Of Mice and Monsters VIII

The relationship had degraded so much and yet I did not know to extricate from it. Fear was a large factor keeping me in it, but also as hard as it is to understand for those who have never been involved with a pathological, I still had a faint hope that he would somehow return to the man I had initially met. The nice, sweet, charming, caring person who was attentive to me and hung on my every word. However, that man whom I fell in love with had fallen away. He was replaced with an empty, selfish, highly sadistic man who ignored my boundaries, was prone to give me silent treatments on a whim for reasons I was told to “figure out.” Every once in awhile that old nice version of him would return leading me to believe it was me that was the problem.  This “intermittent reinforcement” I would later find out, was done deliberately to keep me hooked in the relationship.  At times he even said to me that if I could just stop the (insert bad perceived behavior by him) or begin (insert a desired behavior which he had yet to see from me) than perhaps things could be the way they once were between us. Deep down though, I had a gut feeling he never had any intention of making good with the follow through.

Giving false hope is the devil’s work.

At some point I believe I had chalked up 12 bacterial vaginosis infections in the course of 5 years with him. Prior to knowing him I had never even had one my entire life. My gynecologist said they were sexually indicated but they could be acquired by other means such as swimming in ponds, douching, using tampons and not changing them often enough. Yet none of those applied to me. She made it clear it was not something one could get from a toilet seat. How did I get these infections? I couldn’t help thinking he must be having an affair.  My heart was sad thinking why wasn’t I ever good enough?

There were the middle of the night wake-ups where I’d find him gone out of bed. Only to find him using his phone in the bathroom sitting on the toilet seat checking his voicemail because he couldn’t sleep or so he said.  When questioned about it he would always deflect the question and blame me with an accusatory tone,” how dare you try and control what I do when I am having trouble sleeping!!!” Or that he was booking a doctors appointment. WTF? Are you kidding me.  You are booking a well visit with your primary care physician at 3:30 am?

There were lies.

That he was snow blowing for hours during the winter and couldn’t answer the phone , yet when I arrived I touched the snowblower and the entire machine was totally cold.  He never knew I did this.

Lies about going to his regular AA meeting but when I’d ask what the topic was, who chaired the meeting, or who the speaker was, he said he couldn’t remember. Anyone who is in recovery knows this is total BS unless you are drunk going to the meeting.   He was 26 years sober.

There were so many lies, so many inconsistencies, so many scary things that I had been fervently praying. Begging God to please remove him from my life. To please keep me safe and release me from this man. Day and night I prayed. Because for reasons unknown to me at the time, I could not seem to muster leaving him of my own free will.  Each time that I tried my heart would be overcome with a  sorrow so deep and painful, that I would do anything to avoid that level and degree of pain; including not leaving him.

Then my prayers were answered.

I was on his computer and had noticed a photo that hadn’t been there the week prior.  It was a photo of a naked woman lying on a table, with him wearing a green shirt on with his hand outstretched touching her genitals.

I asked him about it.  He claimed it was from years ago.   I knew it was a lie.   So I said, “All photos have time-stamps, right click on the image and show me it was years ago.”

He replied, “You don’t control me I’m not going to do that.”

I said,” this has nothing to do with control, if you can prove that this was done years ago just go ahead and right click on it and prove me that I’m wrong.”

He said, “get out.”

“Excuse me?”

Get your all your things together and get out , we are done, it’s over Lexi.

I told him, “I’ll be happy to get out if you want to be done , but just the same I want you to show me that the photo was from years ago, prove that I am wrong.”

“Just get out.”

My lip began to quiver and tears began to fall down my face as I begged him,”Please tell me the truth about that photo, I’ve been good this you for 5 years,  I loved you and I don’t deserve lies, please just tell me the truth.”!”

You want the truth?” He said.

Yes,” I whimpered.

“That photo was from when I went to a gang-bang the first year I was with you…….I am a sex addict.  I have gone on Craigslist hookups, done a fair share of swinging,  paid for prostitutes, and have a steady pool of friends with benefits that I have sex with, some that go back for many years,”  he said cooly.

I was shocked, replulsed, and terrified all at the same time.   They sat when you die your life flashes before you at rapid speed.   Well it was like that.  I kept thinking of all the sexual partners he had been with.  How many had there been?  Had I been infected with HIV and didn’t even know it?  My heart skipped a beat and my blood ran cold.

Before I could say anything he said,” you need to leave now Lexi, are you happy you got your truth?”

I carried my things to my car.   The cross on his kitchen wall for reasons unknown, slid upside down on the wall and inverted.  It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

As I walked out the door I felt mostly  numb as the tears had already dried on my face.  My thoughts still raced a mile a minute, though mostly consumed with one persistent thought, ‘how could I have been deceived by a man without a conscience.’

