Where are they now?

Mark

Light Facebook stalking years ago revealed that he is married. She's not as pretty as me. Talk about wasted tears. At least I got a blog out of it.

Conor

Conor sent me a text back in April late one night. He told me he inherited a lot of money and was now independently wealthy but didn't want to tell anyone. He fished around as to whether I had a boyfriend. When I said I did, he stopped responding. He's had the same girlfriend for about 3 years.

Adam

Facebook had the last laugh.

Jack

Jack contacted me once via LinkedIn. Unfortunately I was in a really horrible place, so I sent him a weird response (i.e. "I'm good! I followed your advice, but I got laid off! And now I have cancer!"). Naturally he never responded. Nor did he follow through on any of my LinkedIn connections for a job. I have since deleted him from LinkedIn.

The Musician

Abraham and I went to go see his band last week. On the way there I was like, "Uh, so you should know that five years ago I went on two dates with one of the band mates."

I couldn't tell if Abraham was jealous or not. I thought he may have been since he told our entire party, including people I've never met, that I went out with the Musician. But on the other hand, the band seemed a little sadder this time. Five years ago the band mates were in their twenties. Now they're in their thirties, still working their day jobs as servers and still playing the same songs at the same venues. Five years later and they are no more popular. Nothing has changed for them except for their receding hair lines.

I don't know if The Musician recognized me or not. I've changed a lot since then.

S

Several months ago S' step-mom phoned me. S was back in jail.

"When was he in jail?" I asked.

Apparently he was sentenced to several months in jail for beating up yet another girlfriend. And he was being ordered back in for violating his probation and appearing in front of the judge drunk.

Christopher

Christopher. I don't know if he sold his email address or joined some marketing strategy, but I started getting those horrible, spammy emails from his address. The ones with a single link to Canadian Viagra.

I reported that his email address was hacked. I still got the emails. I sent him three emails kindly telling him to change his password. I still got the emails. So then I blocked him.

Valentine's Day he sent me a friend request on Facebook. I had deleted him after I dumped him years ago. I accepted and now he stalks from afar. LinkedIn reported a few months ago that he is now living in Illinois, so y'all are on notice.

Valdosta

I never heard from him since the night he dumped me. I've never looked him up. I don't want to know anything because I don't want to be sad. He will have to remain a mystery.

The Hungarian 

The Hungarian tried to have sex with me on our last date. I turned him down cold. I never heard from him again. Funny thing, it took me about 2 months to realize it.

Clemson

No one has seen or heard from him in about a year. I've been tempted to send him a text to make sure he is alive, but it's not my place.

Statham

Statham now lives with the ex-girlfriend, who is no longer an ex. They came out to Abraham's tailgate about a month ago and we were all drinking together. She didn't speak to me, but Statham was his usual friendly self to Abraham and me. Everybody acted like nothing ever happened.

In the Details

Not a lot of people know about S. My core group of friends that had to pick me off my floor knew: Harvey and her husband, Katie, Mel and a girl I'm no long friends with. Swayze heard rumors, I'm sure. Government Mule had yet to join the group.

Even though they knew certain things, no one knew the whole story. I don't think they want to know the whole story. Hell, I don't even want to know the whole story. The last thing I wrote about S in my diary was in November 2007 when we had been together less than five months: This is not a fairy tale. Do not let him see you cry.

It's hard, living with the details. Having certain images in my head that no one knows. When you go through trauma, you tend to remember all the details. Whether the TV was on. The shape of the glass he was drinking out of. The way in which he staggered to me, and the look of utter seriousness on his face as he spat that he hated me.

I read this the other day. The details. Oh, the details. The details were so specific and exact that I had to stop reading and check whom the author was. Then I had to re-read to be sure it wasn't the same city. I lived that story.

It was about two weeks in when we had our first serious fight and I shattered a table lamp against a wall. It would not be until much later that things got even worse (and that’s a whole other story altogether)...

It was about two weeks in when we had our first serious fight as well. Instead of throwing a lamp, S drug me across the floor.

I took a bunch of pills — painkillers — whole bottles’ worth.

S once took a bottle of pills while I was at home. An entire bottle of sleeping pills. I was in the other room, not paying attention to him, pretending he didn't exist and I wasn't trapped in my own home with this man who told me—no, threatened me—that he would never leave. He was acting peculiar, more so than he usually did. He was sluggish and not responding to things coherently. I found the empty bottle of sleeping pills after he passed out. Then I started checking his hiding spots (he was supposed to be sober at the time) and found an empty bottle of jager in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. I placed both empty bottles on the counter and got my neighbor.

My neighbor was somewhat friends with him. Knew him enough. He saw the empty bottles and the state S was in. He said we needed to call 9-1-1. I refused. I said the neighbor would have to call. If I called, S would become angry and I didn't want another fight. I would do anything if it meant not angering him. The neighbor must have understood what I meant, because he went into his bathroom, got his taser and shot it into the bathtub to see if the taser was working properly. In case he had to tase S. The neighbor then walked back into my apartment and removed all my knives as he called an ambulance.

The paramedics said S' blood pressure was too low. He would have to go to the hospital.

The light was piercing, and a nurse shoved aside the curtain that walled me off and handed me a cup and said, drink this. It was liquid charcoal and it tasted exactly how you might think liquid charcoal would taste. I tried not to put my teeth together but when I did little bits of charcoal ground between them like I’d a mouth full of silt.

To me, the liquid charcoal made S look like a toothless scarecrow. The nurse asked him if he meant to try to kill himself. I excused myself from the room. S said I could stay. The nurse said it might be a better idea if I left so he could be honest during his psych evaluation. I laughed to myself. I left so I wouldn't hear him lie.

His mother and sister refused to come to the hospital. His father did. His father sat next to me in the waiting room and told me—for the first time—that S comes from a long line of alcoholics and probably won't change. His grandfather died early from the disease. The same grandfather that S wanted to name his children after. I wondered if that was some sort of sick joke to keep the name of that horrible man alive. To create more alcoholics.

She was the reason I was in that emergency room in the first place. I guess I was the reason, but, I can’t remember what we were fighting about — it doesn’t — none of it matters anymore. What matters is that there I lay, and I said yes, and a minute or two later the curtain again swept aside and in walked my girlfriend... All she said was, “You’re not going home from here, you know that.”
I did not.

I said this to S when I re-entered the room. You aren't going back to my apartment. I did not sign up for the responsibility to keep him from alcohol. He could go to rehab. He could go home with his father, but his father quickly squashed the idea. No, he's not welcome there either. S stared angrily at the ceiling in silence.

I listened to the sounds of the nurses and whoever else might be in that emergency room beyond the curtain, and when I thought they were on the room’s opposite end or gone altogether I pulled the IV from my arm and sat up. I don’t remember if this hurt, but there was blood.

