Jonathan, Again, A Story of Love and Loss

I met Jonathan in a psychiatrists office. We were waiting for the shrink to see us. Not at the same time, of course.
But I noticed him. The “Forgiven” tattoo on his forearm.
He noticed my pink thong as I leaned forward to get something out of my bag.
We passed each other the next day, gave him my number.
Met up the next day, and the next.
Wslked to the promenade in Brooklyn Heights. Kissed, his hand down my skirt, made me cum in three seconds; I went down on him and returned the favor.
We became a couple.
He was in rehab, avoiding a year in Rikers.
After five months, he decided to do the time. Get it over with then start fresh with me and get his son back.
Seven months, a few degrading visits, and he was home. My home with my son.
But Jonathan was doing pills. A lot of them. Yes, I probably should’ve checked his bottles. But I was more concerned my son could imitate someone nodding out.
Nightly, while my son and I were having dinner and watching TV, Jonathan would go off on me. Any insult he could think of. Then he’d nod off into the dresser drawer I gave him– fortunately for him the top one.
When he’d “come to”, more insults.
At night I’d ask him if anything happened on Rikers. Nothing. Nobody trief to rape him and his stuff was only touched once.
Saturday he had to go to the methadone program.
“I need $40 or i’ll have a siezure,” he tells me. Yes, he got his prescription but it wasn’t enough. I gave him the $40, asking him to pick up milk for my son. He says he’ll be back in two hours. It’s just after 8am.
He comes back at 2:42pm. No milk.
Two weeks into this I ask him to leave. He throws my phone at my breast, leaving a mark for a week. (He used to play baseball.)
As he leaves, he says he’s got a place to go. Not true. I try contacting him evrn tho he took all the money I’d saved– $450.
We get back together but I rarely see him.
My birthday approaches. He doesn’t see me for ten days before or trn days after. He doesn’t see me on my birthday.
When he’s with me he tells me how much he loves me. How, without me, he’d kill himself.
Our last two conversations are like that. He’s in rehab for us. He’s getting clean for us. He loves me so much. Without me he’d put a bullet in his brain, he’s so miserable.
And then…
That was the beginning of August. It’s almost December.
Haven’t heard from him since.
He’s got my address and phone number.
I just want closure.
To give him his stuff back.
And maybe ask, “Why?”


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