Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

Public service announcement, ladies. Those are the ones you have to watch out for. The cocky devils you see coming a mile away. You know why they say ‘the meek shall inherit the Earth’? ‘Cause no one sees those fuckers coming. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Our love burned hot and fast, full of lust and butterflies and pawing each other in corner booths of dark and tragically hip downtown lounges. After years of bad first dates, Parker forced me to believe in Love again.

“See,” my hopelessly romantic soul said, “fairytales do come true.” Clearly my romantic soul has the I.Q. of an earthworm. Actually, scratch that, an earthworm has some capacity for self-preservation.

When he proposed three months later, it didn’t seem too fast. It seemed just right. Until it didn’t. Until the small, subtle jabs started, picking away at not only the fabric of my love for him, but worse yet, my self-esteem.

Ex-douchebag: “Can you not wear the ripped jeans to lunch with my parents?”

Fine. I could accommodate the man I loved. Even if I thought his parents were wannabe, pseudointellectual pompous a–holes. Successful art dealers, you say? That specialize in contemporary artists such as Koons, Hirst, and Richter, you say? Wooptyfreakingdo, I say.

Ex-douchebag: “Why can’t you wear a bra like every other woman?”

Umm, ‘cause unlike other women I barely have any boobage. Forget that he was intimately acquainted with this fact. No bigs, I bought some bras.

Ex-douchebag: “Can you lower your voice when we’re in public?”

I was using my quiet voice. Fine, I’ll whisper.

Ex-douchebag: “Can you watch the swearing? It’s unladylike.”

What I wanted to say was fuck you. But I didn’t. I tried. For him, I tried. I really did. It didn’t work. It did not work. Profanity so often peppers my every day conversations that trying to stop it gave me a speech impediment. This went on until the jabs were no longer subtle and veiled, until they were downright mean.

Then came the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. He asked me to turn down the part of the century, a regular spot on an acclaimed cable series because it required quite a bit of nudity. Somehow along the way the genius had forgotten I was an actress.

Was I stoked about the nudity? Hell no. However, it is part of the job description nowadays. You’d have to be either grossly naïve or stupid to not expect it to happen at some point. Worst part––I did it. I turned it down for him. The depth of self-loathing I still experience whenever I think of it is unquantifiable.

By the time we broke up, I was a mere shell of myself. Someone I didn’t recognize. Someone I didn’t like. It took a full year for me to be able to look in the mirror and not feel shame, to not hate myself for being a willing participant in my own deconstruction. In hindsight, that’s what it was. I was systematically taken apart one word at a time.

Before you go judging me, let me say that there was also a lot of good, too much good for me to simply kick him to the curb. He was great at taking care of me in his own way. He did all the cooking and food shopping and always made sure I had one healthy meal a day. He was very supportive when I was auditioning and did everything to help me prepare. And most importantly, he was great to my grandmother.

My grandmother who during the time Parker and I were together had to be moved into assisted living because her Alzheimer’s was progressing to the point that she could no longer be left alone, not even for a little while.

I am loyal to a fault. I’m talking organized crime, go-ahead-and-waterboard-me-it-won’t-work style loyal when it comes to the people that stand by me. Which is why I put up with him for as long as I did.

In the two years since the demise of our relationship, I’ve slowly put myself back together. Cue the Rocky music. I worked on my craft. I booked two national commercials. I starred in two plays that got decent reviews. I read all the Law of Attraction books. The verdict is still out on whether those did any good. Though by the look of the cell I currently find myself in, I’m inclined to say no.

This was going to be my year. I felt like I was on the precipice of something big. Something important. Something life-altering. Ever get that charge, that restless feeling and you know, just know you have to pay close attention to what happens next? I had that feeling all week.

“Jones, your lawyer is here,” Deputy D bellows. This is not what I meant when I said life-altering.

I lift my chin off my knees, unfurl my tired body off the metal bench of the holding cell, and before stepping out, take a long last look at Cassandra. “Hey––are you going to be okay?”