When S stood up from the bed and pulled out the IV, blood squirted across the room like a child putting a thumb on the end of a garden hose in summer. A nurse unexpectedly walked in and gasped. Apparently there is a mechanism in the needle to keep it in place, and he ripped his vein pretty badly by pulling on it like he did.

His father put S in my car to go home with me hours after the overdose. My words of him not coming home meant nothing. I was too weak. I was too tired of being drug across rooms and spit upon and choked.

I would do anything if it meant not angering him.

We are Frogs

We are more accepting of change when it is gradual. A hoarder doesn't come home with 10 dumpsters of useless crap and shovel it in her house until it's stuffed. The useless crap comes in bag by bag until one room is filled, and then another, and then another until the house is crumbling on its foundation.

It's the same with relationships. They sour slowly. He doesn't pin you against the wall and choke the life out of you on the first date. Or the second. He promises to love you forever first. He promises to make up for the wrongdoings of every man before him. And then you have a fight, and that fight is kind of scary, but he says he's sorry and he goes back to loving you forever so you forgive the momentarily scary part. But every subsequent fight gets a fraction scarier and you find yourself forgiving him. If you were able to forgive the first scary part, why shouldn't you forgive this? It's only a little worse than the last thing you forgave. And it repeats and it repeats until he's drunk and throws an empty wine bottle at you and it shatters on the slate tile underneath your bare feet and your legs are bleeding from the broken shards. And as terrified for your life as you have become in this moment, you have one coherent thought: How did I get here?

(For the record, it was a white wine bottle. Cast in green glass. And I barricaded myself in the closet until he passed out drunk on the couch. And I finally called my mom and told her I was ready to come home.)

The change happens so gradually that you don't realize how bad the relationship had become until you get out of it. You don't realize how bad you had been feeling until you feel better. After my mom and I got out of our relationships, we spoke a lot in metaphors. Always having long, thick hair, I'd describe the feeling to my mom as getting my hair chopped off and how much lighter my head felt because I wasn't carrying the weight of my hair anymore. My mom, never having long, thick hair, described the feeling as getting a new pair of glasses and not realizing how poor her vision had become with the old prescription. I heard someone else—who had neither long hair nor glasses—describe the feeling as getting an abscessed tooth pulled. We describe what we know.

The thing about all these metaphors is that it makes it easier to forgive yourself for getting into a situation you thought you were too smart to be in. This was the unspoken conversation we had been having.

One day I was out shopping with my mom and we were still talking in metaphors. She used my Graves Disease as an example, with me not knowing how sick I was until a tumor on my thyroid grew so thick that it restricted the air flow in my throat.

"Do you know how to cook a frog?" I said randomly.

"No."

"You don't put it in boiling water; it'll jump out. However, if you place the frog in tepid water and slowly turn up the heat, it'll sit there until it cooks. It doesn't feel the temperature rising. We were frogs who were able to jump out of the pot in time."

She gasped. My mother acted like this was the most intelligent thing I've ever said, "You are absolutely right. We are frogs."

That was it. That was the metaphor my mother needed to forgive herself. Not the haircut, or the glasses, or the tooth abscess or my illness, what my mother needed was a frog in a pot of water.

I went to a jewelry shop and bought my mother a silver leaping frog for her charm bracelet. The bracelets we both have that contain our histories. Only it was too perfect a gift to wait until Christmas, so I handed her the box after she dogsat my dog one weekend. She opened it.

"So you don't forget the frogs," I explained.

My mother cried.

20 Questions - The Accident

The motorbike accident Scott had. Was he drunk / high on drugs at the time?

Also, it was very good manners of you to send a thank you note for the donation I made towards helping Scott out with his medical bills, but what I'm really curious about is this: did you handwrite a thank you note to EVERY single person who sent a donation, regardless of how small the amount was? -Anonymous

True story. I mailed a handwritten thank-you note to everyone that donated during that time, regardless of the amount and regardless of location in the world. And each letter was unique; it wasn't a form thank you. That outpouring of blog love meant so much to me that I had to do something special in return.

However, there was one person who made a donation who didn't have his name or address on his PayPal account. He merely asked that I forward his donation to an animal shelter when I was financially able to do so. I had starred the e-mail and kept it in my inbox for two years, waiting to thank him one day. This year, I figured out who it was and thanked him accordingly, although he never received a handwritten thank you. And I did forward his donation to a local no-kill shelter.

Really, thank you everyone during that time. Thank you for reading, thank you for commenting and thank you for donating.

Now for the hard part. I don't know, Anonymous. I don't know whether he was drunk or high on drugs. I have my suspicions. He had told me at the hospital, "Thank god I only had one beer," but it turned out he lied to me about anything and everything, so who knows whether that was true. When he was in rehab, he sent me a letter saying he was drinking a case a beer a day that he hid from me. So it's possible.

I didn't know. I hope you believe me on this. I didn't know about the drugs until my friend had sat me down and told me months after I had moved out. She knew the behaviors because she used to do them. I didn't. I grew up in a rich bubble in suburbia where everything was okay all the time. I didn't know that people could drink and hide it. Or that people could do drugs and hide it. Or that people could lie to the extent that he did. I mean, it all sounds so easy. How stupid do you have to be to not recognize someone on drugs? He'd throw up every morning. "It's irritable bowel syndrome," he'd tell me. "It's an ulcer." Who am I to distrust him? I am a trustworthy person, after all.

And this is why my friendship with Mel is so important. She grew up five doors down from me in the same rich, suburban bubble. She understands what it's like to be naïvely out of touch with the real world. The epiphanies we have shared since we went to the same university and lived in adjacent dorms would make others shake their heads. But she understands that naïve part of me because she is the same way. That helps me forgive myself.

If you've paid attention, the moment I found out about the drugs was the moment I stopped using his name. I wiped him clean similar to how Egyptian pharaohs would methodically remove the previous pharaoh's name from temples in an attempt to remove him/her from history. For months I would write only using pronouns, confusing everybody until they read the post label. Then for clarity's sake I started using his initial. But I have never once used his name after that.

The weird thing about the accident that I never told anybody: when he got in the accident, he was coming from the wrong direction. He told me he was going out for something generic: beer or cigarettes or something. I had asked him to stop at a sandwich shop and pick me up a sandwich while he was out. And when he got into the collision, he was not at the part of town where my sandwich shop was. There was no real reason for him to be where he was. So was he out doing something he shouldn't have been doing? It's likely.

A year later, the judge had ruled that both vehicles were at fault.

That accident cost me thousands of dollars. He was suddenly out of work and I was supporting him. He wouldn't look for work because he was recovering. He had medical bills: for surgery, for doctors' appointments, for medications. I wasn't a person to just not pay people and let things go to collections. Then he couldn't find a job he liked. He got fired from here. He got fired from there. He gave up looking for the month of April.

And then I had to spend thousands more to get out of that relationship. I had to break my lease to move out while he was at work. I lost all of my deposits and I had to pay a $900.00 fine. It was the most expensive lesson of my life.

