This is the second and final part from the chapter How I Got Over Freddy, from my memoir His Dead Wife. Part one here. This is heavily redacted from the actual chapter.
By the time Freddy came home that night, I was hysterical.
"When were you going to tell me you didn't work at your father's chicken plant?"
"My father doesn't have a chicken plant."
"You fucking asshole! So where have you been and what did you do with all the money you took from me?”
“Well I had to eat and keep myself busy for the eight hours I walked around San Francisco every day.”
His tone implied a big "Duh."
"Did you at least call your parole officer?"
"Yeah, yeah, get off my back."
It's said that without denial, the human spirit would perish. That denial allows our brain and our heart a respite before they catch up with reality and are able to deal. Denial was, and would be, my emotional home for many, many years.
I didn't ask Freddy to pay back the money he stole from me and we didn’t discuss him getting another job. He was now home all day, or all night, but never both. He took money out of my wallet when I was in the shower or sleeping. I never asked him what he did with it or where he went when he disappeared. I was safely at home, 1737 Repudiation Road, Denial, California. USA.
One day Glamaruss called and in a moment of guilt, admitted that Freddy had been using again and was seeing another woman. I was furious at Glam for not telling me sooner, but it’s kind of useless being mad at a drag queen. You can tell them you’re angry and they’ll respond with, “Look honey, I’m over 35, HIV positive and the only person who ever loved me was my foster mom who was killed in a drive-by in Inglewood when I was twelve.”
I hung up and lit a cigarette, pacing the nine by twelve foot cell of my studio apartment like a caged cheetah. I had cut back on bennies and downers and replaced them with a new palliative, Marlboro reds in the flip top box. I called my ex-roommate Celeste. She didn’t like Freddy but she was the only person I trusted to tell me the truth.
“I should leave him, right?”
“You went to the prison?”
“I missed him.”
“What did you miss? The hitting or the peeing on you in our bathtub?”
“Oh God, you knew about that?”
“He used to brag about it when you weren’t home. ”
“Okay, can we just stick to the current facts, please?”
“Sure,” she said, “let’s see; he was in prison, you let him come live with you, he stole money out of your wallet, lied about having a job and was cheating on you with the woman he cheated on you with before. Is that current enough for you?”
All right, maybe Celeste wasn’t the only person I trusted to tell me the truth. Maybe I had other friends who would tell me the kind of truth I wanted to hear. But I didn’t and I knew it.
One day I got a call from Henley. He and I had spent hours on Stinson Beach dropping acid and listening to the Rolling Stones. He was rich and didn't have to work for a living and would die of AIDS in the late 1980's.
“Girl, your boy just broke into my apartment and stole my stereo and all my jewelry.” I rushed over to his house and Henley showed me the broken window in the dining room.
“How do you know it was Freddy?”
“I was home when he did it.”
“Well why the fuck didn’t you stop him, or call the cops?”
“Cause he’s a drug addict and I figured if he got it all, then he wouldn’t come back.”
That actually made sense to me. I went home and waited for Freddy. One day, two days. On the third morning he came home. I was chain smoking and drinking Nyquil since it was the only thing in the apartment that had alcohol in it. Unless you counted the almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels I had drained through a straw.
“Seriously, you’ve got to give Henley his shit back.”
“That queer’s rich; fuck him.”
“Freddy, I’m not kidding, he's one of my best friends. You have to give him his stuff back.”
“Fuck you.” And Freddy was out the door.
Then he started stealing from me when I was out. My passport, a 35 millimeter camera, an ivory cigarette holder and the lowest of all, the diamond ring that I had suspected belonged to his mother. And even though he was disappearing more and more, he must have been stalking me to know when I wasn’t home. When I did see him I asked if he was using again and he lied and said he wasn’t. Even though we weren’t having sex I still hadn’t made the leap from No Sex with Me equals Sex with Someone Else. After all, when he stopped hitting me, did I automatically assume he was hitting someone else?
I got fired from Nickel’s because they told me Freddy had broken in and stolen from them. They didn’t need the extra burden of a salesgirl’s ex-con junkie plus their own heroin addiction to interfere with projected retail sales for the fall quarter.
I was sitting alone in my apartment one afternoon with the shades drawn and a cigarette dangling out of the corner of my mouth. Suddenly I heard a horn honk. And continue honking and honking and honking. It was the Handwriting on the Wall Wagon and it was parked in my head.
As if in a trance, I went upstairs to Glamaruss’s. The front door was unlocked and I walked in. It was drag queen early, about 11:00 a.m., and it was quiet.
“Glamaruss?” I tiptoed through the living room, “Glam, are you here?”
I went to her bedroom and slowly pushed open the door. And there they were, Glamaruss and Freddy, spooning, sound asleep. I inched forward to get a better look and a floor board creaked. Glam stretched out an arm. I froze but she saw me. I don’t know which one of us looked more horrified.
The thing that pissed me off the most about the end of me and Freddy was not that he had lied, stolen my money or cheated on me but in the entire three years, he had never once spooned with me. And that? Hurt.
