Do People Really Change?

A second go at relationship

Excerpt from a book in progress.

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

— Maya Angelou

Before Randy’s arrival, I’d found him a rental apartment for cheap — something exceedingly rare in Nelson and which I scored through a personal connection. He toured and agreed to it virtually, but it hurt me to see him set up camp there.

It was a one bedroom on the top floor of a lovely heritage house with a private deck and stunning view of mountains, lake, and town. Still, it was old and run down and would turn into a sweat box come summer. What’s more, the other tenants were kids in their twenties who played loud music, partied hard, and were better matched with Randy’s teen son than with him.

I pleaded with Randy not to take it if he didn’t want it. I knew this road well; eventually, I’d be the one to blame. He insisted he knew what I was saying but not to worry. He said things were different and this place was right, right now.

It was time to “eat humble pie” and to sit in this place — a place in stark contrast to the top-floor penthouse on the inter-coastal waters of south Florida and all the grandiosity that went with it. He said this was part of his practice. A practice rooted in remorse and humility.

Seeing him do this — and embrace it with softness — broke my heart. Not in a bad way this time — rather, in a way that reminded me how much I love this Randy. This is the one I thought I’d lost forever. This is the one I thought the entire world had lost.

Here he was, right here. Here he was, Home.

There was a one-legged crow who visited him each morning, perching on the deck in anticipation of the daily scraps Randy provided. They struck up a camaraderie of sorts. A kinship of beings who’d been through it. Who’d once towered haughtily and now, humbly, welcomed charity and grace.

One day, the crow brought a partner — a female. They showed up together every day thereafter and the male crow provided for her, bringing gifts of chicken bones and twigs. She was bossy and loud and made the rules.

Over the last few years with Randy, I’ve become quieter rather than louder. There’s no screaming left in me, anymore. It takes too much.

But my inner strength has grown, and I’ve created rules and stuck by them. I cannot give myself up like before. I don’t want that life and am much happier without it — even if alone. Also, I don’t think I can survive it again. When Randy broke something in me — when we broke something in me — toxic cycles and agreements broke too. Rules prevent their return.

And make no mistake — for all of Randy’s love for me currently, and all the beautiful changes he’s made with consciousness and care, the needier parts of him would go back to the past an instant.

For me, there is no going back — not with Randy, not with anyone. And while I still have addictions and attachments and stories, the trajectory is one of continuous unravelling. The trajectory is one of falling into my un-storied self and learning to live there.

During that year, the winter of divorce followed by Randy’s springtime return, I was at the beginnings of this. A fledgling still finding flight. Hesitant, unsteady, fearing predation (and rightly so).

With spring’s arrival, we celebrated each other with new eyes. He was soft, sensitive, smart, kind, generous, compassionate, loving. We started having sex again. The Randy I adore was there full time. The Randy I fear was in full remission.

Most afternoons, we took long walks along the old, wooded Rail Trail above town. Hand-in-hand, we’d walk and talk and dream and sometimes settle into beautiful, connected silence. At overlooks, we’d gaze at mountains, lake, and sky. Taking it all in. Feeling impossibly lucky.

The trail goes on forever, but a large boulder was our usual turnaround. We’d pause there, hold each other, switch hands, and walk home.

The light that time of year in Nelson was perfect. How Randy was showing up was perfect. With each day, my faith grew. I dared hope again. I took in his beautiful, generous words of apology, love, and devotion. I ventured towards trust.

Slowly, slowly, it felt safe to exhale. To think all would be okay.

Home itself stayed separate, so far as residences. And my work schedule, as always, was far fuller and less flexible than Randy’s. This meant fitting him in — fitting us in — around it.

I was okay with this; Randy tried to be. In reality, the other Randy was stirring with restlessness and resentment. In reality, the other Randy was also feeling the dread of finances. Those, like our residences, were entirely separate — part of my new rules. I was living month-to-month myself and in his absence had become fastidious about tracking every cent. I could not support him; that was his job.

As spring turned to summer, money started poisoning things. This time, because of our financial and legal separation, he couldn’t blame me for it. Finally, I was free of that weight; I will never, ever pick it up again.

I work too hard, live a minimalist life, and always figure things out. That weight — that blame — was not mine to carry. That was his. I never should’ve agreed to bear it.

In this area, our divorce was final. In this area, complete severing was the only way I knew to save myself and save us.

But it didn’t save Randy. And by “Randy” I mean the loving one. The one who returned to me in springtime. The other Randy — the unkind, frightening one — is vicious when scared. The other Randy, above all, saves himself.

This was a rough draft excerpt from a book in progress. Follow me on Medium for more!

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