The other day an Albanian student approached my desk for an unofficial therapy session. I’ve always been willing to listen to their problems, their ailments, and have at least acted concerned if not offered advice.
“What’s up?” I asked once he slunked down in the chair near my desk.
“I’m having bunky problems,” he answered. He proceeded to tell me how he felt sorry for his bunky. “His family pretty much disowned him,” he claimed. “He doesn’t have any money coming in. I’ve been sharing some of my personal store items: Ramen noodles, soup, coffee, honey buns, potato chips, peanut butter, crackers, you name it.”
“Then what’s the problem?” I asked.
“I do this out of the kindness of my heart,” he continued.
Then I learned about the payoff: All he wanted was for his bunky to shower once in a while.
“He smells really bad. When I confronted him about it, he got all nasty with me. I told him, ‘Look, I’ve been sharing my food with you, I’m not asking for much.’ Still, he acts as if none of what I did for him matters.”
“How long has he been your bunkmate?” I asked.
“Seven months. Seven months I’ve been sharing my food with him.”
I’m thinking to myself: Try eighteen years of building a future with someone. Try eighteen years of supporting someone, letting her have the freedom to make choices regarding not only her lifestyle, but your lifestyle as well—a lifestyle that included fifteen years of involuntary single-bunking. Try eighteen years of sharing everything, of trying to make a relationship work, only to have your partner put her hand up, as if to say, “That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m done. I’m through with you,” and toss you aside like trash ready to be hauled away.
Instead, I tell him, “You can always request a new bunky. Just remember: whoever you get could be worse.”
9 comments:
Small consolation, I suppose.
But you're writin' good.
Too much freedom, or not enough. Human beings don't seem well able to handle either.
To perpetuate this facade of an adult relationship for 15 years speaks of an unfettered psychosis. To say she is now acting like your adolesent offsprings best friend and not the parent is its' manifestation. Like raising two children by yourself. No matter what you do it is wrong. Keep your chin up. Like your writing the best is yet to come. You have tackled the problem. Huck.
let the shit settle and soon enough she'll only be able to remember how good the honey buns and other store goods were. Then whoops...too late to turn the boat around.
Man. I remember a student at Macomb who'd come all the way from Macedonia to attend classes there.
Concertina wire sounds so lovely until one knows what it is.
Not unlike relationships gone awry.
Good luck, do the best you can, write your way out of the evilness of how it sucks and become, indeed, some kind of free man in Paris if you can . . .
I'm sorry hon. *hug*
Hi JR I have been off the blogs for a few years now, only recently slowly started reading everyones blogs again. I am sorry to read this and nothing anyone says can make it better.
HUGZ Etain
Hey JR hang in there. I would have to agree with Huck. Unresolved trauma has a way of compounding when not treated correctly turning its victims into people who you thought you new into people you no longer know. Security
comes first and at all costs. Might have a new way to carpool. Keep in touch. MW
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