When I received a chilling phone call from a sobbing friend asking for help last Saturday, it snapped me out of my funk a little.  She didn’t know where she was, and gave me clues.  “Past a craft store,” “There’s just a stop sign, no street sign,” “There’s no light and I can’t see anything,” “It says 1 Hall on the mailbox,” “They said I’m in Nicholasville,” “It’s a double wide on the corner,” “The guy’s name is somethingsomething,” and I made note of it, thinking I’d be able to look in the phone book, pick the address, look at a map and go right to her.

     I drove real fast, with Zacque riding shotgun.

     Onward to Nicholasville, Kentucky.

     “Please help me!  I don’t want to be here!  They won’t let me leave!” said the voice.  Shortly thereafter, there was a struggle.  A few moments later, the cell number she called from called back, and I answered to an insane woman hurling nothing but psychotic abuse.  Then a man… They hung up on me.
     There was no answer on the phone after that, and I drove faster.

     There was no such name in the phone book.  I was frantic.

     By 4:30AM, after driving every road in Jessamine County, I called 911 and told them what was going on to see if they could offer any assistance.

     At around 6AM, I met a Nicholasville police officer who took the incident very seriously.  While they gather the report during shift change, we were invited into the squad room and I detailed everything I’d heard so far.

     The officers took it very seriously, and set out to find her en masse.

     Finally, something hit in NCIC.

     “Sir, request permission to leave the county, sir!” said a young officer.
     “Permission granted!  I hope you find her!” replied his commanding officer.

     With Zacque and I following close behind, we made it to the residence at speeds just under 80mph.

     The officer made note of license plates, cars, and scouted the scene prior to entry.  With Zacque and I at the bottom of the steps and to the right, the officer standing top and left, he knocked.

     I was so relieved…

     There she was.

     Missing person found.

     And she was safe

     Upon leaving, the officer quickly made note of drugs and paraphernalia and said, “Ya know, that’s this county’s problem.”
     I shook his hand, and wanted out so quickly that I never got to thank them properly.

     And so, to the Kentucky’s Nicholasville Police Department, I salute you.

     You guys were professional, courteous, and incredibly efficient given the lack of information we had.  You did the jobs incredibly well, and I most humbly appreciate your assistance.

     [ The following is angry.  If you don't like anger and angst, don't read it.  But it's shit like this that's a big part of my problem. ]

     Back in 1999, I had some pretty bad misfortune fall on me in a foreign country.  I met a woman.  I liked her.  She was hot.  She was fun.  Everything else in my life was turning sour in that damn country.  In February of 2000, I moved in with her, and she helped me out for a few months while I got everything back on track.
     I met and loved her family.  We were all supportive of one another.

     By June, things started getting weird.  She started getting emotional.  By July, she was completely bonkers.  In August, she finally went to the doctor.  In September, she had surgery.  I felt so bad for her.  And on the 29th, I married her.

     Things got better.

     We both had good jobs and were able to do pretty much whatever we wanted.

     We took out an insured loan of $27,000 so we could have a bit more cash onhand.  With the insurance, it became a $30K loan.  We needed a refrigerator, which was around $8,000 in that shitty country.  We could have afforded it in a couple months, but needed it then.  And then, for some reason, I wanted her to meet my family.  We took a very, very long trip through the United States and Canada and back to the Hell country we lived.

     In May of 2001, we moved to a new house.  And that’s when the trouble started.

     She became distant and quiet, and completely and totally demanding.  She was angry at me 24-7.  I didn’t know what to do. 

     After watching 9-11 not happen on local television, hearing radio personalities go on about how we deserved it, getting a ration of shit for trying to buy cigarettes on multiple occasions and having a Prime Minister ensure her country that “The events in the United States have no influence on New Zealand,” I decided I needed to be back in the United States.  
     It was a long process.  In February, I had to beat the shit out of a Consulate guard just to get in and keep my appointment.  Everything kept getting worse.
     I lost my job in February because my sorry-ass South African bosses didn’t want to pay salary or bonus or wage increases or anything else, and decided that in order to reduce costs, they’d claim that I was stealing intellectual property.  A real joke, being that I was Senior Developer — the only developer — for that company.  
     Fortunately, our $30K loan was paid down to just over $8,000, and being insured and my just having lost my job, that was pretty well done.  The policy clearly stated that they would pay my payments for a full year in the event that I got divorced or lost my job.  It didn’t have all the fun stipulations that most do, and I’d clearly lost my job.  However, they were unhelpful.  They ignored the insurance policy and started threatening and cussing me out.
     I told them to stuff it.  It was their $8,000 to pay, and I had a signed contract to prove it.

