This week, 1995

I'm reminded of this as a result of seeing a flashback picture / hyperlink to a video on ESPN. We'd gone to MD for Labor Day weekend. I took our daughter - I think our youngest - to Cal Ripken Jr.'s 2129th consecutive game - since there was no way to get reasonably priced tickets for 2130 or 2131, but with the O's out of the playoff picture there were plenty of seats left for this one - along with my high school best friend. In typical Cal fashion, he homered in all three of these games; he seemed to thrive in the big moments toward the latter part of his career, including his final all-star game.

After arriving back home in OH, we had a follow-up appointment scheduled with therapist number 1. Over the last half of the summer she'd met with me, with my wife, and with our oldest daughter. While were out of town, she was going to consult with her team after having met with us over several weeks; I think she'd met with me twice, once with my wife, and once with our daughter, but there might have been one less meeting than that, as she might have talked with my wife and daughter during the same session. We'd had to wait way longer than I expected for the referral, and were clearly told that as long as this had been an isolated incident we'd be able to maintain confidentiality.

The problem, which only I seemed to know, is that it hadn't been; rather, I'd progressively abused this one precious victim who should have been able to trust me implicitly in a number of sporadic incidents over time. It was clearly explained to me that, in effect, if I was dishonest with them about the scope of my behavior, they would have just handled it and counseled me and my family, even though the letter of the law was clear. I also knew, though, that being honest here was more important - on multiple levels and for multiple reasons - than minimizing the repercussions. The temptation was real: I was the only one who seemed to know the truth. So I spoke the truth that I alone knew, knowing that this would probably mean a mandatory report but hoping otherwise, and struggled to trust that everything would somehow turn out okay if I finally did the right thing in response to doing such a wrong thing.

So on the day of our appointment, my therapist explained to my wife and I that she and her colleagues had determined that my actions and these circumstances warranted reporting. Dr. Fox indicated her sincere belief that there'd likely be no further action taken, since we were already taking the initiative to seek help for our family as we needed to, and "the county has far more severe and higher priority cases to deal with." Still, we agreed that it would be better and most appropriate if I made the necessary phone call, which I did the following work day. (This was probably a Saturday morning appt.)

And thus our lives continued getting better . . . by first getting way worse. I still remember the sad empathy in the woman's voice when I called to self-report my abusiveness, as if she were sorry for what she knew was going to follow.

I don't want to seem as if I think I was treated unfairly, though. Nothing could be further from the truth. Not one other person has ever treated me worse than - or even as poorly as - I deserve over this. And only one person in my whole life has caused me as much pain as I caused those I love. Well, two, if I count myself, as I must.

The next weekend, while we awaited the steamroller we then knew was coming, we saw Waterworld at the drive-in that used to be at the corner of County Line and Shakertown.  I'm so glad these awful memories are not associated in my memory with a better film.

_{I can still barely live with myself. Thanks for the constant reminders, every other abuser. And I still can't live for myself.}