Enough

Do you feel like a man when you push her around?

Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground?

-- "Face Down" The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

I heard my cell phone ring. But I was still hung over from the previous night with Lawyered and his fiancée, and the phone was alllllllll the way in the other room. I figured it was just Schmoozer trying to make plans for the night anyway. I let it go to voicemail.

A couple of hours later, I finally checked my phone. I didn't recognize the number. I listened to the voicemail. It was S' step-mom. I hadn't heard from her since January of this year when I avoided her calls. It had probably been a year before that when we last spoke.

She was calling because she had news; I knew that. The question was, did I want to hear it? My mother had received her Karma and I wanted to know mine. I was oddly unemotional. I could have deleted the message and walked away without a second thought. I couldn't have cared less what the news was.

I guess that means I'm finally over it. I read an article on forgiveness and it said that it takes most people about two years after the incident to be able to forgive. Like clockwork, it's been two years and a handful of months since I moved out while he was at work. I did it in secret for my own safety. He returned home to an empty apartment with nothing in it but a couch, because that was all that he owned.

I nothing him. I'm no longer angry. I'm no longer sad. I can't look back at the happy times of the relationship because they were all lies. From start to finish. The only lingering feeling I have towards the entire situation is forgiving myself.

In the hot second I dated Statham, we were lying in bed naked. Despite being an athlete and in very good shape, he wasn't comfortable being exposed. Even though his body as a man was better than mine as a woman. He didn't like it when my fingertips ran across his flesh because it made him feel self-conscious.

"What's this scar?" I asked pointing to his upper arm. There was a very deep, very purple scar running from his armpit down the inside of his arm.

"It's a stretch mark from when I used to be fat," he responded, shifting his weight in unease.

I knew he used to be heavier. He had shown me pictures. To me, he never looked fat; he just didn't look like him. But the scar was a physical toll to symbolize the emotional one his weight took on him.

And that's how I feel. I have a very deep, very purple scar on my heart from when I used to be abused. It's no longer about S anymore. It's about me.

I returned his step-mom's call. Honestly, the only reason I did it is because the blog has been a little dry lately. I also empathize with the step-mom's position. I was able to leave the situation and make a clean break from him. She can't. She's married to the problem. She doesn't work and she spends her days in solitude as she waits for her husband to return home. She doesn't have a lot of people she can turn to so she can deal with the situation. That's why I think she calls me.

S was arrested again. For beating up his newest girlfriend. I know, the Internet just took a collective inhale of shock. He has hurt every single one of his girlfriends since me. He spent the 72 hours in lockup and was released. Just like last time.

"You know, I think there is a pattern," she told me. "He either loses his girlfriend or his job within the same week."

I snorted. Was that not obvious? After I left him, he showed up to work drunk/high and was fired. I can also assume that means he isn't working anymore either.

"And at a family gathering and he stole his father's wedding ring."

"Mmm-hmm." This isn't news. He pawned my shit too.

"We think he's back to drinking and doing drugs."

"He never stopped," I replied.

And while we were talking, he called her on the other line. She played me the message so I could commiserate with her. However, I was pissed off at her insensitivity to play me the voice of the person who had hurt me. She had saw it happen first-hand.

There was one night we were at their house for dinner. S wasn't supposed to be drinking, but he poured himself a glass of wine. No one wanted to start a fight with him, so everyone let him be. He got drunk and said awful things to me. And of course, because he was my boyfriend, he had to get in my car and ride back to the apartment.

We were a few miles outside of her house when we started shouting at each other. Then he pulled my emergency brake while I was driving down the street, causing me to fishtail in another lane. I screamed. He then grabbed me by the throat and began choking me against the driver's side window while I was still driving. I swerved into another lane. I was frightened. I frantically honked the horn, hoping someone would see my erratic driving and honking and call the police. He lunged at the wheel.

After he let go of me I stopped the car in the middle of the road, shaking and crying.

"I need to get out of here," I mumbled.

As I opened the driver's side door, he opened his and ran around to my side and grabbed my car keys. I didn't care. I didn't care. I left my car and my keys and my purse in the middle of the road and began running.

This was before I took up running, but I ran the entire distance to their house faster than every 5k I've ever completed. I rang their bell and beat on their door in complete hysterics.

They didn't need to go look for him. He drove my car like a bat out of hell back to the house. They tried to console me, telling me he's pulled that maneuver with a previous girlfriend. They scolded him. Then they told us it was time to go and they sent him home with me. A selfish part of them didn't want me to leave him, because as long as I was with him, he was my problem, not theirs.

When I heard his voice on her answering machine, I felt nothing. Whatever. It's just a voice. One I don't know.

Face down in the dirt, she said,

'This doesn't hurt.' She said,

'I've finally had enough.'

Bug off

I just screamed "SON OF A BITCH!" at the top of my lungs in an open office plan.

S just friend requested me again. It had been two whole days since his last contact. I have not acknowledged his existence since he threatened me in October 2009.

Cockroach, I tell you.

Cockroaches

Around midnight after another epic Friday happy hour, I was shuffled into the parking lot and ordered in someone's car. I fell down in the grass only to stand up giggling and fall down again. It had been one of those nights.

The girl driving the car I met through dodgeball. I don't know her very well—it turned out I had been pronouncing her name wrong all evening—but I buckled my seat belt. Vince climbed in the hatchback of her Beetle and laid down, mumbling that he was being kidnapped. Only we kind of were. The plan was to go to Harvey's house, but the girl driving wanted to go to another bar.

We ended up at our dodgeball league bar. I stumbled into the small room that makes up the bar. I tugged at her shirt, "It's midnight and it's not a game night; we aren't going to know anybody. Heeeey!"

As soon as I said that, we ran into a guy on another team, one that I've befriended over the past season. He was standing with two other guys that I didn't recognize.

"Are your friends single?" I blatantly asked.

"Yes."

"For real?"

"Yes."

"Then come back to Harvey's. We'll play beer pong."

"But we only know flip cup!" he protested.

"It'll be fun!" I promised.

And just like that the boys left and picked up a case of beer and met us at Harvey's. I was surprised at the ease the situation transpired. I asked if they were single and they said yes. I asked them to leave a bar and go to someone's house that they didn't know and they said yes. The entire conversation took less than five minutes.

Harvey's husband set up the beer pong table and I played the two single guys with the girl who drove me around town. I won.

Just as quick as the boys decided to come to Harvey's, they decided to leave. The guy I did know thanked me over and over and said he had my number and he'd be in touch. Sucks for me that he was the married one. After they left, I received more texts about what a good time they had.

My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I picked up the call, hoping it was one of the single guys I just met.

"Heeeeeeeey."

It took me a beat to place the voice. It was Christopher.

"Oh. hey."

He tries to casually start a conversation. My replies are terse.

"What's that noise I hear in the background?" he probes.