     Finally, in June of 2002, we made it back.

     We lived in DC then.  I had a pretty cushy Government job and she was teaching school at a prestigious-yet-shitty institution who didn’t pay their staff even half of what their public school counterparts made.  It was disgraceful.
     Still, my wife was distant, angry and demanding.

     I had a six-figure job offer in Knoxville, my hometown.  And so, in June of 2004, we moved back here.  My six-figure job was a lie.  Everything was.  I started another business and kept us afloat until just after Christmas of 2005.
     Things had stayed the same between us.  She was distant, angry, demanding.  There was no budgeting with her.  On top of that, she took a part-time job working full-time hours as a substitute teacher at a school, and the school board would make no exceptions for her foreign experience.  She wouldn’t get her stuff together to get a full teacher’s license, and by this time, she wouldn’t drive anywhere.  My responsbility to drive her around, to and from work, and I’m trying to work, but dear God, would she take the bus?
     Eventually, she wouldn’t leave the house anymore… just sat there barking out orders from the couch, and spending every single dime we had if she went out with my mother.

     They were best of friends.

     In January of 2006, I felt so much pressure that I was about to kill myself.  I told her… and she responded with 847 more reasons why I should go ahead.

     I pulled myself together.  I told that I wanted a divorce and that I wanted her to get out.

     Back to New Zealand for her, a one way ticket.  Instead of feeling pain immediately, I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders.  Not long after, the depression hit.  If I couldn’t keep my promises to her, what good was I?

     By April and May, it was pretty obvious that talking to her was like talking to a wall.  I stopped for a long time.  I sent her final divorce papers in June, and she never bothered to sign them.  She said she never received them.
     In July, the National Bank of New Zealand started letting her have it good and hard claiming that we owed them $23K.  I sent her the papers for the loan, along with previous balance statements.  Open and shut, right?
     By then, I was well into a major depression.

     In November, she came back to pick up some of her things.  I thought we could at least part as friends.  She apologized for the way she treated me, and that was good enough for me.  I spent every dime I had making sure she was comfortable on the trip, as Mommy Dearest dropped her on me and took off.  She signed the divorce papers before we left Knoxville.
     For a short time, I thought we talked about reconciliation, but apparently I was incorrect, as was blatently pointed out.  I filed the papers, but the property settlement was kicked out.  I sent her an ammended property settlement to sign, and she never bothered to respond to it or the emails I sent her.
     I mailed back more of her things in 2007, all to no avail.

     Eventually, her phone was disconnected.  All of her mail was returned.

     In January of 2008, I filed another divorce, having been two years (which showed abandonment) hoping that I could finally get on with my life.  The Wildcat and I had plans.

     In March of 2008, she finally responded … that I owed her $27,000.

     After supporting her for four years and having her spend every single dime of every single paycheck, regardless that we had to pay rent or insurance or… Yeah, stress, when you have to magically pull money out of your ass for four years because your wife is too lazy to get off her butt, get her license and actually make a decent wage for a change.

     But oh, I owe her $27K.  And I still don’t have a divorce.

     Yeah, I’m still married.

     And while she’s sitting around in New Zealand making $50K a year — about fucking time — I owe her $27K when I made us far more than that for six years solid… And me, I can’t afford to pay attention.

     Right this second, I’m thinking that since we’re still married, maybe I should just move back to New Zealand and move in with her.  I mean, what could she do about it?  I mean, she is my wife, isn’t she?

     So seriously, Mommy Dearest’s bestest little buddy — GET OVER IT AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!

     [ The following is angry.  If you don't like anger and angst, don't read it.  But it's shit like this that's a big part of my problem. ]

     When I was three years old, some pretty bad things happened to me.  When I told my dear, sweet, innocent mother about those things, she beat the living crap out of me for it, and called me a liar.  So, at three years old, she took a wide, thick leather belt and wailed on me with it until my legs were bloody.  She did it a million times — wherever and whenever she could.  Legs, ass, arms, torso, face … you name it.  And it wasn’t just the belt.  It was anything she could pick up.

