may be making friends down the bar to tell them, “THAT’S my girl! You see her? Down there? YES. Yes. She’s with ME. She’s so smart. She’s a therapist! Did you know??” Smiling so big, nodding.
He did this every night we went out. Our friends had to ask him to stop.
We would wake up in the mornings (once we lived together), and he would turn to me and say, “Oh my goodness, do you ALWAYS look like this?? Morning Emily is my favorite!” I would look at him, dumbfounded.
Then later, “Oh my goodness, Em, you’re SO cute. Breakfast Emily is my FAVORITE.” Every day.
And come winter, “Oh my gosh, Emily! Winter Emily is the best. Those are your earmuffs?? Oh my goodness!” Laughing. Delighting in me.
I had never felt this seen, known, or cherished.
The first year we were dating, the first snow fell on December 9th (I have a thing with dates). Micah and I had had a bet on it.
I think he won because it was much later in the year than normal…but neither of us cared because we had each been working all day, and then met up for a drink. The sun had set in Chicago and it was one of those nights where flurries were coming down, but not sticking. The ground was wet and the streetlights reflected off of it, making everything sparkle. We walked out of the bar, tired and ready to get home, and saw the snow.
“SNOW!” He shouted, smiling huge, “I win!”
I laughed, hard. “Yes, Micah,” I said, “You wi—” and he kissed me, grabbing my waist and pulling me in close. His mouth tasted like Guinness and sweat and cold air, and I let my lips enjoy it. I leaned into him. We kissed, hard, in the street. Until we were done, and then we held hands and swayed them back and forth while he walked me home.
BACK TO 2018
In February, Micah moves into the apartment in Wicker Park. Our friends become his roommates. He and I take a few weeks off of talking before deciding to have dinner to “catch up.” We immediately have sex after dinner and start a regimen of going on dates where we hook up after. The sex is familiar and sweet, and I’m so thankful he’s still there. I enjoy him so much. This could work in the future, I think. Right?
I delude myself as much as I can.
AND I know deep down, I was unhappy with him. Disconnected from myself and unhappy. But in the moment, the Grief is so loud that nothing else matters.
I just want to feel Not Sad for two hours, I think. And seeing Micah does that.
And then when the Sad goes away, I think, I’m happy. Being with Micah is the answer. And it continues.
NOTE: Today, what I know about this as a Psychotherapist, is that I must have Attachment Issues. If I know deep down this man is not For Me, but I keep going back, then I don’t feel SAFE without him. And that’s what was true: I felt panicky without him. I felt like I needed him for stability and security. But we’ll get back to that later.
Because at this point in 2018 I am floating through life, just trying not to cry. Someone telling me I have “Attachment Issues” was going to be as helpful to me as them giving me a Car Manual and telling me to diagnose what’s wrong with my back tires: it may give me some good ideas, but there’s no way I can solve the problems on my own. I need a boatload of help.
And the help I have is my Mother saying, “He’ll be engaged to someone else within a YEAR, Emily!” on the phone, “You better be SURE!”
Cue panic attack. Light a bowl, smoke, and repeat. Deep breath. Take a walk outside. Jog to soccer. Have more sex with Micah.
Don’t repeat her words to yourself, Emily, but FUCK there they are again, my Mom saying: YOU HAVE MADE THE BIGGEST MISTAKE OF YOUR LIFE.
And even though she didn’t scream it, I see it in huge letters because I take it so seriously.
Do I NEED a man to be okay? I feel okay!
Are breakups a sign I am somehow SUPER fucked up?? More than normal?? Where can I get more weed?
From this place, I come up with the idea to BUY a place rather than rent.
When renting as a single person in Chicago, I can either be in a safe area in a matchbox…or learn how to use my mace and take 3 buses, but have more space.
I call my Dad to discuss. He always says to call him with our problems, me and my sisters. He is a Fixer, and he wants us to know he’s there for us. I propose the idea of us buying a place together, and me paying him rent. He’s into the idea. And I’m pretty sure he hears the grief in my voice. He gets it, me needing a safe place to land.
He says he’ll think about it more, and he’ll talk with Mom. They do, and 3 weeks later, we are buying a condo in Lakeview.
My Mom keeps mentioning the money over the phone, “I’m just not SURE this is a good idea!” She’ll say.
And I say, “Okay. Yes! What should we do?”
And then Dad calls the next day, and They’re both fine with it, he says. And we move forward.
I’m confused, but I’m tired too. All of the women in me are tired, as my Sobriety Mentors would say, meaning every aspect of me — every role, every part. I’m drained. And I still have not picked up a drink. This is a big deal for me.
I am going to work, counseling people with as much presence as I have, going to my own therapy, sleeping nine hours every night, eating good food each morning, and sometimes biking home. I am doing everything I can do to stay afloat. I am trying not to think too much about the gaping hole in my chest where Micah had been. Sometimes, I let the void convince me that I just need Micah; CLEARLY, I need him, right? Otherwise, why would I hurt like this? Sometimes, I write.
Sometimes, I smoke.
But, I don’t drink. And for me, that’s a win.
In the midst of all of this, my Dad asks if I want to come to Arizona with him and my grandparents for a long weekend? They’re already going, and Would I like to come? Get out of Chicago for a few days?
Yes, I say. Thank you.
You’re welcome, He says.
He also asks to see my Budget, so we can figure out Rent. We close on the Condo in 30 days. I email my Excel spreadsheet Budget over to him.
Three weeks later, I’m sitting at the kitchen table at the Condo in Arizona with my Dad. He, my Mom, my Mom’s parents, and I all flew down here for four days to get away together and relax. My grandparents can’t travel alone anymore, so my Mom and her sister, my aunt, are taking turns chaperoning them.