"I'm at a party."

"No, you're not. Where are you?"

"I told you. I. am. at. a. party."

Harvey hears my lowered and curt tone and turns around. Who is it? she mouths, silently.

Christopher, I mouth back.

"Hand me the phone," she says with her arm extended towards me, palm up.

I place the phone in her hand. She hangs up on him. Immediately the phone begins ringing again.

This is too much. The cute, single guys who boosted my ego had left. The one I don't want is calling. I'm drunk.

I left the ringing phone in Harvey's possession and ran upstairs to the spare bedroom. I flopped down on the bed and tears started rolling down my face. Stupid, nonsensical, drunk tears. I could hear Harvey talking on the phone downstairs and everyone laughing.

"No, you're drunk!" she shouts into the phone. "Fine, then say 'bank statement.'" Everyone cheers.

A few minutes later, I watch Harvey tiptoe up the stairs and peek into the bedrooms until she finds me. She crawls on the bed next to me and hands me my phone back. "I programmed the number as Do Not Answer so you won't accidentally pick it up anymore." As if to illustrate her point, Christopher begins calling again. She shows the phone to me, "See?" Then she hangs up on him. The phone rings again, and she hangs up on him again.

"He kept trying to tell me how much money he was making, but he was slurring the whole time," she said.

I sniffed.

She motioned towards the window, "Those curtains came with the house. Aren't they ugly?"

"Mmm hmm."

Another pause. "This is going to be the baby's room."

Great. I was lying on the bed drunk and crying in the baby's room. I tainted the baby's room with my bad ju ju.

"It's the farthest room from your bedroom," I tried.

"Are you kidding me? Do you think I want to be woken up in the middle of the night?"

I began talking. About everything and anything and nothing at the same time. I've spent so much time putting on a brave face that I just needed a release, even if it came through hard liquor and beer pong. Harvey listened silently, knowing that it didn't really matter what I was saying, just that I was saying something.

***

Yesterday I logged on Facebook to discover that S has now sent me friend request #3.

I had this huge accomplishment over the weekend. I got up and ran the race and finished in a respectable amount of time for my first attempt. I've felt so much personal growth over the last year and it's exhausting to constantly battle the roach infestations that are my sleazebag ex-boyfriends.

My ex-boyfriends are cockroaches. Where there's one, there's usually another one lurking nearby. Just when you think you got rid of them, they come back stronger than ever. They're nocturnal, vile and they'll outlive us all.

Unanswered

Text message received Wednesday, 10:03 p.m.:

When am I going to see you again?

It's from The Hungarian. Hmm. My newest mission was to get back out there and date. I tapped my nail on the screen of my phone.

Is this a date request or a booty call?

Let's call it a date. I'll call you Friday and we can work out the details.

Interesting. Okay then, I typed.

But there may be some booty involved, he added.

No. No. No. I haven't heard from him in six weeks. He does not get to assume he's going to get laid.

Not guaranteed!

Why not?

Because I haven't heard from you in six weeks!

So?

I left it unanswered. I am a person, not a vagina. He was making me feel less than what I already felt, not more.

The next morning, he sent another text: Booty still not guaranteed?

I never responded. He never called.

***

Christopher has resumed calling. I deleted his information awhile ago, so I picked up the phone when I didn't recognize the number. He was drunk; I was at work. It was 5 o'clock on a Tuesday.

Once again he was rambling about his new job and about all the money he was going to be making. He told me he could move anywhere in the U.S. He told me he was considering Texas or California. Yup, he said he was moving to San Diego in three weeks. I didn't believe him, but just gave him the cursory mmm-hmm as I typed at my desk.

"I am so happy, babe," he slurred.

The use of babe made my skin crawl. "That's great for you," I said, completely uninterested. And then I hung up the phone. I didn't pick up when he called back.

And now the 4 a.m. phone calls have resumed. Being woken up completely bewildered when I have work the next morning really pisses me off. Of course they don't happen when I'm at Valdosta's. When the late night phone calls didn't work, he started sending me e-mails. All unanswered. He had me and he treated me like he didn't even want me.

***

S's step-mother has begun calling me again, leaving messages. All unanswered. I haven't spoken to her since probably May of last year, so I know something must have happened with S for her to start calling me again. If he had died, she'd probably tell me on the voicemail. However her voicemails don't indicate death so I can't be bothered. And really that's the only news I can stand to hear about S.

It's never who you want to call, is it?

Werewolves

My mother is spending the week visiting my sick grandmother in the nursing home. She had been telling me that her gentleman friend called her while she was out of town and begged her to return early so they could go out.

"He just would not stop talking about it," she said.

"Yeah, well, I got an e-mail from S today," I shared. "Apparently they have Internet access in rehab and he's discovered Facebook."

"What did he say?"

"'Hey, it's S. I hope your doing good.' Your y-o-u-r. And 'good' instead of 'well.' Ugh."

My mother scoffed. "That's just like him to put the guilt trip on you. Not, 'how are you doing?' but 'I hope your doing good.' Like you should feel bad for him."

My mother had read all the books my therapist told me to read, and then jumped on a women self-help bandwagon and reads about anything that deals with oppression from Man.

"Did you respond to him?" She asked.

"Oh god no. I didn't even know it was from him until I read it 2 or 3 times."

Government Mule has the same name as S. Their last names even start with the same letter and have the same number of syllables. I had e-mailed Government Mule earlier that day and was trying to figure out why he sent me a one-line response with so many grammatical mistakes. I honestly thought Government Mule was angry with me.

"With both of those men contacting us like that, it must be a full moon out," my mother remarked.

"I had walked The Femme Fatale earlier before I called you and noticed the moon was big. I just don't know if it was big enough to be a full moon."

"You just watch. I bet it's a full moon tonight. Strange things always happen on a full moon."

Later that night I was clicking around CNN.com and I happened upon this article: http://articles.cnn.com/2010-09-22/living/harvest.moon_1_autumn-full-moon-optical-illusion?_s=PM:LIVING

Super Harvest Moon: Autumn phenomenon is a rare treat

September 22, 2010|By Jack Maddox, CNN

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  The last day of summer 2010 in the Northern Hemisphere coincides with a full moon.

Tonight is the night of the Super Harvest Moon.

It's the last day of summer in the Northern Hemisphere, the beginning of the autumn season and it perfectly coincides with a full moon tonight. And it's the first time in almost 20 years that the stars have aligned for an event like this. (We fully acknowledge that the moon is not a star but it's not very often we get to use the phrase in such close context).

When the summer sun starts setting this evening, it will blend with the rising autumn moon to produce a unique "360-degree style" twilight. The two low-in-the-sky light sources mix together and illuminate the sky all around you, unlike than the typical one-at-a-time approach you see when you drive home from work. And it's from this extra twilight lighting that the Harvest Moon gained its place in the celestial calendar. With farmers depending on moonlight to harvest their crops they would note the autumnal full moon. Thus the phenomenon's name.

