Time To Go

Back in the mid 1980s, when I had my first gig as an acquiring editor (the big "get" at the time), I was part of a close-knit group of similar-aged editors and marketers, all promoted from the sales staff at the same time. Prentice Hall grew its professionals from within its self-trained sales staff. In those days, we all thought we would stay and grow together in that behemoth college textbook publishing company. We worked and played together - hard.

One of my closest friends then, another junior editor like me, had issues with drinking. Because I admired her smarts and her pluck, I remained loyal to her, especially as we were both in our twenties, making mistakes, flailing about in our attempts to learn from them. For me, it would take another decade and a half to understand what we experienced as a group, groping our ways as we strove to grow up.

Nevertheless, there were times when, after three or four tumblers of scotch, her personality would change. Her eyes would lose focus, and this monster would erupt. She would engage in arguments for no reason at all, grow vicious and strident, hurling insults and the cruelest of barbs. Those of us closest to her would back off, take cover. She usually fell asleep not long after the tirade. And the next day, she behaved as though nothing had happened at all.

Now, of course, I know the signs of addiction. Whether it's alcohol, or over-spending and shopping sprees, or eating disorders. They're all addictions. The thing feeds on itself, the mind that gets stuck in an endless loop. It grows so fast, before it collapses in on itself, leaving a wasteland around it. It cannot be stopped from outside, although the practice of intervention works for some, they say.

My father had an addiction to rage: The unpredictable bouts or anger and violence, the results of which left their marks on our young bodies, but more so on our psyches. I cannot remember a single instance where the size of the rage was commensurate with the sin that we, as children, committed. All these years later, I know it was not. It never was.

Living a life on tenterhooks is no way to live. Today, I am mindful of these characteristics in others, even those I have called friend.

The friendship with the former colleague from the halcyon Prentice Hall days ended years ago, the result of a drunken tirade.

I have thought about her from time to time. I think she may have married, gotten divorced. I believe her beloved mother passed after a long bout with illness. I thought I heard once that she was trying to address her drinking problem. But I don't know. I attempted to make contact a couple of times over the years, but I reached into a void.

More important, I learned, through hours of therapy (I have joked that as a woman, you are not given license to live on this island unless your wardrobe is mostly black, you have a cat, and a therapist), and awkward, uncomfortable cognitive behavior methods to recognize the addicts, especially the "rage-aholics."

My therapist, a very smart woman, taught me how to not only adopt the words, "I do not give anyone permission to treat me that way," but to believe them. Believe in taking care of myself.

A newly famous writer-blogger described this break-up with a friend.

It's not an easy thing to do. But sometimes it's the only thing.

Comments

[HH]

Devona - thank you right back. I received a couple of emails from folks complimenting me on this post as well.

[Devona]

This one hit me in the gut, my dear. Not only do I relate to the friend and family struggles you shared, yet I passed on this particular blog to a friend of mine who is fraught with the mistreatment she receives from a family member. After five decades she’s recently come to the conclusion…and asking the question, "WHY am I allowing someone to treat me with such disrespect - and HOW do I end this unhealthy cycle?” Thank you for sharing; your story touched her deeply as well and made her realize she can make a change.