Telling Marty

But something still wasn’t right. It was hard for me to breathe normally as I looked over the online tributes to Murray. What a guy. Everyone was his friend. He literally gave that girl the shirt off his back. He took in homeless people’s pets. He made everyone laugh.

What is wrong with me? I think those things too. Then why do I feel like something’s missing? Why do I feel like only part of Murray’s story is being told? Why do I want the bad things he did to be acknowledged as part of his story? Why can’t we forget about those and just remember the carefree times?”

Maybe I could if I desired to keep the pharmaceutical industry in business for the rest of my life with their anti-anxiety chemical remedies. Maybe I could keep stuffing down the entire bag of chips instead of using my mouth to say what I really want to. Maybe I could teach my daughter that it’s ok not to face up to her fears and try to overcome them the next time she calls out for help at the playground. Maybe I could continue keeping my pain a secret.

Maybe this is my midlife crisis. My “Hey Look At Me! I’m Becoming Irrelevant.” I turned forty in November. Many middle age, middle class Americans spend gobs of money on tummy tucks or sports cars. I spend gobs of money on long-term intensive cognitive therapy! Woo hoo! But now that Murray has died, and now that I know probably at least half of my life is over, I feel that I must make some changes. I’m tired of avoiding life when it gets hard. I want to quit fantasizing about being that courageous woman I’d like to be and actually be her.

My therapist Sara at the Lilac Center suggested I start by telling Marty. It made sense. Marty was always kind of a mini-mom to me. She’s almost 11 years older than I am, so when I was born she treated me like a living doll. When I was six months old, my mom put my crib in Marty and our sister Hazel’s room to sleep with them so my dad could get some sleep in his privately air-conditioned bedroom. Because, you know, I guess someone who gets paid to work needs a better night sleep than some kids who just have to get up and learn things at school tomorrow without earning any money.

Marty didn’t complain when I’d cry in the middle of the night. She’d get up, yawn, change my diaper or give me a bottle or burp me or whatever it was I needed, then she’d bring me into bed with her, cuddled up, safe from the world.

Plus, she kind of already knows. My mom told me she “sort of” told Marty some details about my abuse when I was in my early twenties and having a particularly hard time with my mental health. I asked what she meant by “sort of” and she said, “I didn’t go into too many gory details.”

So I took a Lorazepam and made myself comfortable on my bed. Hank was away with Stella, so I had the house to myself. I called Marty’s phone number and she picked up within a few rings. Oh God, am I really doing this?

So I told her. I told her this: “I'm just feeling mixed up because I love Murray and I’m sorry he’s gone and I’m glad he’s not suffering anymore, but I’m feeling mixed up because something he did to me when I was very young, when he was young too, something he did to me hurt me and I feel like I haven’t gotten it resolved yet.”

“I think I know a little about this.” Marty said softly.

“I know. I just wanted you to know for sure that I’m feeling mixed up because Murray and his friend sexually abused me when I was very young and I don’t know what to do with this pain other than to let it be known.” I was crying hard. I had to remember to breathe.

Marty’s first words to me after my eruption couldn’t have been better if they had been scripted by me in my own “How to Make this Conversation the Easiest It Can Be” guide. She said, simply, "This doesn't change my love for you and it doesn't change my love for Murray." I gasped. I was so happy. That was exactly what I needed to hear. The door was open for communication and I had nothing to fear.