It was the effing Super Harvest Moon. The mack daddy of full moons.

I called my mother back.

"Make sure your doors are locked."

In case you were curious

In case you were curious, ex's most recent arrest was for domestic disturbance. Apparently Convict Rehab went back into the apartment for some reason—maybe to fight, maybe to pick up more stuff, who knows—and he got so angry he threw a computer out of a window. This raises two questions with me:

• How in the world did he get possession of a computer?
• Was the window open or closed?

I'm guessing the window was closed to warrant the arrest. I'm also guessing that the computer was hers.

Anyway, it was the first of the month and rent was due, and he got kicked out of the apartment complex for his recent activity. Once again, he left the apartment furnished and unlocked so his parents can once again reclaim their belongings. His father showed up to collect his things and left S there with his suitcase of clothes.

S was homeless for about six days. He spent one at the hospital for some made up medical reason. The doctors told him that he isn't going to live much longer if he keeps going the way he is. I think he may have stayed with a friend another night.

He called his father to help him find another rehab to attend. He told everyone that he was going to detox at the place he quit last time, but it was another lie. His father refused to help him. His step-father told him not to call his mother anymore. He missed the birth of his sister's second child.

By Wednesday, he gained acceptance to a rehab facility a couple of hours north of the city. So he is gone. There is finally enough distance between us.

I'm not even going to comment because I just don't care anymore. Actually, I am going to point out that action for action, the same thing is happening to this girl's apartment that happened to mine. I don't even know her name, but she must be stronger person than me to not stay as long as I did. Or rather, he made it easy for her because his rock bottom is getting closer and closer.

She didn't press charges for his domestic-violence arrest and subsequent 72-hour hold. She didn't press charges because he said he would then press charges against her for whatever happened. Whether or not his charges would be taken seriously, she didn't want to take the risk. Which I get. I totally get it because it was the same reason I never did anything. So once again his bullying keeps him unaccountable for his actions.

On the same day of his domestic-violence arrest, public court records showed that his sham-suit lawyer filed a motion to withdraw said suit against the car he hit in that accident a year and a half ago. This means that I am totally off the hook for depositions and subpoenas and S locating me. It feels like a small victory.

I don't know if anything will come out of the domestic disturbance arrest. The fact he entered rehab again will certainly work in his favor. He's never been held accountable a day in his life, so I can't imagine why it should start now.

Broken Up and Broken Down

It has been several months since I have heard from S's step-mother, probably not since the new year. It felt strange not talking to her—and I thought about calling her more than once—but I know in order for me to be healthy there has to be some distance.

That's one thing that sucks about breakups; you're not just losing someone who was once the closest person to you in the world, but you also lose a litany of friends and relatives in the process. I don't think there are many people who truly care about me out there, so to give up his father and step-mother are truly loses for me.

However S's step-mom called me while I was at work on Friday. I knew for her to call me in the middle of the day that something was up. She asked if I had heard from S recently. I told her about the phone calls and voice messages I received a couple of weeks ago, but I had not spoken to him since last September.

She said she was calling to alert me that S is in jail. She said S "did to his new girlfriend what he did to [me]." Apparently Convict Rehab Girlfriend was breaking up with him and they got into an argument and S called his dad, saying he thought he was about to be arrested. He told his dad Convict Rehab was getting arrested for domestic violence and he was getting arrested for disturbing the peace. A quick phone call to the jail by one of S's family members confirmed that S was in jail for domestic violence and under a mandatory 72-hour hold.

She elaborated, telling me that Convict Rehab's father and grandfather are both state judges and the grandfather had shown up to the scene. So basically S is screwed. Shit creek and all that jazz. She also said that S was fired the week before from Marshall's where he had been working since rehab. She said a whole bunch of other details that I've already forgotten because it's just S's lies that I don't even have the energy or the care to follow anymore, but basically he lied about why he was fired and everyone suspects he is using again. I said I don't think he ever stopped. His mother is already planning which parent he is going to live with when he gets out of jail. S's father laughed really hard and hung up the phone on her after telling her that S is 34 and it's time for him to grow up or fall down.

I asked when this happened, when was S arrested. She said the night before last. Wednesday night. I thought about what I did on Wednesday night: I went to therapy, came home and called Christopher and my mom to discuss what I learned in therapy (daddy issues, shocker), had a quick bite to eat while I watched American Idol and Real World and went to bed early so I could watch an episode of Felicity before falling asleep. It was a good, relaxing night and I slept very well. I've almost forgotten about the nights I used to have with S. Obviously his nights have stayed the same.

I've learned several things by this latest incident:

It. Wasn't. My. Fault. Yes, I know this has been told to me and discussed extensively in therapy and there is a very emotional scene in Good Will Hunting over the same topic, but I always believed I contributed to the fights with my sharp tongue and I knew just what to say that would push his buttons (see: Go take a dump in some other girl's car). Convict Rehab is a whole other person with a whole other attitude and the same thing happened to her. He didn't hit her over anything I said and did. It wasn't my fault.

The story is that Convict Rehab went to jail too. I do not know if this is true or not. My mother once asked me why I never called the police after one of his attacks. I told her it was because he told me he would lie and ensure I would go to jail too. It was enough to frighten me and not do it. I was not willing to risk going through the embarrassment of handcuffs and mug shots and finger printing and sitting in the scariest jail in the state over something that wasn't my fault. And it sometimes happens. I've seen Cops. If the police can't figure the story out, then both will go to jail. If Convict Rehab was arrested too, then I know I made the right decision for me to not get the police involved.

I always felt like I was the catalyst that made S's life go to pot. He was progressively getting worse by attacking me more and more frequently towards the end of the relationship, but while he was with me, he had an apartment and a job. Then I leave, sticking him with the apartment I know he could not afford alone and he no longer had to hide his alcohol and drug use, so he quickly got fired from work and evicted from the apartment. Then he started going to the hospital for attention and called me and his family members with threats of suicide. He never pulled that crap while we were together. Then there was the psychotic break and the stints in a mental institution and two rehabs and getting kicked out of both of them and getting fired again and now getting arrested. (My god, he's been busy). Besides getting fired, none of that happened while he was with me; he was arrested when he was with every other girlfriend but me. I learned that I wasn't the catalyst; I was what held him together. I made him a better person for as long as I could stand it. And I'm kind of proud of that. I am a good and worthy person.

I heard he was able to leave jail long enough to go to the hospital again. This time for anxiety. He was scheduled to be arraigned Monday morning and I don't know if he was bonded out. I know his parents claimed they weren't going to do it. But the step-mother called to warn me because he has a tendency to contact ex-girlfriends when his current relationship is in trouble. It makes me a little nervous, but not nearly to the extent his contacts used to scare me.

Voicemail Message #4

..."Listen, (sigh) I know you don't want to talk to me—(pause) and I don't want to talk to you either— but give me a call back"...

