He abused me physically, emotionally, mentally- all the ways.
He had Münchausen Syndrome. He lied about multiple diagnoses, including cancer. I cleaned up his bodily fluids of all kinds after he puked, peed, pooped- claiming these were side effects of his treatments. He was faking it. I took him to fake doctor’s appointments where he would just walk to different areas of the building, leaving me in the waiting room.
After 6 months of hell, he lured me to his car to talk, then locked the doors and drove off, effectively kidnapping me. He raped me for 24 hours off and on in his apartment, taking my phone away so I couldn’t contact anyone.
Yes, I was naive and stupid. But I do not blame myself.
I could write a book about this man. But this isn’t what my story is about.
Approximately 10 years after leaving, I saw him in public. I had seen him before this (only about a month after the abuse) and ignored him, as I had a temporary restraining order. But for some reason, this particular time, I guess I was feeling pretty good about my progress in trauma therapy.
I had so many versions of what I would do or say the next time I saw him. Of course, in every version I dreamt up, I’d be dressed to the nines, in heels, stronger and hotter than ever and flipping my hair as I strut by, delivering some cunning line that he’d never forget.
But that’s not what happened.
I pretended I didn’t know who he was.
To this day, I cannot fathom why I did this. Not from a personal perspective, a psychological perspective, a comedy perspective? I don’t know what compelled me.
I ordered my coffee at the counter in our shared hometown- the one we’d all go to before first period in high school.
I turn around to find a table, and who is it, but him, standing behind me in line.
We locked eyes, and because he’s a sadistic, manipulative, psychotic, sociopathic fuckwit, the biggest smile broke across his face, and he said my name in the most loving and singsong way- as if we were old coworkers.
I saw his stupid face, his dumb teeth, his cool, calm expression- knowing he felt so vindictive in this moment.
His black eyes reverted to what I knew them to be- quick, slimy, like a snake that’s locked in its prey. The eyes I once thought were charming and attractive, before they shifted when he was angry. They said, *I know you- I know your weaknesses. You will never escape what I did to you. And so I’ll pretend to be nice and cordial, so you feel helpless in this public place.*
He said, “\**my name*\*, Hi.” He feigned a look of patronizing pity, his eyebrows furrowed in a sympathetic way, as if he wanted to be sure I was still suffering.
And for some reason, I decided to say, “Sorry, who are you?”
His look of pure confusion is one I will never forget.
He stumbled, stammered, trying to explain to me- “I’m \**so and so*\*- we, well, we…” I’m sure he felt compelled to say that we dated, but perhaps he remembered that “dating” and “abusing” are actually *not* synonyms.
I even acted confused when he asked if I was \**my name*.\*
I had a moment of pause here - do I say it’s me or not? Do I pretend to not be myself? Do I say I have a twin?
I am unsure of what made me respond with, “Yes… that’s my name.”
A second wave of confusion washed over his beady eyes- which were now softening- not with compassion, but with defeat, as he tried desperately to explain who I was to him without somehow mentioning the rape, coercion, cheating, kidnapping, lying, and manipulation. I felt my heart lightening with a joyful realization that I was ungovernable. That the decision I made to pretend I did not remember this man (when I had just come from therapy where I discussed him locking me in his bathroom from the outside while I cleaned up his fake cancer vomit) was freeing me from his clutches.
The pure absurdity of watching this scumbag come to terms with his own mediocrity- knowing now he was not even relevant enough to be remembered as evil. He was realizing that maybe he was unmemorable in general- his worst nightmare, being that he was the Frail Male Ego Final Boss.
We exchanged a few lines back and forth before I appeared uncomfortable and said, “Anyway, yeah… nice to meet you? I guess? Sorry- can I- can I actually just scoot by… thanks.”
And I left the coffee shop.
I looked back and he stood motionless, dumbfounded.
I have not seen him since that day. I occasionally picture him desperately Googling my name to see if I got in a horrible accident that caused memory loss. Finding nothing, he racks his brain, asks mutual friends who say I am totally fine, trying to make him feel better with “that’s so weird…maybe it was two women who look alike with the same name?”
I think about it often and I kind of love it, but sometimes I hate it. As I work through the trauma, sometimes I regret not screaming at everyone in the shop about who this man truly is.
He is respected in the community due to his profession. I filed a temporary restraining order. But because I had no evidence of physical abuse and because cheating, emotional manipulation, and lying about cancer isn’t illegal unless there’s a financial motive- the detectives told me I had no case. It’s not even that I was not believed- it’s that they knew I’d spend more on a lawyer than I’d ever gain from chasing him. They knew that the community would rake me across the coal.
I regret listening to them. I’ve told my story to anyone who will listen. I’ve described his abuse to mutual friends, who didn’t believe me and cut ties.
I moved away, and I don’t think about him as much anymore. But sometimes, against my will, I will go back to the places he once held me. I still have bad days. Therapy helps. My husband helps. Seeing the light in my daughter’s eyes helps, as well as the animalistic rage that only comes with motherhood. Rage gets a bad rap. She’s actually pretty helpful sometimes.
I always wonder what I would do if I did see him again. Would I lie, or confuse him more by recognizing him?
I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Comments