Jumping Ship

I happened upon his doorstep in late June of 2015. In hindsight, I can see Mr. Esq. was the person that was supposed to rein me in, Gary's way to control by proxy. Mr. Esq. was my first step. I had been “thrown away” so many times I didn't even realize my wardrobe was consistent with various colors of the off-brand “Hefty bags.” While smoking my 3rd cigarette in less than 6 minutes, I heard heavy footsteps approaching. Brick butterflies started banging around my belly.

I hadn't “jumped ship” yet…

Referring to me as being a little masochistic would be understated. Understated is something I've never been. When I do something, good or bad, I go all out. Catastrophic masochism. That's me. I am catastrophic…

The years of dysfunctional duct tape were growing weary. My earnest attempts at patching the growing hole in colossus, Gary, my Hoover Dam, were all but failing. Lighting my 4th cigarette, I began to panic. My all-too-familiar inner mantra starting to spin:

“I couldn't. He told me I wasn't capable. I had become as close to normal as I was capable of achieving. I was and always had been his liability. I was nothing. I was unfit.”

I have heard habits take 21 days to make or break. My life at this point: dysfunction summed up. I was a woman-child, digging in my bag of dysfunction for my duct tape. My addiction, habit.

“I wasn't going to jump ship. I didn't know how to swim or stumble anywhere. I needed his permission.”

I was a junkie for dysfunction; the metaphorical duct tape had always been my fix, my salvation. “I was going to be a good girl… I was,” I promised myself. “I will assume my position and prepare to grovel.”

Back to the heavy footsteps.

I heard heavy footsteps approaching. When they ceased, I had the nerve and looked up from my seated position and saw the road less traveled. Seemingly 10 feet tall, adorned with a pink tie, “Mr. Esq.” offered his hand. Knowing him as I do now, and in hindsight, his extended hand meant, “Hi there, I'm Mr. Esquire”—a simple introduction. Esq. and his proper gesture of manners and extended hand lit a match. My desperate brain took his manners and offered hand and, like lightning, translated it quickly. “Time to go,” my inner masochist encouraged.

My death grip. White-knuckled, 35-year sentence, disappeared. My imaginary duct tape fell from my hand as I rose.

Standing… Well, more like staggering. Weak knees, painful pins and needles going to work, bringing life to my numb feet.

I rose from my seated position. Taking a jagged breath. Standing on my own two feet, shaking and terrified. For the first time in my entire life, I stood.

On my own two feet.

Shaking his hand,

I held my breath… And I jumped…

Turn the page.