Scott called me while I was at work on Thursday. Actually a strange number called me and when I picked it up, it was Scott. It was another, "I just wanted to say hey" thing. Pretend like nothing happened.
I told him it was inappropriate for him to call me while I was at work. I was trying to start a new job with new coworkers that didn't need to know my past. He said he had been trying to reach me this week, but had been unsuccessful (which explains the 4 missed calls the night before from phone numbers that closely resemble the rehab center's main number).
He just started in with the lies again. His step-mother had called me the previous weekend to tell me that Scott had been diagnosed with pneumonia and that his mother drove to rehab to drop off money for him for his prescriptions. I've had pneumonia, I told his step-mother. Actually I had walking pneumonia. And I felt so horrible that it was a struggle to lay in bed. Every time I coughed I cried because it hurt so much. There was no way I could have enough energy to walk myself to the hospital in 100° heat like he claims he did.
"Yeah, I have pneumonia," Scott tells me. "The doctors say I got it from sitting in the waiting room and not washing my hands."
"Um, you can't catch pneumonia from not washing your hands. It's a fluid build-up in the lungs. It doesn't work like that," I informed him.
"Well the doctors say it's the flu slash pneumonia."
"The flu slash pneumonia?"
"There's no such thing."
"Well the doctors wrote it down in my chart like that!" his voice got higher in earnest.
"They wrote down the flu slash pneumonia?"
"No they didn't."
Then I realized I fell for it and I was back in the old pattern. Through lying, Scott was at least getting me to interact with him, even if it was just arguing. I stopped and told Scott I didn't think we should talk unless the conversation is being supervised in a therapy setting.
"Why?" he demanded.
"Because you are in rehab!" I exclaimed.
"Why does that mean I have to be supervised?"
"BECAUSE YOU'RE FUCKED UP!"
"So you won't talk to me unless I'm being supervised because I'm so fucked up." He said quieter, obviously hurt.
"Scott," I breathed. "You are in an in-patient facility and plan to be there for at least a year. You don't do that unless you have problems. I don't know how to sugarcoat the fact you are in rehab."
Again I told him I needed to get off the phone. I am at work and I already know people heard me. Afterwards, I called his counselor at rehab and explained to him the situation and asked if Scott should be calling out with such regularity and isn't there a point in treatment when approaching friends and family is done properly.
The counselor asked when Scott last called me and I said 20 minutes ago. He then informed me that Scott wasn't even at rehab, but at the hospital for a tooth that may or may not be broken. That explained the strange number. He insinuated that Scott is avoiding treatment by making up excuses to leave and go to the hospital. I told him Scott's teeth have always been broken and asked about the the flu slash pneumonia. "He went to the hospital last week for congestion, that's all," he told me.
Scott avoiding treatment by spending the tax payers' dollars at the hospital for fake illnesses just brought me to a whole new level of anger with him.
The counselor asked if I wanted Scott calling me. "You know what? No," I said. "Not unless it is in a therapy setting."
"If it even gets to that point," he responded.
I was miserable when I got off the phone. I was fine at work until he called and now I felt like I was a big ball of energy. And then I remembered that my new coworkers heard my original phone call and teared up. I didn't want them to know anything bad about me so they would like me, and now they know I have a crazy ex-boyfriend in rehab. Tears rolled down my cheek.
One lady saw me cry and ran to my desk. "Please don't feel bad," she comforted. "I've had to go in the boss's office many times to talk to lawyers about my divorce. You feel awful about living at home with your parents? Well I'm 45 and living with my parents with my child because I have a crazy ex-husband."
Another girl approximately my age rolled her chair over to face me. "You live with your parents? Me too except I have a 2-year-old and I have to pay palimony to my ex-husband because he was a loser with no job when I left him. We all have crazy exes, please don't let it bother you."
"Besides, no one is in the office today because of the holiday. We were the only two people to hear you anyway," said the first lady.
It was enough for me to stop crying. I reached in my desk and pulled out my emergency make-up bag and went to the ladies room and put on a full face of make-up. With a fresh face I felt a lot better.