The Summer of Nelly

While Nelly was King of the Hill…

… I was working as an assistant director for a summer camp in my hometown…

… and I was trying to figure things out.

My mother had left our family in 1978 when I was ten, and I hadn’t seen her since. I’d written her a letter shortly after my parents’ divorce, but it was returned by her lawyer with no response, and I was at a loss.

My father warned me about women, told me they couldn’t be trusted, and I took that advice to heart. 

When my father remarried, my brother became my dad’s favorite, my stepmother brought her own son to the relationship, and I was the Fifth Wheel in the family. I shut my feelings up, acted as an arbiter whenever there were disputes, and emotionally checked out.

To prevent my mother from attempting to take us from our father, he had her sign away all rights, and we were adopted by our stepmother, no matter my feelings. Keep in mind, in 1981 things were a little different than they are today.

When the judge asked me to respond under oath, everyone was in the room, and I was too timid to scream “NO” when asked if I wanted to be adopted.

Twenty-four years to the summer of Nelly: 

Almost a quarter-century passed, all the while anger and frustration built within me. 

My first (and only) serious relationship ended with me taking a job in the Middle East.

A move I regretted because I’d lost the only love I’d had – though my life was changed for the better by going. 

Unfortunately, I spent the next five years attempting to win back my lost love…right until that summer.

I was dating a graduate student at Rutgers who was finishing up her Master’s, and looking for a teaching position. We hit it off immediately, and she made plans to move in with me (it was never outright stated, but it was made obvious even to a brickhead like myself). 

One night, while talking to her on the phone, I stopped into a CVS and ran into…

…my ex.

My stomach lurched.  It was the first time I’d seen her in four years, and I quickly hung up the phone.  We talked for about a half an hour, then went our separate ways. During that time, I told her I made plans to go see my mother – I’d learned where she lived (just outside Baltimore), and I was going to surprise her and unleash my pent up anger. 

She told me she looked forward to hearing how it went.

I drove to the girlfriend’s house and broke up with her the next night. I told her I’d ran into the ex (whom she’d heard about), and I had to find out if things could work out.

I went to my mother’s house, and rang the doorbell at 5 pm on a Friday. 

She answered the door, and I said her name.  “Yes?”, she responded, then I said my name. 

“How did you find me?” 

No sign of affection, or love.

She coldly invited me in, both of our guards up. We talked for the next two hours, and the conversation grew worse as it went on. I made accusations, she did the same. At the end, I told her the religious leader she’d left with had physically abused my brother and I, and she attacked. “You always were a rebellious child.”

I had nothing left to say.  She gave no sign of remorse, or hurt feelings, while I’d been crushed again, an eight-year left crying inside.  

A week later, I asked out the ex. We went out a couple of times, during which I hoped to rekindle our romance.  After our second time out, I proposed we go out on Sunday to the Art Museum and a picnic…but the night before the “big date”, she called.

“You hurt me before, and I’m not going to let you hurt me again.” 

Two weeks, and the two women I’d cared for most had rejected me. Again.

At the end of summer, my mother called me. I was in the car on the way to play cricket, my new girlfriend (a co-worker from camp) next to me.

“I wasn’t ready to answer those questions you had when you visited…”

“… but I’m ready to answer them now.“

Frankly, I wasn’t ready for answers. 

I told her I’d call her back, but didn’t do so for another eight years. 

I had more relationships to burn before I realized I was incapable of fixing myself. and finally asked for help. 

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