(The events with Picasso may not be in chronological order.)
Things were never hunky-dory with Picasso 100% of the time. I honestly don’t know how in the hell I ever put up with any of it, never mind for two-and-a-half months! Big Liar’s death was only weeks prior, so maybe that had something to do with it. Maybe I was vulnerable. I think I was lost in life; everything I planned had not panned out, and I was tired of starting over and felt I had no good options.
As I’ve stated before, Picasso was very charming. And apparently, I hadn’t learned from past mistakes with dating and allowing people into my life that drain me. We argued about several things. He really wore me down, and I don’t know why I allowed him to do it. He played my sympathy on his situation and knew how to manipulate me. I certainly wasn’t using good judgement, and I was drinking often – maybe 3 to 4 days a week, up to a 6-pack at a time or mixed drinks. It depended on whether I was home or out, and we drank when we were together.
When we met, Picasso confessed he used to be an addict. He seemed so sincere about his recovery. Since I wasn’t on drugs, Picasso thought I was good for him to be around. Sometimes he really drove me crazy, made my anxiety skyrocket, because he was like ADHD. When I was in my twenties, most guys didn’t act that way, so I knew this was a special case. I knew this was a short-lived romance because of the age difference, and once again, I should have ended it sooner.
His family was a completely fucked-up train wreck of addicts. Two years older, his sister was in and out of jail for various things, usually drugs. I met her a few times, and she was a terrible person when she didn’t get her way. When the sister gave Picasso a ride to my place, she yelled and screamed and carried on in front of my house. I ran outside to see what was going on. She was emasculating him over not giving her money (for drugs). I told her to leave, that she can’t be doing that shit in my neighborhood or on my street, and don’t come back. Whatever drug the sister got her hands on is what she took. I told him she’s not allowed on my street, and the neighbors will call the cops (a lie, but it worked).
One evening I was at a family member’s memorial service and noticed I had several missed calls from the sister’s phone, which was unusual. She called again. This time I picked up, thinking something was wrong. The sister slurred her words about something, not making sense, yelling that I needed to do something. I reminded her I was at a memorial service and hung up. She called again and again, blowing up my phone. I ignored her. I finally got in touch with Picasso to find out why the hell she was calling me in the middle of a family crisis. The sister wanted him to ask if she could borrow money from me. Hell fucking no! I was absolutely fuming when I found out why she called – the audacity to do that to someone. And then I worried that she knew I wasn’t home and may try to break into my house. I believe in her case, she’s more than an addict; she’s a complete narcissist. Those coupled can be extremely dangerous.
I hated seeing Picasso’s mood change when the sister came into town; she was abusive, and he practically bowed down to her, always doing whatever she demanded. I didn’t understand the control she had over him, but he claimed it was because of the things they had been through together. Sometimes it was sickening, the way she treated him, but he seemed to enjoy her attention. It was the weirdest behavior I’ve ever seen in a family, and I’ve witnessed some weird shit. When the sister came to town and slept in Picasso’s bed a few times, he slept at my place. Our heads began itching, and we discovered she brought head lice from jail to his pillows. Again, I was pissed off and disgusted. If she’d been a nicer person, it could’ve been forgivable, but she was evil and conniving, without remorse for anything. She was nothing but drama and trouble.
I met the father; and although seemingly nice, he had a drinking problem and no motivation to better himself. Barely a part of his life, Picasso’s mother lived in a different county, so I never had the pleasure of meeting her. She had a drug problem, and it sounded like a lot of other things going on.
Knowing Picasso’s family members put some pieces of the puzzle together. He had me convinced his heart was true, and I still think so. But he had so many issues for such a young man — issues that would take a lifetime to fix. He was doomed in his environment and the people he had in his life.
But many issues about him quickly became huge problems for me.
I never date smokers, and Picasso smoked. I made him smoke outside, so he was in and out of my house all the time. The back and forth made me anxious and annoyed. Worst of all, he smoked 305s, which are cheap and stink a lot worse than other cigarettes. Sometimes he woke up at 5 a.m., slammed my door to smoke, and got back in bed. Oh, hell no! The odor about made me puke. Now I was awake and pissed off at him for waking me, and he fell back to sleep snoring. I’d go outside and find cigarette butts lying around on my porch or on the patio. What in the absolute fuck is wrong with him?! I woke him up to make him clean it up. I wasn’t having that shit at my house, and this is one time I felt like he needed his mother. That didn’t settle well with me, and although I knew it would never work out between us, I allowed him to keep coming around.
He mostly drank monstrous alcoholic energy drinks. And he drank my beer. Picasso rarely replaced anything he consumed, and it began affecting my budget and my mood. He ruined a lot of my things with his carelessness or made huge messes that took a while to clean. Picasso spilled beer on my floors, peed on my toilet seat and floor, and other slobby things that annoy the shit out of women and moms. Each time, I made him clean it, and he learned.
Once, he bought glow sticks at the dollar store and played around, twirling them. A cap came off in the middle of his twirling, and all the yellow glow liquid went in a circular motion from my floor to my ceiling, all over my desk, computer, and a door. The liquid isn’t removable from the keyboard, and it ruined my beautiful wooden desk, as it ate through the plastic and wood.
Picasso was at my place the night of the memorial service, the same night the sister called me. When we arrived home, my family member went to take a shower and started yelling. Picasso shaved his body hair, and it was covering the tub. It was completely disgusting, and I think he did it to show off. I was so pissed at him, especially considering we just came from a memorial service! I yelled at him and told him to clean it.
We were exhausted from the service, and dealing with his nonsense was one of the last straws for me. This was serious, and he was being a nuisance. I really wanted him gone, because I needed family time; and his neediness and selfishness were in the way. He didn’t understand that this was not the time for his charm and for trying to be cute.
But there was something else I didn’t notice…
Free The Burden 
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