Okay, now; as you'll remember, I was arrested by airport security for having a stolen credit card in my possession before I could head down to Colorado and "save" Mike's marriage, talk some sense into Deanna and keep "That woman" from interfering. What you don't know is why; when Gordon and Tracey showed up to bail me out, they explained that they thought that Fiona had coshed me over the head so she could start a new life elsewhere as a dentist's wife. When I asked them how it was they were the ones to cancel my cards, they explained that the business arrangement that gives John and me part interest in their business is set to alert them if someone takes out a lot of money at once; they texted John and he did it. I felt foolish enough without Tracey muttering about how I was the only person stupid enough to want my identity. It seems that while I was 'away', they spent most of their time trying to work things out so that they could buy us out; since I was in a grey area mentally, they couldn't quite do that.
As for why I was where I was, the doctors at the CMH waved those creepy looking MRI and PET scan things under my nose, talked about the balance of chemicals in my brain like I was a car that needed fixing, said there was never anything physically wrong and then told me that I was in a fugue state. In case this sounds like I spent the last eighteen months dancing, it's not. What it is is a sort of waking dream that had me thinking that I was a young woman with two small children living in the early 1980s; I can only remember vague images of that time and when I read my letters, I'm sort of horrified. Horrified enough to want to stay at the CMH while I clear things up. If you've keeping track, though, you'll be fairly clear as to the reason why I let the stress build up to the point where my brain went on strike. It's as Claire as crystal, if you will. Funny how I never saw that all she wanted was to simply come up and say "So you're my birth mom, huh? How's your life been?" and then go about her business; I was sure she was coming in to destroy what I had. Of course, I had help thinking that. Not only did I have to contend with a stiff of a husband who thought he was a bigger deal than he is, I had a friend who wasn't a friend at all filling my head with the negative nonsense that makes me feel important.
This brings me to the point I really wanted to make: how I finally divorced Connie. As I was about to say last time, I failed that last course in correspondence school and had to make up my GED when I was married to Stan 'cause I spent more time listening to her weak B.S. than I did cracking a book. As you know, I thought if I told the truth, I'd have to spend the rest of my life as Elly, The Fallen Woman with the Big-Ass Red A on her shirt. She was the one that kept harping on that; it didn't seem to matter that other people who knew more said that this was not the case. It didn't matter if Phil, Dad, Mom, Mom's bridge club or anyone else said that after the heat died down, I could get my life back, Connie had convinced me that they were pulling a bait-and-switch on me and I believed her because being the target of "persecution" was cooler than being the object of pity. She should know being a scam artist; that's because one of the orderlies here is from Thunder Bay and told me an interesting fact: Connie destroyed his golf buudy Greg's marriage to his first wife. The comparison to what happened to Therese Arsenault is somewhat horrifying. In both cases, we started out with a clingy, needy, desperate idiot who thought the world owed her a living who'd set her sights on an awkward dolt who felt trapped because his possessive and suspicious wife insists that he act like an adult; upon her realization that she looked like salvation to this twit, Connie started moving in for the kill. By means devious and foul, she slowly but surely drove a wedge between them while all the time playing the innocent. The worst of it is that she expected his children to sit there and take it. Check that; the worst of is that Liz has no idea what she did or why. As I implied, I'm beginning to see how much it must suck to be Therese and how repulsive we look. And are. Connie didn't see it that way, not in her case and not in Liz's; Hell, she thought that Dad lied his ass off when he made his video will. I may not know much and I might not be all that nice a person but even I know that no one sits down to write his last testament with the intention of leaving behind the message "PYSCH!! SUCKERS!!"
My odd reliance on palling around with con artists is another reason that I'm going to stay at the Mental Health Centre for a little while longer; I have to figure out why that is. Hell, I'm just now starting to figure out who the slouching idiot with her face frozen in a frown I see in the mirror is; I don't much like her or care for the way she raised her kids or what she let them become but some day soon we might reconcile. I don't know if I can embrace being the Town Pariah as readily as John has but, well, we'll see.
In case we don't meet up again for a while, it's been nice talking to you.