     Whenever anyone asked what happened to my legs, she’d always say that I got eaten up by mosquitos, and had scratched myself to death.  When they asked about the stripes which went most of the way around my arms (lengths of belt tend to wrap unless doubled, and she never did), she’d tell them that I was tying things around my arms, and to not let me do that.  A blow to the head, “Oh, he fell off the swing.”  A bloody nose, “Oh, he’s prone to nosebleeds.”
     I don’t scratch my bites.  Wrapping things around my arms is laughable.  I’m only clumsy when drunk.  And I’ve only had two nosebleeds in my life outside of the ones she gave me because she had no self control.

     Nobody ever bothered to think or even to try and stop it. 

     In public, she was so coy.  So convincing, calm, victimized.  There were facades to keep up, you see.  She had to appear to be financially secure, while spending every dime they both made.  And she never let my father live down the fact that she made more money than him.

     And so, I wish him a Belated, yet Happy, Father’s day.

     Happy Father’s day to my father, who watched the Devil he married beat me my entire life.  Happy Father’s day to the man who, just last year, let her come and trash my house and start breaking computers and beating me with a plastic bethroom shelf.  Happy Fathers day to the man who, when I got a restraining order against his wife, he allowed her to have me evicted, thus destroying my credit regardless of the fact that the judgement said I didn’t owe her a dime.  Happy Father’s day, to the man who got up in court and perjured himself repeatedly during the restraining order hearing, so much so that the Judge saw right through the inconsistent bullshit of his, his Devil wife and his son.  Happy Father’s day, to the man who’s whining to everyone in the world about how it’s tearing him up that he doesn’t hear from his son, and the day that I finally call, all he can do is bitch and call me a liar.

     Ultimately, it is you, Father, who allowed that situation to continue. 

     It was you, Father, who came to my house threatening me to drop the Order of Protection that I needed.

     It was you, Father, who made up your story in court.

     It was you, Father, who didn’t call me or return any e-mails.

     And it was you, Father, who turned on me — yet again.

     And it was you, Father, who perpetrated and condoned her lies and condemnation — “See?  He’s a liar, just like he was when he was three years old!” — even when you knew better.

     You, Father, are why I never had a family.

     I never deserved any of that, Father.

     And unlike you, Father, I could never do to people that I care about what you both did to me.

     So, to the biggest liar of them all, and the perfect role model of a crying, useless husband, Happy Father’s Day!

     Are you Happy now, Mr. Good Christian Man?

     I certainly hope so.

     The opposite Love is not Hate. 

     It’s Apathy.

     Something you’ve always had plenty of.

     I have no Father.

     [ Many years ago, I wrote a a ton of fictional short stories.  Many of them were inspirational.  Many of them weren't.  I'm not sure where this one fits, but it somehow seems pertinent. ]

     Once upon a time, there was a tribe of people who lived isolated and sheltered from the world.  There was great poverty and suffering.  They lacked the farmland to produce their own food, lacked the tools to wage war and there was great fear that one day they would be overtaken by a more powerful tribe.
     To this end, the chief decreed that an ornate vessel be crafted out of clay, clad in silver and adorned with the finest decoration.  During the day, the vessel would be displayed in the center of the village, and people were to open the top and pour their fears into it.  At night, it would be locked away, sheltered from the elements, its beauty retained.

     Over the years, many people coveted the beautiful vessel.  Others wanted to destroy it, some because it reminded them of their fears and others simply hated the idea that such a vessel should exist.
     Eventually, the vessel was locked away in a mountain and left to tarnish.

     Rumors spread to surrounding tribes about the fear vessel.  Some spoke of it being an evil vessel to be despised, so full of fear and dread that it should be destroyed.  Others spoke only its beauty.
     One man became intrigued by the idea of such of ornate vessel being locked away.  It consumed his thoughts.  “Why would they pour their fears into such a treasure, only to lock it away from the world?” he wondered.  He began to dream about the vessel every night, and the vessel seemed to be beckoning him with a sorrowful moan.
     After a while, he finally decided that he should set out to find it.