He wasn't lying after all

Number of phone calls received from a certain lawyer: 5 and counting.

Number of phone calls avoided: 5 and counting.

Kangaroo Court

It's been a week and a day, and I still have not heard from his lawyer. It didn't occur to me that he might be lying about the subpoena until a friend suggested it. Even though he is a well-documented liar and I know that and I announce it to everyone, I still can't recognize a lie.

I know he has a lawyer because I was in the apartment when the lawyer came over well over a year ago and he signed the papers with him. And I verified it last week through public court records. So this whole situation had enough truth surrounding it that I fell for it yet again. What the lawyer probably said was Call her and see if she will cooperate, otherwise there is nothing we can do. Because, really, this is a civil case and he has to be a dirtbag lawyer to take the sham suit to begin with.

But I did call Little Lizard Insurance company. I just dialed its 1-800 number and they transferred me and transferred me until I was speaking with the actual lawyer on its end of the case. Everyone that I spoke with was delighted to hear from me and I wish everyone spoke to me like that.

Little Lizard's lawyer is located down the street from me. The advantage S has on the lawsuit is that no one really knows a lot about small-engine motorbikes and the laws applicable to them. That's how he was able to lie and get away with it. I explained the information on the police report and decoded the make and model of the bike to him with the actual engine size. I told him where he bought the bike and gave him the address and phone number. I told him who his loan was with and provided their address and phone number. Furthermore, I disclosed that the bike was abandoned and gave him the address where it was located. The bottom line is that S was driving without a license, without insurance and without registration. He shouldn't have been out on the road at all. I provided enough information for the lawyer to make his case without tracing it back to me; I just helped him connect the dots.

I never would have made the phone call had S not drug me back into this with his threats. He brought it upon himself. And if by chance I do ever get served with papers, I have decided I'll bring the letter he hand wrote me from rehab that states he was drinking a case a beer a day.

I did call his step-mom immediately after I listened to the messages. She has no interaction with S, but she told me that his father went to visit him and while he was in the bathroom, he heard S scream at his girlfriend through the phone. It comforted me to know that I didn't cause the screaming or the spitting or the verbal and physical abuse. I often tell myself that I egged him on or that I would stand up for myself or I would fight back and that was why he got so angry. If had been able to be meek, none of it would have happened.

There was a time when I found out he had cheated early on in our relationship and hid it from me for a year. While I was out of town burying my grandfather, he watched my dog. He also brought a 19-year-old girl to my apartment and made out with her on my couch. And I overheard all of this a year later when he was telling his friend on the phone. I got upset. I told him I never would have moved in with him if I knew that. And he spit in my face and told me he hated me and that I was the devil. That's how he acted. He never said he was sorry. I kept thinking Why are you angry with me? You're the one who cheated. I'm reacting to your betrayal in a normal way. Why do you have to continue to hurt me? He never showed any remorse or humbleness for what he did, only anger because I didn't immediately say it was okay.

God, now that I read that, who knows that he just made out with her? He probably slept with her in my bed. And that realization still hurts.

And now he is screaming at Convict Rehab Girlfriend over the phone while she is at work in a bagel shop downtown. It makes me feel a little bit sorry for her. From there, his dad was supposed to drive him over to S's sister's for dinner, but the father told him he was too upset to go and he's not going to bring that chaos to the sister's house.

I don't know, S's storyline doesn't seem that funny to me anymore. He told me I was the cause of all of his problems and the cause of his ruin, but here he is, without me, living in welfare housing with Convict Rehab Girlfriend, and he still sounds equally unhappy to be screaming at yet another girl. It's all a little bit sad and a lot more pathetic.

Combating Crazy

I didn't even get to click "Publish" until the next wave of assault began.

S called me yesterday for the first time in around 4 months. All of a sudden I was grateful for his menacing text last week because I now knew the number and knew to avoid it.

It didn't stop my stomach from dropping at the realization it was him.

I felt nauseated.

I felt dizzy.

He left a long message and I stared at my phone like it was diseased. Then my phone rang again and it was him again. He left another message again.

I didn't want to listen to them, but I knew I had to. It's the same reason I haven't blocked his e-mail. I have to know if he's threatening me so I can protect myself.

I don't know what I expected. They could either be cussing me out for not allowing his last text to have a response, or they could be manipulative and apologetic to try to get me to contact him. I did not think it was going to be this:

He called me as if nothing happened. As if he didn't threaten me and my family. As if he didn't harass me via text. His lawsuit against the car that hit him way back when is going to court and he wanted more copies of the pictures I took and for me to testify on his behalf. Then he demanded I call him back to confirm I received his message.

IS THAT NOT THE STUPIDEST SHIT YOU HAVE EVER HEARD?

I laughed it off. I was in a blind rage over his entitlement, but I still laughed it off.

And then I listened to the second message. He said he just called his lawyers and I can expect to hear from them. And if I don't cooperate, they are going to find me and subpoena me.

The blind rage mixed with intense fear.

I felt my skin flush.

I felt my chest tighten.

I felt myself begin to sweat.

I have taken very deliberate steps so that he could not find out where I live and where I work. My driver's license and car registration still uses an old address. My bills are sent to my mother's house with the exception of my power bill, which is under a different name. The only people who have been to my apartment are my mom, my dad, and my boyfriend. You need to get by three security access points to get to my apartment door. My apartment is my safe haven. And now all he has to do is get his lawyer to subpoena me and my information will be a part of his case file.

These are my options:

• Ignore it. Ignore him and the lawyers and maybe they'll decide I'm not worthwhile.


• Call up Little Lizard Insurance company, who he is suing, and give them the proper information they need to make this sham suit go away. (He lied on his police report and I know all the information that they can connect the dots with). If the suit is dropped, then no need to involve me.

That's about all I got.

Also, I'm thinking about dropping by the police station and starting a paper trail. Maybe file domestic violence report from last March. I have the pictures from when he choked me. My mother has her own set of pictures too.

I felt shame.

With every nutty thing he does, I layer guilt on myself for ever being with him when he is so obviously insane.

I went home last night and mechanically poured a large glass of red wine and mechanically watched The Biggest Loser. It's so exhausting living this way. Combating crazy when it isn't even my crazy. Struggling to keep me of sound mind and body.

I no longer felt anxious or angry or fearful.

I felt nothing.

I sat on the couch and tried to feel. I thought of the two friends I frantically sought advice from and tried to feel comfort. I thought of Christopher and tried to feel love. But I couldn't stir up anything, which, frankly, is a little frightening.

I feel hollow.

I feel dead inside.

Lost

Saturday morning I woke up to an elbow jab in the breast. It's hard to fall back asleep after pain like that. I rolled out of Christopher's bed and got dressed.

"You hate me?" he murmured.

