9 Sampagitas: An officer, but a gentleman?

Letter of Gratitude as Rx by Dr. Richard Carlson, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff… and it’s all small stuff”

Dear Staff Sergeant,

So many years ago I was madly in love with you. Then you broke my heart into little pieces and stomped on whatever was left of it. But I have always been a survivor. I thank you for 730 days of total joy and 1,825 days of total anger confusion, hurt, resentment, and bitterness - you name the emotion, I went through it. However, I thank you more for the wonderful things you brought out in me. With your encouragement, I relearned to believe in my inner goodness, I started to believe that I am an intelligent and capable human being once more.

At the same time, from you I learned that no one person completes the other. You cheated on me. It was sudden, unjustified, unreasonable, and downright dirty. You were a serial cheater, with the temerity to bring your lover literally a mile or so within my air space. As a result, I walked away from you. I walked away from the life I cherished, from the comfort of its material accoutrements. I decided, amidst the unbearable pain that I do not have to be hostage to a relationship that was based on lies and denials. I burned your memory along with the hundreds of photographs that bore witness to our relationship. I found my inner strength and loved again, and again, and yet again.

Thank you for your loving me those years; I loved you back. Thank you for staying as my friend, being literally at my side when I met the next person who I will forever love unconditionally. My son is an amazing gift that I received. No BMW, no tickets to Europe, Gucci purses or $150 silk blouses or trinket can equal the joy I get when I see him smile, when he kisses me and tell me “I love you, Mom.”

Now I will recall how it ended for its sheer tragi-comedy the time when our mutual beloved friend Joel tried to get us talking “civilly” to one another. He wanted us to break up amicably. He took the whole day off, shopping for dinner at his apartment. When we got there, the table was nicely set. He poured wine for us. Joel was going to facilitate this “summit.” The goal was to let us talk without getting too emotional so we can come to a place where we can at the very least be friendly. I pulled out my “To Talk About” list. I had about 15 items on it. I had it in an outline form, even. Always the listener in the relationship, you allowed me to start reading off the list.

Item 1: You had me leave my job to spend three months in Europe with you and you were having an affair with a maid? Are you fucking with me? Do you know that you hurt me and insulted me and you….

You started defending yourself and Chairman Joel could not get a word in.

Item 2: You took your paramour to Paris in a private car in a fast train? How dare you? You treated her like a queen, asshole, and I have not been back to the USA for a fucking week? Was it my money that paid for that too? Asshole!!!

You started cutting me off. Chairman Joel had his arms as if trying to separate us.

We were getting louder and on each other’s face and I was just getting started. In an instant, I hurled a pork chop at you. You grabbed and threw a piece of broccoli at me. I returned the energy by hurling green beans at you. Oh, but we must have still loved each other at that point because we did not throw flatware at each other yet… But I upped the ante and dumped a whole bowl of rice on your plate. “You are insane!” I said, “I am insane and you are a lying dog father!” I even surprised myself. That was a new one. You said, “You are a whore! You make me sick!” Ok I admit, I am bad when it comes to idioms and such. I said, “Asshole! A pot cannot say that to the kettle!” I caught you and Joel looking at each other. I dumped beautiful, steamed jasmine rice on your plate. “Pig, tangina mo! Eat the whole stupid thing, sige!” All my hurt, my venomous pain released like water coming out of clogged gutters. I fight to win.

I threw wine at you. Red fucking wine. Joel’s one and only white linen tablecloth messed up, you looked at Joel apologetically. He was by now yelling at us, “Hoy, tumigil kayong dalawa. Stop it. Normita, bruja, sit down!” You took your glass of water, always the neat freak, and threw it at no one in particular. Then you raised your hands in resignation. You grabbed my list, tore it up and threw it in the air like some confetti then you headed for the door. I grabbed the last piece of pork chop and threw it at you but you already closed the door. "Just say your'e fucking sorry! Oh my God!" But you were gone. From my life. Joel looked at me and said, “Leche kayo, ang mahal pa naman ng pork chops ko!” (Damn you two, those pork chops are expensive!).

Later, we both moved on and reconnected briefly. Thank you for allowing me to be your friend, even if only on my own terms. I apologize for the scenes I made, hurtful words I hurled at you, scaring the hell out of your other girlfriends, sorry for the water or wine I splashed at your face in anger. I no longer cared if you never talk to me ever again but thankful that you called me on two occasions 1) to ask for my contribution to your charitable endeavor; 2) to say hi just because. The worst part was my inability to recognize your voice. I thought a hobbit was calling me, or that midget on Fantasy Island saying “The plen, the plen!”

Admittedly, I must have hurt you as well when I told you that I was leaving. You just did not get it that your military assignment did not give you the right to sleep around. Our soap opera had to have a final chapter. In ours, the heroine, (that would be me) left with her Gucci purses, Spiegel silk blouses, Chanel No. 19 perfume, and her Saab and some cash. You told me I would regret it. That I would obviously not choose a Honda over a Mercedes. Fuck you! I don’t stay for stuff. I can buy my own.

You prevented me from taking anything with me. Even furniture I bought from my own money. Nevertheless, “up yours,” I say when angry. I grabbed the first thing I could, a four-feet tall candelabra, got out the door and that was all I took with me. I realized how comical I must have looked, dragging it all the way to the lobby. I still have it; it is a reminder of that moment that I gave you up. “Keep every god damn thing in this house, this one is mine.”

It has been thirty years since I met you, twenty three since we had broken up. I have stalked you, embarrassed you, missed you, loved and hated you. I told myself that I would be healed, that my goal is to become indifferent. I prevailed. Merci beacoups for your acts of kindness to me and my son. You are actually a lovable person, you are. You are a parent of a young son now. I sensed the pride in your voice when you talk about him. I wish you and your wife a long life. Bitch. You are both too old to have a kid in grade school, seriously. Bastartd. I cannot resist the dig. Sorry.