The Buckhead Boy

I rarely talk about my ex-husband, Roby. 

 

The failure of our marriage still rattles me – almost nine years later.  In case you don’t know me well and have missed my previous postings – it takes me a very long time to process sad, tragic events.   

Not sure if it is a defense mechanism or denial.  Or one in the same.

Roby and I were a couple for thirteen years – married for ten.  We knew each other for eight years prior to that.  So our relationship wasn’t some fast, lust-induced, regrettable mistake.  It was actually built on a pretty solid foundation of friendship, love, and compatibility.

We agreed on pretty much everything.  We shared a similar ironic, dry, sarcastic sense of humor.  We liked the same kind of music and food.  We loved to travel and experience new places and people.

We were similar in other ways – strong-willed, stubborn, and deeply sentimental.   We wanted the same things out of life – marriage, children, a nice house and a stable income.

In Atlanta, we used to have “Buckhead Boys”.  Maybe we still do – I am now totally out of touch.  A Buckhead Boy is someone who grew up in the old money area of Atlanta known as Buckhead.  Back in the day they drank brown liquor, smoked cigarettes, drove fancy cars, attended the best schools, escorted debutantes during the annual ball at the Piedmont Driving Club and went on vacation with their families to The Cloister on Sea Island.  They wore Madras and loafers or Dock Siders without socks.  Rarely did a stitch of clothing make its way into their closet if it wasn’t purchased at The Buckhead Men’s Shop.   James Dickey even wrote about them in his poem, “Looking for the Buckhead Boys”.

And Roby was one of them.  Only cooler.

He was also an alcoholic.  A very, good alcoholic.

I had heard rumors of his legendary partying back before we became a couple.   But since he wasn’t anyone I would have ever considered being attracted to – I just found the stories entertaining.  And I assumed that like most gossip, they were exaggerated and probably untrue.

When Roby first asked me out, I assumed we were still “just friends”.  He was a perfect gentleman - never laid a hand on me and never even acted like he was interested in more.  It was months before he finally let it be known that he wanted more than friendship.  I had actually been courted in a very old-fashioned and respectful way.

In the back of my mind, I replayed the office gossip.  But during our dinners, he was nothing short of perfect.  His precious grandmother, “Muv” had insured he would have all the social skills old Buckhead required.   We drank expensive wine and after dinner liqueurs.  He was obviously comfortable around a bar but in those days, he kept it together.  And while the warning signs were there – I simply didn’t want to see them.

And like I said – he was good.  A totally, functional alcoholic. 

My family and friends loved him.  My mother adored him.  I often thought she liked him much more than she liked me.  He fit in perfectly. 

And eventually, I totally pushed the little voice out of my head.  It seems I was just as good at ignoring Roby’s addiction as he was at attempting to hide it.

The realization that my husband was an alcoholic came very slowly.  Like I said – it takes me a while to process certain things.  At first, I made excuses for him.  Then I tried to reason with him.  Then I got angry with him.  Rinse, repeat.  The patterns in our life read like a manual for addiction counselors everywhere.

To me it was so simple.  Just stop drinking.   As I look back on our marriage, I am more appalled by my arrogance than anything else.  I actually believed I could fix his addiction. 

Alcoholism is a disease and it is hereditary.  Roby came from a long line of alcoholics.  Once in a moment of rare transparency, his father explained to me why he and his wife never drank.  Charlie had never tasted a drop of liquor.  His reason was pretty straight forward – it scared the hell out of him.  He feared the family curse.  And his heart was broken over Roby’s struggle.  I will never forget what he said during that candid conversation:

“Lisa, you are the answer to our prayers.  All Roby needed was to finally find you.”

Great.  No pressure or anything.

Sadly, Charlie died of a heart attack within a month of putting the weight of his son’s sobriety on my shoulders.

With Charlie’s words ringing in my ears and as much as I wanted to - ultimately, I couldn’t save Roby.  As cliché as it sounds – only Roby would be able to save himself.

It took years for me to finally accept this harsh reality.  No amount of love, compassion, anger or ultimatums was going to fix this problem.

But, I had to give it one more try and I had to be willing to walk away forever, if it didn’t work.  I was finally ready to give up on him.

All I asked was for him to get help.  I knew the disease would always be there and I was more than willing to take that hard journey with him.  Quit drinking, join AA, go to rehab, and get therapy.

If you do these things, I will fight right along beside you.

If you don’t, our marriage is over.  Period.

He refused.    

After all the drama his drinking had brought into our lives, my decision was extremely simple and straightforward when I pared it down to one question - Did I want to keep living with someone who wasn’t willing to meet me half way?   And the answer was no. 

Just typing the words still makes me feel like a selfish bitch.

There were very few people who knew what our marriage had become.  As the messy and painful divorce process was underway I told those closest to me, “He will be dead within two years.”

Fourteen months later in the early morning of January 3, 2006 Roby was killed when he drove his car into a tree less than a mile from his mother’s house.  He was on his way home from a bar. 

He was finally at peace.  His suffering had ended.

I am not sure why he has been on my mind so much over the last month or so.  For most of these years since our divorce I couldn’t think of him without deep sadness.  But lately, I find myself thinking of Roby as the man I fell in love with.  Ironic, funny, intelligent, charming and at his core, (even though he tried to hide it with his cocky, bad boy image) a true southern gentleman.

A Buckhead Boy.  And someone I am proud to have had in my life.

Happy Birthday, Roby.  I hope you, Muv and Charlie are sitting together on a porch somewhere with a nice, glass of tea.