We call my Grandpa “Papa” affectionately…and like many families, this came from me as the first grandbaby not being able to say “Grandpa.”
So, due to his dementia, Papa is confused as to where we are. But he still has moments of lucidity here and there, or things he will remember out of the blue. This is our first evening here together, and my Dad wants to talk with me about my Budget. We sit down to do so.
I had been avoiding his calls the past three weeks about this because I knew he was upset, and I knew why. See, he saw my Budget and saw I was spending $200 per month on Meditation Classes. The problem for him was not the classes, but the company that provided them, The Psychic School.
Now, I’m not sure what happened to the Boomer generation around “woo woo” spiritual stuff and psychics in particular, but DANG does that generation have trauma around this topic. And I empathize with that.
Still, in spring of 2018 I’m not yet one year sober and my Sobriety Mentor, Holly, recommended these Meditation Classes. She mentioned that “her psychic, Leon” teaches them. And then, a few women in my Sobriety Cohort started taking them. So, I tried the first one out, and I loved it. I felt calmer and happier after the 90-minute guided visualization. And the idea of learning to open my 6th chakra intrigued me. So I continued.
After the first two classes (Clairvoyant Meditation 101 and 102), I decided to do a yearlong study of this type of meditation. This Clairvoyant Training (learning to do aura readings and past life readings) was $200 per month. I loved the twice weekly meetings with my Meditation Cohort, and got a lot out of the visualizations, plus the “energy healing” and “aura reading” tools.
I felt more like myself than ever, and I was building community both inside the sobriety world and outside of it.
At the same time, this Budget item scared my Dad. Hugely.
And I as his 28-year-old daughter was not responsible for his fear. And I knew that. So, for THREE HOURS that evening I sat and listened to him tell me I HAD TO QUIT my weekly meditation classes. And I explained what I just wrote above — how these classes helped me stay sober, and how they made me feel. Somehow, he could not hear this? That’s all I can guess, because we went around in circles for HOURS.
It went like this:
“Because I’m WORRIED about you, Em!” He says, raising his voice a little to emphasize it.
“I hear you,” I say, calmly (I’m SO proud of me, I think), “What are you worried about?”
“That you’re getting scammed! He’s a fraud! I had my secretary look into him, and he thinks he can heal people’s illnesses!”
“I hear you,” I say, “That makes sense. And you know that I am not thinking I can heal anyone?” I ask.
“Yes,” He says.
Yes, I say. “And I’m just viewing it as meditation classes. And they’re helping me. They’re helping me not drink…” I let myself trail off. I know he knows how good that is for me.
“There are LOTS of things you can do that will help you! This guy is a SCAMMER!”
And we go around in circles like this. For HOURS. I want so badly to be heard. I think that if I use my therapist tools, stay calm, and help him work through his fear, it will work! He will hear me! He may see my side!
Alas, that does not happen.
“No one is going to want to work with you [as a therapist] if you do this shit, Emily! No one!” He shouts.
Ouch, I think. That one hits me in the chest, lighting up an insecurity.
Words like “Clairvoyant” scare him, I think. Deep breath.
“I have no plans to put this on my website, Dad!” I say, over and over. And at another point, “Dad, if those people don’t like me because of my spiritual beliefs, which are PERSONAL, then I will find OTHER clients who DO like me!”
Again, I feel proud of myself.
Finally, he goes, “NO MAN IS EVER GOING TO LOVE YOU IF YOU DO THIS SHIT, EMILY!”
And that is where I break. My heart breaks in two.
He must see it in my eyes because he gets quiet.
I’m practiced at this, so I don’t cry until I get to my room. My eyes get hot, but I just get up and leave the kitchen. I walk through the living room on the way to my room — and for a split second, I consider not saying Goodnight to my grandparents. But then I think, NO. They’ll know something’s up.
“Night, Papa! Night, Grandma!” I say, stooping down a bit to hug each of them.
“Night, Dear!” they say. “We love you!”
“I love you both!” I say, holding the tears back but they shine through.
When I shut the door to my room, they come rolling down hot and fast. I climb into my little twin bed and hold myself while I sob. I text some friends for support.
“He’s WRONG!” They write back. Penny calls me. We talk. She calms me down.
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” She says.
But that wound, No one will ever love me as I am is already so loud without him enforcing it. Tonight breaks me.
The next morning, I wake up puffy faced and crusty. I wipe my eyes and sit up in bed, slowly remembering the fight.
After delaying it as much as possible, I walk out into the living room — the sun assaults my senses and I blink a few times and stop walking. My Dad appears out of the master bedroom. My heart is heavy. I look at him.
“Em,” He says, “I’m sorry.” He looks sheepish. I start to tear up, and he pulls me into a hug. I cry a little.
“I’m just worried!” He says. “But…just do NOT sign with them again next year, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree, “Sounds good.”
We’ve kept the peace.
Later that day, my Mom and I are on a walk around the neighborhood together.
“I talked with your Dad,” she says.
“Oh yeah?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, “he was VERY upset about that psychic school!”
“I know,” I say, exhausted.
“But…surprisingly, I didn’t have to do much calming him down…” She says.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, surprised. He was at a LEVEL 10 when I walked out, I think. WHAT in God’s name could have calmed him down?
“Yeah!” she says, “Apparently he walked out of the kitchen after you left, and Papa said to him, ‘Isn’t Emily just the BEST??’ ‘She’s so smart and pretty…you have to be SO proud of her, Ed!’ And he went on and on, just gushing about you…” My mom laughs.
“He was dumbfounded,” she says about Dad, smiling and shaking her head.
My Papa, I think. To the rescue.
And I can’t help but start crying again.