     The path was long and arduous, but after searching for years, he came upon a cave near a mountain stream.  As he entered, he heard the sorrowful moan from his dream and knew that he was close.  Clamoring through roots and over rocks, he finally came to the end of the cave and found the object of his long quest.  Lying there was the fear vessel, tarnished and covered in dust. 
     He carefully picked it up, wiped it clean, and decided to return to home.

     At home, he took the task of cleaning the still-sealed vessel thoroughly, restoring its precious beauty.  He placed it carefully where he could look upon it from anywhere he was in his home, as it gave him comfort look upon such a beautiful thing.  At night, he would dream and the sorrowful moan became a contented hum.

     One day, he decided that the vessel needed to be returned to where it had been created so many years before.  He packed his meager belongings and found himself setting up a home in the village of the vessel’s origin.
     Some people were happy to have their precious vessel returned to their village.  Others coveted the vessel and attempted to steal it away.  Still others hated the vessel, and wanted it destroyed.  But he kept it safe, carrying it with him everywhere he went, displaying it proudly.

     He continued to dream of the vessel.  Eventually, the man’s curiosity finally got the best of him.  He awoke one night, and decided to open the vessel.  When he peered inside at all of the fears people had put inside it, he became frightened himself.
     It was then that he began the slow task of gathering a little of the fear at a time and releasing it into the nearby mountain stream.  Several months passed and the vessel more and more beautiful all the time as he continued to polish it and remove some of the fear from inside it.
     The more fear he touched to carry away, the more afraid he became.  Still, he continued to clean the vase each day until he spilled the vessel upon him.  The fear inside washed over him, and he became terrified.  It ran across the ground, making everyone in the village afraid.
     Hearing of this, the chief ordered that the man be exiled from the village and that the vessel once more more be used for its intended purpose.  The people once again began filling it with their fears, ending all that the man had attempted to do.  Humiliated and defeated, he returned to his home, still dreaming of the vessel, once more hearing its sorrowful moan.

     He decided that the best thing would be to steal the vessel away, to return it to his home where it could be content once more.  Set to this course, he became frantic, and more and more afraid.  Still, he pressed on and began preparing for the journey back to the remote village.
     Every step of the way, he stumbled and fell.  Still, he tried desperately to reach the vessel.  Every night as he slept, the vessel moaned to him, and strengthened his resolve.
     Continuing onward, he met a sage who was returning from the village.  “Why do you wish to go there?” he asked.
     The man relayed his story and spoke of his dreams of the sorrowful vessel.
     The sage pondered for a moment, and replied, “If you follow this path for the dreams of contentment, then be on your way.  But if your dreams are only of fear and sorrow, then you are surely a fool.”  With that, he walked away.
     The man stayed to ponder the sage’s words for several nights.  On the third night, it was decided.  He had dreamed of the beauty and sorrow of the vessel, and in his haste to end its sorrow, he had spilled its fear into him.  The dreams of the sorrowful moan were powerful, yet what he truly wanted was the contentment that he felt when the vase was well kept, where it could be free of the fear which gave it its sorrowful moan.

     And for that, he continued on his journey to the remote village.

     The last two weeks have been trying and terrifying.

     I’ve realized something, too.  The Wildcat and I hate drama so much that we’ll ignore it until everything falls down into a catastrophic event.  At that point, we both panic.  Everything becomes a thousand times worse.

     For my part, I’ve been in panic mode for a week and a half.  But Saturday night, when she called and asked for help, I immediately snapped out of it.  There was no question what had to be done.  The only thing that mattered to me was that she was safe, and I was gonna make damn sure of that, regardless of threats or obstacles.

     I held her all day and night, and I wish that we’d had more time together.

     A few months ago, we had a dream together.  It was a dream where the last twenty-three years had never happened.  Instead, we’d met, we’d fallen in love and we’d had three wonderful kids, and finally ended up exactly where we were that night.  It was powerful, and it’s something I’ve held onto.
     Spending more and more time with those three, I realized that I do claim them as my own, and nobody who knows us would doubt it for a second.  I love them.  And I love my Wildcat for finally giving me the family that I’ve never had.

     Anyone who thinks that I am not committed 150% to my family is a fool.

     Anyone who doubts that I don’t love them more than anything in the world is a damn fool.