Into thin air….

At one time, my heart broke over this sex-addict.  He was sleeping with prostitutes, going to gang bangs, whoring around with swingers, doing NSA chicks off Craigslist, and caning, whipping, flogging, spanking my ass.

Tell me there is nowhere to go but up from THAT shit …

Oh but indeed I managed to sink lower…..

My heart is presently ripping in two, because my latest relationship just went belly up; into thin air.

While he was passed out from drinking two pints of Vodka (his usual daily intake) I looked at his cell phone while he was passed out,  I know I know wrong on so many levels.   And found he’d texted his buddy in San Fransisco asking if there are any conservative hot chicks there.

To which his buddy replied, “do you mind Asian girls?”  He’s already procuring the next piece of ass while he’s sleeping off his hangover in my bed.

But he said he loved me and wanted to marry me, and I freakin trusted him! I freakin’drank the Kool-aid.   He appears for his pre-trial divorce hearing in a few weeks, signed his parental rights away to his 3 kids, got thrown out of his parents house for acting like such a verbally abusive asshat, has no job because he resigned in a drunken stupor but by the time he reneged, they accepted, just got out of two detox’s in a row.

*****

My mind and heart are on parallel courses.

I thought if I just showed him what love could be, what kindness could be, if I cleaned up his puke, held his hand through his Librium haze, tolerated his calling me denigrating names when he is shit faced…..

gave him the best head he ever had, kissed him from head to toe, read from the Big Book, prayed with him, booked his doctors appointments for him, reminded him to keep them, maybe he would see he had something good?   WTF??

Even sadder, I still love him.   And wish that at the end up the episode it could all work out and that he would get sober and stop lying.  That we could live happily ever after in the Barbie Dream house with the convertible by the pool.   But not…..with that fucking Skipper bitch.

*****

Oh, please…like you’ve never had any train-wreck breakups….pfffftt.

Miss Scarlet, in the Library, getting fucked with the revolver

Clue, don’t cha know.   I should get a clue by now.  That fantasy is way better than reality.  Always.

Recently here in Massachusetts, the Governor declared a State of Emergency.  Most people lost electricity and heat.  I was one of the fortunate to get restored fairly quickly after a few days.  My ex was on my mind, wondered how he was faring, I called him.   Some people do it and then later blame drunk-dialing, ass-dialing or some such tom foolery.   Not me.   All it takes is for me to listen to  Adele‘s “Someone like me” and my fingers can do the walking, stone cold fucking sober.

I’m not sure if you call it a “slip” or if its total relapse if you actually have full-blown sex with your ex.   I know one thing is for sure.  It feels like shit the day after, when there’s no phone call from him.   Or the day after that.  Or the day after that.  Or the day after that.  It was empty on his end.   It always was.

Like I said, fantasy is always better than reality.   I pretend he loves me and he……..I guess he just fucks me.

Fantasy is just that.  I have this fucked up vision, this man, a white-knight on a steed, that’s going to rescue me from the evil in the world, the monsters under the bed, maybe, maybe from the demons in myself.  Somehow I superimposed that image of the knight in shining armor on my ex.  I wanted it to happen so bad, that I was able to deny what was right under my own fucking nose.  In my case, a sex-addicted partner sleeping with prostitutes, doing gang-bangs,  a swinger fucking other men’s wives as they blew their husbands, casual encounters from Craigslist, and even blew a few men as a cuckold.

His penchant for sadism and misogyny would eventually take its toll on my body, mind, and spirit.  Whippings, Canings, Floggings, til my tits and ass were purple and welted or cherry red.   He never respected my safeword.   He never provided “aftercare”.  He thought of my body as “his canvas“.   I think the most fucked up thing I ever let him do was shove a Colt 45 in my ………

And that was the man who was really existing underneath the veneer I created.  The devil himself.

Maybe I am a masochist after all.   An emotional masochist.  Who would endure getting rejected over and over again.  Replicating the same gut wrenching pain, hoping “this time” will change.  That “this time” he will see that I have worth, beauty.  This time, he won’t scream at the top of his lungs again, if I ask a question he doesn’t want to answer or look at him the wrong way.

I hate myself for picking up that phone and calling him instead of doing something “different”, like other healthier people in recovery that I know are doing.  Instead I fucked up and  reached out for the familiar, knee-jerk jerk, hard-wired reflexive patterns that I know all too well.

Two steps forward and ten-thousand light years back……least that’s how it feels tonight.

Everyone knows Miss Scarlet was a whore and everyone knows Professor Plum was doing her.