Avery Begins Act II. Places, Please.

I contacted Dr. Drexel Carrington, a therapist previously been referred to me by a trusted colleague who’d fallen upon rough times of her own. She’d spoken very highly of him, saying he helped her view her problems in a realistic light, allowing her to take ownership of her role in creating those issues. I guess he’s the Dr. Phil of the Near North Side. As luck would have it, he was available to see me on the following day.

This wouldn’t be the first time that I’d tried therapy. I saw my first therapist shortly after my 21^st birthday, with the goal of helping navigate the rough waters one encounters when navigating toward adulthood. I grew exponentially during those sessions. I learned a lot about myself and began to concretely define my value system. Yet, nearly 10 years later, I felt as though I was back where I’d started.

Jane Fonda believes that life is broken down into three acts. The first is your act of learning. It is when you make your mistakes. The second, which begins when you turn 30, is your act of working. You’ve made your mistakes and are now ready to put all that you’ve learned into practice. Your third and final act begins on your 60^th day on Earth. This is your act of reflection. When you look back on all you’ve learned, the mistakes you’ve made and the achievement you have accomplished.

When I first heard this theory, I laughed it off. Only an actress, I said to myself, would view life as though it were a three act play. On this day, however, I had to reevaluate my assessment. Maybe she was on to something.

The overture of my first act underscored a vignette of a relatively normal, if not idyllic, suburban childhood. The audience gasped when I came out of the closet, and cheered as I accomplished my goal of becoming a nurse. My first act ended with a dramatic thud. “Alone with my sorrows,” to quote Cole Porter, “down in the depths on the 90^th floor.”

Maybe Dr. Drexel Carrington would cue the orchestra to begin playing the entr’acte. Maybe this melodrama would continue, with our protagonist embarking on great adventures, triumphing over evil and ultimately finding love. Maybe the star of our show would live happily ever after. Maybe.

Avery. Alone.

Once upon a time, I relished the thought of being alone. Remember being a teenager? Remember that moment when you’re standing at the threshold of adulthood? You knew you’d figured out all of life’s mysteries. The world, however, insisted you were still a child in need of protection and guidance. You were still under your parents’ stronghold, required to follow their rules. I remember that time in my life vividly. I couldn’t wait to be alone.

Being alone represented independence. It represented the freedom to do or say whatever I wanted to say. It represented the autonomy of going wherever I wanted whenever I wanted. It represented the ability to make my own choices. Being alone represented adulthood.

I was alone for a long time. I was alone at college, first in a dorm room, then in my own on-campus apartment. I was alone after college when I moved into my parents’ coach house. Being alone felt fantastic. I had no curfew. I had no one telling me what I should or shouldn’t be eating. If my plans suddenly changed, I didn’t need to “check in” with anybody.

Unplanned jaunt to a concert in Milwaukee? No problem. Impulsive road trip just to see how far we could take I55 before running out of gas? I’m there.

Then one day I wasn’t alone. I had a constant companion. He was the first person I saw when I woke and the last person I saw before I fell asleep. When not at work, he was the person with whom I spent every waking hour.

Last minute party invitation? Let me check with Jack. A weekend in New York? I’ll have to talk with Jack. Shall I purchase rice milk or almond milk? What do you think, Jack? Is it cold in here? Do you mind if I close the window, Jack? I’m hungry. Are you hungry, Jack? What would you like for dinner, Jack? Where should we order from, Jack? Do you think their prices are too high, Jack? I’m in the mood for pasta, but, if you’re not, we can always order from another restaurant, Jack.

And now I was alone again. This time, however, it didn’t hold the same appeal. After seven years of not being alone, the word no longer represented independence. It no longer represented freedom. Being alone now represented boredom. Being alone now represented loneliness.

Do I want your unused theatre tickets? No, thank you. I have no one to go with. I should try that new restaurant? Thanks, but I couldn’t possibly dine alone. “Saturday Night Live” is hilarious tonight, don’t you think, kitties?

Stephen Sondheim wrote that “alone is alone. Not alive.” Never did words ring more true. I’d taken to talking to my cats for crying out loud. If I was ever going to get through this and move forward with my life, I knew that I couldn’t do it alone. I was going to need a therapist.

Avery and His Sobering Reality

My mind raced from one topic to another as our coupledom disintegrated in the living room that evening. No sooner had I questioned Jack about not honoring his intentions to salvage our relationship, was I panicking about our pending real estate contract. Moments later, my thoughts had progressed to another realization.

I’m not sure why it took me so long to put two and two together, but suddenly it all seemed clear to me—the list, the lies, the abrupt decision to call it quits. I had to ask the question even though I wasn’t sure if I could accept the answer.

“Jack,” I whispered as calmly as possible, “Are you seeing someone else?”

He didn’t have to respond with words. His body language spoke loudly and clearly. His gaze veered toward the ground. He crossed his arms. His cheeks reddened. He let out a long sigh and took a seat on the sofa. I felt a pain deep in the pit of my stomach.

I wanted to know who he was seeing. I wanted to know how long they’d been seeing each other. I wanted to know if they’d shared each other’s secrets, just as Jack and I had.