"No, you're just a lousy bedmate," I joked as I kissed him and ran out the door. I don't like to stay long at Christopher's because of the Femme Fatale who likes to do things in the morning like eat and poo. She's a very punishing dog too, so if she doesn't get to eat and poo, she actively seeks revenge on the apartment.

On the elevator ride down, I grabbed my phone to see if my mom had called like she normally does Saturday mornings. Instead there was a text message from a number I didn't recognize:

U lost and u know it

I don't really pay attention to text messages from numbers I don't know, because it happens every month or so. The texts are usually worded in a way to get me to respond, or sexual in nature. The numbers are local and I just assume that S is pissed and gave mine out to guys at rehab.

This one stuck with me though. It seemed a little more personal and a little more menacing. And S is the only person I know that actually texts with u instead of you.

I found it even odder that his step-mom just happened to call me that afternoon.

"What's S's area code?" I asked her. I didn't want to look crazy and paranoid if I didn't have to. My city uses three different area codes, so it's a quick way to get an answer to my question without actually having to ask it.

"You don't know his number?" she asked back.

"Nope. I deleted it out of my phone last summer and I never wrote it down. I don't even know if he has the same number or not."

"Hold on, I just wrote it down." She read me the area code. It matched. Damn.

"What's the rest of the number? I've been getting these strange text messages..." I trailed off.

"And you think it's him? It probably is." She read off the first three digits and I replied with the last four.

"Yep, that's it."

So it was S. S, who vowed to never contact me again after his explosive e-mail. And here he was at 9:30 on Saturday morning, texting me and telling me I lost. I've never known him to be awake at 9:30 before.

I learned during the phone call from the step-mother that he's living with Rehab Girlfriend. When he got kicked out of rehab, he never went back to the first one like he told his parents. He and Rehab Girlfriend got an apartment together in low-income government housing.

Which is also my new favorite phrase. Let's say it all together: low-income government housing. It feels good in your mouth, doesn't it? I try to say it as often as I can. As in, my ex-boyfriend lives in low-income government housing and thinks I lost. Lost what, I'm not exactly sure. I guess who turned out better after the relationship was over.

But after the joy in my newest finding, anger settled in. How dare he. He was living with Convict Rehab Girlfriend and texting me? Isn't he supposed to have moved on if he is living with her? AND HE'S LIVING IN LOW-INCOME GOVERNMENT HOUSING AND TELLING ME I LOST? ME? WHO IS MAKING MORE MONEY THAN EVER AND IS LIVING IN A LUXURY APARTMENT? SERIOUSLY?!

And before you tell me that he's lashing out at me because he knows he lost, that is what my therapist calls trying to rationalize a crazy person's behavior. You can't make sane the insane. I believe the truth is that he really believes he's doing better than me. He's that arrogant. He always comes from a place of arrogance. He thinks because he found another sucker to live with, especially so quickly (well done on his end, now he'll never learn to support himself), that I am the one with the problems, not him.

I was angry. I wanted him to know it wasn't okay to contact me. You teach people how to treat you and I didn't want to be treated this way. I wanted to throw in his face his crack addiction and his low-income government housing and make him really think about who is the loser. But I also have to constantly think about my safety in regards to him too. He doesn't need to know where I work, where I live, and that I moved on without him.

So I texted a friend and asked her to confirm that not responding at all is not only the healthiest thing for me to do, but is also the most painful thing I can inflict upon him. She agreed. Win-win scenario. Then she told me to send her all the messages I wanted to send him to get it out of my system. So I sent her a text message saying you look ugly naked and I felt a lot better.

Low-income government housing.

Baby are you down down down down down

I indulge in a certain amount of schadenfreude. I'm not sure how healthy this is, but it's how I cope.

I refer to Monday as Feel Good TV. I watch Intervention, Hoarders and an episode or two of Cops if I can find it. (Also? Teen Mom on MTV? Loooove it.) I watch these shows with a hilarity and amusement because no matter what's going on with my life, I will never:

• Live on top of 75 dead cats
• Have the floor of my bathroom eaten through by 3 tons of used adult diapers
• Sound like the girl who was inhaling computer duster
• Be arrested in a trailer park wearing a cut-off t-shirt

There are certain givens in life, and these are just a few of mine.

I also still keep up with S's step-mother. Not purely for schadenfreude purposes; she's a nice woman who genuinely cares about me and how I am doing. But the schadenfreude is definitely present in our conversations.

I have been forwarding all of S's communications to his father and step-mother since I left him. He lies are so constant and expanding that no one in his life knows what the truth is, but they can get a better idea of it when everyone compares notes. So they know he had been trying to get back together with me most of his time in rehab. They know he threatened me and my family when I rejected him. They know I contacted his rehab facility and informed them of the threat I received from one of their patients and that I forwarded the e-mail to them as well.

Three days after this happened, S called his father. He was leaving the rehab facility and transferring back to the first one he attended this summer. The one for homeless people. He said it was cheaper and he would be able to save more money. But my therapist has worked closely with those rehab facilities and they are both free. Not to mention he has never saved a penny in his life.

"The rehab place must have taken me seriously," I told his step-mom after she informed me of all this.

"Yes, it's too coincidental. Him leaving this place so quickly after you contacted them," she agreed.

And I felt great. For my entire life, everyone around me has been telling me that my feelings are wrong. That I should be feeling this instead of that. The result is that I have never learned to trust myself. When I contacted my therapist immediately after receiving the threat, she was the only one in my life who acknowledged my scared feelings and helped me work through them. "Do what you need to do to feel safe," she told me. "Contact the rehab facility. They'll keep him accountable for his actions. If anything he'll be embarrassed to be called on his behavior."

The rehab facility did keep him accountable, presumably by kicking him out for his behavior. My feelings were validated by complete strangers. And this is wholesome good feelings, not even the schadenfreude.

"Wait, I didn't even tell you the best part," his step-mom interrupted my warm fuzzies. "He all of a sudden has a girlfriend, telling his father they've been together for 6 months already."

I laughed. But I was also relieved. If he had someone else to focus on, then maybe he's going to leave me alone for good.

"But we both know he's been trying to get back with you until last week," she continued.

"Maybe he's been working two girls at once. You know he went out with Erica after he and I fought because he was lining up the next girl in case we didn't work out. He's probably doing the same thing again," I said thoughtfully.

She shushed me. "If she even exists!" she claimed.

It turns out the new girlfriend does exist. Subsequent phone calls from the step-mom informed me that his real mom is over the moon with the match because this girl is some local, dead politician's granddaughter. Apparently this has status.

"Yeah, she sounds great, being in rehab and all. I guess being a drug addict doesn't matter," I snipped. In truth my feelings were a little hurt. Not by the new girlfriend, but because being a college graduate with a good job and living a good life didn't make me good enough for S's mom. It's become quite public how she dislikes me.

Smugly, I told my mom about the rehab girlfriend. "God, I don't know how he survived as long as he did being with someone as good as you," she cracked.