     Again, I ask for prayers.  And this time, I ask for all of us.

     There are a lot of problems in my life right now.  I am, at present, unable to go to work, to my home, to be around the people who I truly care about.
     That last one, that’s the crux.

     I don’t want people to pray for me.  There are more important things in this life than me.  Besides, for my part, I have some support.

     For a while now, my Wildcat has been hurting.  Many years of hurt, from what I know.  I love this woman, and the family she has given me, more than anything in this world.  I’d love to hold her, pull her close, stroke her hair and tell her it’s all going to be okay — like I always do.  I would do anything in my power, give anything that I was able, to help her.
     But it’s beyond my help now.

     And I will keep wearing this ring.

     Now, it is time to leave it in God’s hands.

     I want everyone who reads this to pray her.

     Pray that she’s okay.

     Please.

     There are three things in my life more important to me than anything else in this world.  All three things are intertwined throughout each other.  Sometimes, it’s hard to admit how much some things can mean to you.  But I’m gonna try.

     First, there’s my Wildcat, the single, most important thing, and the most important person, in my life.  If I had no one else in the world, I’d need her.  If I had everything else in the world, I’d need her to share it with.
     It’s not enough to say that I Love this women with every fiber of my being.  In fact, I would kill and die for this woman.  Ultimately, she trumps everything else in this mortal coil.  It’s no small matter that If I’m down, she can cheer me up with a look.  Although, the flipside is also true: she crush me just as easily.
     But I need that.  And I need her.

     The kids are important to me.  They’re all three over eighteen, growing-but-not-grown (though they’d surely argue that).  They fall somewhere between the Wildcat and I to varying degrees, and at times, it’s scary how much we’re alike.  With the exception of the eldest who I’ve only met a few times, we’re all so similar that that they truly seem like they’re ours together.
     I wouldn’t have them if it weren’t for her.  They’ve proven to me what family really is.
     I need that.  I need them.

     The last important thing to me can be construed as selfish.

     I have a strong desire to know that something in my life matters, that something I do will matter.
     You see, I’ve done a lot in my life.  I realized a couple of years ago that I’ve had a tremendous life, in fact, having done everything I ever set out to do and having been everywhere I ever wanted to go.  It was never enough until I met my Wildcat, who showed me the true meaning of Love and what Family is all about.
     You see, it’s important to me to have a positive effect on these four people.  They are my life blood.  They mean more to me than anything else in this world.  They matter.  Their happiness matters.  Their stability matters.  They are the something in my life that matters.
     And I need that.  I need them.

     There are naysayers in my life who can’t understand that.  Perhaps their family relationships are so fragmented and sinuous that they can’t grasp the concept.  Perhaps they’re so disconnected from humanity that they’re incapable of caring about anyone else.  Or, perhaps they’ve never known what Love is.
     I can only hope that they might understand one day.

     The fact remains that there is nothing more important to me than this family.  They have to come first regardless of consequence.  They matter, and will always matter, above everything else. 

     They are my family.

     It is thoughts and prayers for them that get me through.

     For them, I can still be Superman.

     I hope…

     When you say the word “committed,” several different things come to mind.

     Webster’s Dictionary provides the following insight into the word “committed:”

1. gave in trust or charge; consigned.
2. consigned for preservation: committed ideas to writing; to committed a poem to memory.
3. pledged (oneself) to a position on an issue or question; expressed (one’s intention, feeling, etc.): Asked if he was a candidate, he refused to be committed.
4. bound or obligated, as by pledge or assurance; pledged: committed oneself to a promise; committed to a course of action.
5. entrusted, esp. for safekeeping; commended: committed her soul to God.
6. did; performed; perpetrated: committed murder; committed an error.
7. consigned to custody: committed a delinquent to a reformatory.
8. placed in a mental institution or hospital by or as if by legal authority: He was committed on the certificate of two psychiatrists.
9. delivered for treatment, disposal, etc.; relegated: committed a manuscript to the flames.
10. sent into a battle: The commander has committed all his troops to the front lines.
11. Parliamentary Procedure. refered (a bill or the like) to a committee for consideration.
12. pledged or engaged oneself: an athlete who has committed to the highest standards.

     Now look at this picture:

     Which one(s) apply?