Did this new man know that Jack’s favorite color is blue or that, when he’s sad, his favorite comfort food is macaroni and cheese covered in ketchup? Did he know that Jack’s childhood pet lizard, Blue Streak, is buried under a bench in a forest preserve near Melrose Park? Did he know that Jack’s happiest memories are of trips to Kiddieland as a 5 year old with his late uncle, Thomas, or that he’s afraid of heights, or that he wet the bed until he was 12 years old?

I didn’t ask these questions though. I didn’t have the nerve.

“I think you should leave,” I told him as I collected myself.

I retreated to the bathroom, where I locked the door and cried and cried. I cried for the happy memories Jack and I’d created. I cried for the future we’d never have. I cried for the beautiful apartment we’d found and the home we’d built together. I cried for Blue Streak and his pauper’s grave. I cried.

When I’d finished mourning, I slowly emerged from the bathroom. Jack was gone, the cats were asleep and I came to a sobering realization. For the first time in seven years, I was completely and utterly alone.

Avery Hates Jack

Before Jack, I was still living in my parents’ home. Only two years out of nursing school (graduated with honors, thank you), I was reaping the benefits of a full-time salary and no living expenses. That carefree existence ended once Jack came into my life.

We began seeing each other exclusively during the fall of his senior year of college. While I dove into my new, burgeoning career, Jack made plans for life graduation. During this time, he subtlety started suggesting that I get my own place.

“It’s time,” he would say. “It’s time for you to live like the driven, successful, fabulous man that you are.”

Clearly flattery will get you everywhere with me. He did seem to have a point. Besides, I’d always wanted to live downtown. I found the most perfect loft in the West Loop. 20-foot ceilings, exposed brick and an open, lofted sleeping area. In my head, I was the Chicago equivalent of Brian Kinney from “Queer as Folk.”

Queer as Folk - The Complete Series

Jack moved into my bachelor pad after the school year had come to a close, and it quickly became apparent that we needed more space. So we searched and hunted, eventually finding our dream home. Situated in a full service, luxury building, it had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. What’s more, the bright lights of Navy Pier could be viewed from its floor-to-ceiling windows. It was heaven.

I now realize—with the help of the Gold Coast’s most overpriced therapist—that Jack’s reasons for suggesting I move out of my parents’ weren’t at all altruistic. His motive wasn’t to build a home with me. I’m not sure if it were the thought of moving back into his mother’s in “Lanford,” the idea shacking up with “Jack Tripper” and “Larry Dallas” in Irving Park, or both, but his primary goal was to ensure that he would NOT have to live with either his parents’ once he’d graduated. He’d gotten his wish.

                         

It wouldn’t have been so bad had he’d broken up with me immediately after New York. But he didn’t. He told me that our future was solid, prompting us to take advantage of our landlord’s offer to sell us the apartment.  Since Jack made (and still makes) significantly less money than I do, the NON-REFUNDABLE deposit was drawn from my bank account. Not a problem. We were a couple. We were a family.  

But now Jack wanted out. Would our landlord void the contract? And—perhaps even more importantly—would I be out of thousands of dollars’ worth of earnest money? This is when I first began to utter what would become my mantra: I hate Jack.

Avery Channels Oprah (in Hindsight)

All of my pleading fell upon deaf ears. Jack was resolute in his decision to end our relationship. He sat down next to me on the living room rug. At this point, I was curled in a semi-fetal position.

“I know this is difficult,” he said to me. “I’m sorry. But this hasn’t been working for a long time. I’ve been unhappy for the last eight months.”

Eight months?!?! My despair gave way to anger. This statement meant that everything he’d said since I returned from New York was insincere.

Through the 20/20 vision of hindsight, I now understand that everything Jack had ever told me was a lie. He never had any intention of us working together to resolve our issues. In fact, he had no interest in doing so whatsoever. He wanted out. He wanted out months ago. Yet instead of manning up and being honest about his feelings, he concocted every bull spit excuse in the book so that he’d have a justifiable reason to leave.

Oprah Winfrey made a very interesting comment recently. When asked about her philosophies on life, she explained that she doesn’t believe in holding on to anyone who doesn’t want to be with her. She’s on her destined path. If you don’t want to take part in that journey, she’ll happily set you free.

If only I’d been so Zen about our situation at that moment. If only I’d chosen to peacefully release Jack without incident. If only the scenario had gone something like this:

Jack

Avery, I realize I don’t love you anymore.

Avery

Oh?

Jack

Yes. I’m leaving you.

Avery

That’s quite alright, Jack. Butterflies are free. They may come and go as they please. Perhaps our paths were only meant to cross for a short time in this journey called life. I wish you love, wherever your path may lead you. Godspeed.

But that’s not what I said. Instead, I asked him the questions that would become the biggest headache in this business of dividing our assets.

“What are we supposed to do about this apartment? We’re in contract to buy it, remember?”

Jack’s face turned red and his eyes widened. Clearly, the reality of his actions had begun to sink in. He’d just screwed us. Royally.

The Oprah Winfrey Show: 20th Anniversary Collection