I got another phone call from S's step-mother last week. "If I tell you something, you promise you won't tell anyone?" she began.

"Sure."

"The rehab girlfriend just got arrested for shoplifting."

BUAHAHAHAHAH!

Better than any Cops or Intervention episode. But Hoarders is just too damn good.

Do-Over

It wasn't just the same venue, but it was the same damn ballroom. The open bar was stood where the bridal party's table had been. The table catty-corner to the one Christopher and I sat at was the one where S had told me no man would ever love me. I looked down and shuffled my party shoes. The same carpet.

I wore my White House Black Market dress to the party. I've worn it at every company Christmas party for the last 4 years. I've switched jobs so much that nobody knows I'm wearing the same outfit. So it didn't occur to me to try on the dress and make sure it still fits. Of course it fits, I've worn it for four years.

Only it didn't fit.

I went to the doctor last week and learned I gained 10 pounds (!) in the last couple of months. A blood test confirmed that I'm still not regulated on my thyroid meds and he upped my dose so I wouldn't be hypo anymore. I'm feeling a bit better, but it wasn't enough to make my dress zip up all the way. Thank god I brought a shawl that covered up the back of the dress.

So that's how I ended up in the bathroom. I was re-adjusting the dress that didn't zip.

When I walked in, the infamous stall was occupied and I was glad I didn't have the option to confront it. I heard the familiar metal bar being pulled to lock and unlock the stall door. So they fixed it since S kicked it in. Any remnants of that night had been covered up so you would never know it had happened. The boy was in rehab, covering up himself.

I stood at the sink and inspected myself in the mirror. I remembered his sister coming into the bathroom and escorting me out like everything was my fault. She didn't want the bride to know what was happening. You don't understand, I had cried, shaking. He attacked me.

But S had already approached her with his version, saying he came to the bathroom to talk to me and inadvertently scared me. I laughed coldly at the sheer audacity of it.

He attacked me, I whispered again.

It was obvious she didn't believe me. How can someone just not believe a woman who says she's been attacked? How can that happen? The wait staff saw me being dragged across the floor and yet she didn't believe me.

She sighed, I don't know what to tell you. He's an alcoholic. She shrugged like it excused his behavior, like I deserved it because I knew how he can be. Like it was my fault for... for being attacked.

I don't think I have gotten over the treatment his sister gave me that night. I used to really like her and admire her, but since that moment, I really kind of despise her.

I swiveled to the side and inspected myself in the mirror. Even though the dress didn't zip up all the way, I think it's the prettiest I ever looked in it. Because I filled out the top of the dress, it made my waistline look tiny.

Besides the impromptu memorial I held in the bathroom, I really didn't have too much time to entertain my anxiety. Even though a company Christmas party is a gift for the employees, it's still very much work function and Christopher and I schmoozed with the owners and their spouses.

I was very pleased with Christopher. There was an open bar that cost the company $43 per person just to drink. I joked to him that he was required to get the company's money's worth. So he hit the bar pretty hard, but no one could tell he was slowly getting drunk next to me. He was also unshaven (at my request); he looks steamy with a five o'clock shadow. I enjoyed watching watching my co-workers' reactions when they realized the handsome man was my boyfriend. (I don't write about work much, but of the 35 employees, 33 are women in their 20s and 30s. It's like walking into a sorority house every morning. Cattiness abounds. For example, it's really cold today and most of the office are wearing Uggs. Someone is keeping track of who are wearing the real ones and who are wearing knock-offs. Mine are real.)

As Paige put it, the night was a do-over. This time we happily got in the car and drove home listening to my Christmas music. I put on my jammies and headed to Christopher's where we cuddled under his flannel blanket and watched Tropic Thunder while drinking Diet Coke and eating Cheez-Its. I had slept the best I had all week.

On This Day in May

It was a Saturday when we went to a wedding. For his step-sister. He got drunk and told me that no man would ever love me. I tried to leave, but he drug me across the floor in front of the bartender and employees. I ran into the bathroom to compose myself and he followed me in. Kicked down the stall door. Shoved me against a wall. Raised his hand as if to punch me. I screamed for anyone, anyone to help me, but I knew the bathroom was too far away.

It was a Sunday when he woke up after continuing to drink all night. He threw a wine bottle at me. I had to pick glass off of my shins and feet. I barricaded myself in the closet because for the first time I was truly afraid of him. I waited until he passed out drunk on the couch and I snuck out. It was the same day I called my mom and told her I was ready to come home.

It was a Monday when I moved out. My family was too afraid for me and dropped everything they were doing to help me get out. He was out on a date with another girl.

***

Tonight my company Christmas party is being held at the same venue as the wedding. I'll be at the same place with a new man on my arm.

I don't think I'll be going to the bathroom tonight.

Yesterday

The first time I read his response, I laughed at the utter ridiculousness of it. Then I read it again and noticed the veiled threat of the last sentence. Fuck you and your family and I hope you don't see any of mine because it won't be pretty. If he is acting this way sober, then this is his true nature. I know firsthand that he isn't all threats and no action. There have been a number of incidents besides the car one.

I used the private number my therapist gave me for emergencies. I told her I was frightened of the threat and considered it real. She trusted my judgment, saying I was now able to see him for who is really is instead of the person that I loved. She said I needed to do whatever it took so that I would feel safe. She advised contacting the rehab center and reporting that I received a threat from him and to forward them the e-mail. She said they would hold him accountable for his response. She also told me to contact the police and file a police report on him since he has a history of hurting me.

I called Christopher when I got home from work. I asked him to come over and watch TV with me. Told him he could have sole possession of the remote control. Maybe that's weak of me, wanting to be with him that night so I wouldn't feel so scared. I never told him about the letter nor the e-mail I received back. Christopher was so not understanding of the relationship itself that I knew he would be even less understanding of my attempt at closure.

The e-mail doesn't surprise me. It's pretty indicative of how he spoke to me. However I was surprised to discover the effect it had on me was the same. The first time I saw it for what it was, but with each subsequent read of it, I began to doubt myself more and more. Did I say something wrong? No, I had it approved by a mental health professional. My intent was not to blame him, but explain the effect of his actions on myself, although that concept might be a little too intellectual for him. But the doubt of myself continues to grow, exactly how I explained in my letter. It's just like when he would tell me that no man would ever love me. It sounded absurd the first time he said it, but when you hear something over and over and over, you start to believe it. Kind of like how some children begin to believe their own lies that explain missing parents. My daddy is a secret agent. I am unlovable.

The next morning I woke up with Christopher's arms around me. His body was pressed up against mine. I lazily got out of bed and slowly started getting ready for work, just like I do every morning. I dropped Christopher back at his apartment, just like I do when he sleeps over on school nights. My new life had resumed, despite the miserable pause I had the day before. I didn't feel the crushing need to file a police report to protect myself anymore. It was literally a new day. He was my yesterday.