A week later I packed a suitcase and moved to Paris. Maybe they wouldn't have denial there.
And that’s how I got over Freddy.
Showing posts with label Breaking (Up) Bad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Breaking (Up) Bad. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Breaking (Up) Bad 8
This is one of my breakup stories. There were so many I wrote an entire BOOK about them. I can hear you laughing from here. So this is part 1 of this story, from my book His Dead Wife. It's a chapter called How I Got Over Freddy. Second part on Wednesday.
Freddy was doing time at Tehachapi for burglary and possession of heroin, and when he was discharged he asked if he could live with me. He gave me his parole officer’s number and I called. He said Freddy had been in and out of prison his entire life and it was doubtful he would ever make it on the outside without some serious support. I also learned that Freddy had had a wife once, and that she had divorced him after the first time he went to prison. He also had two sons, but Freddy didn’t know where they all lived now. Freddy’s parents knew but had agreed with his ex-wife to keep him out of his children’s lives because they knew nothing good could come of it. They were fed up with him because he had robbed them so many times that they had decided not to let him back in their house. His parents wouldn’t let him visit, he couldn’t see his kids ever again, and his wife had left him. Somebody had to help this guy. And of course I was just co-dependent enough to sign up for this tour of duty.
I told Freddy he could live with me but only if he never hit me again. And he didn’t. I wondered if I had said that when he was hitting me if he would have stopped then, too.
Freddy didn’t talk, rarely ate and was gone a lot. I was angry when I realized that he had paid more attention to me when he was hitting me. The physical abuse was easier to handle than the mental abuse. At least I could see the damage.
Freddy needed a job but what he really needed was to clean up. He had used heroin the entire time he was in prison but now that he was on the outside, he didn’t want to continue because it was an expensive habit. Freddy said it was cheaper and easier to get dope in the joint than it was on the streets and he had the track marks to prove it.
“You have to help me kick,” he said calmly.
“Ok.” I replied, also calmly, only I was pretending.
“You have to hide the knives, lock the doors and no matter what I say, don’t let me leave the apartment or call my dealer.”
That would really not be a problem since his dealer had showed up at our door only two days before. He had handed me a bag with a dead rat in it and said, “Tell your fucking boyfriend this is the only dime bag I’ve got for him until he fucking pays me. Got it, bitch?” So, hide knives, lock doors, dead rat in bag. Done. So done.
Freddy took all the knives and the phone and put them in a trash bag and gave them to our upstairs neighbor, a drag queen named Russell Richardson who went by the name Glamaruss. Then he made Glamaruss rope tie him to the bed. Freddy said it would take at least three days to detox, which was perfect because that’s how long it would take me to figure out how to untie the knots. A Maxwell House coffee can was Freddy’s new toilet.
He begged, he sweet-talked, he threatened my life but I didn’t untie him. At one point I got bored and asked him how exactly did he think he was going to kill me since he was tied to the bed? He called me a 'fucking whore' but based on my previous sexual encounters that had zero effect, obviously.
I didn’t leave the apartment for two days, afraid that he would die without me there. On the third day he stopped nodding off and sweating through his clothes and asked for orange Hostess cupcakes. At that point I knew he’d turned the corner because who the fuck would eat the orange ones except a cleaned up junkie?
Freddy started a job at his father’s chicken plant and checked in with his parole officer once a week. He would write me notes each morning and leave them on the kitchen table. “Dear Baby, I am going to pluk chikens. I took twenty dolars out of your walette to by chiken pluking gloves.”
Yes, I know; Love Is Blind and Has No Spell Check.
About three weeks after our homemade detox, I went to a pay phone to call Freddy at the chicken plant. Our phone had been temporarily disconnected since I didn’t have enough money to pay the last month’s bill. Freddy was taking more and more of my boutique paycheck to buy things for his new job.
“Freddy? Freddy who?” the woman asked.
“Freddy, the guy who plucks chickens for his father.”
“Sorry honey, no Freddy here. This is a car dealership.”
(to be continued)
Freddy was doing time at Tehachapi for burglary and possession of heroin, and when he was discharged he asked if he could live with me. He gave me his parole officer’s number and I called. He said Freddy had been in and out of prison his entire life and it was doubtful he would ever make it on the outside without some serious support. I also learned that Freddy had had a wife once, and that she had divorced him after the first time he went to prison. He also had two sons, but Freddy didn’t know where they all lived now. Freddy’s parents knew but had agreed with his ex-wife to keep him out of his children’s lives because they knew nothing good could come of it. They were fed up with him because he had robbed them so many times that they had decided not to let him back in their house. His parents wouldn’t let him visit, he couldn’t see his kids ever again, and his wife had left him. Somebody had to help this guy. And of course I was just co-dependent enough to sign up for this tour of duty.
I told Freddy he could live with me but only if he never hit me again. And he didn’t. I wondered if I had said that when he was hitting me if he would have stopped then, too.
Freddy didn’t talk, rarely ate and was gone a lot. I was angry when I realized that he had paid more attention to me when he was hitting me. The physical abuse was easier to handle than the mental abuse. At least I could see the damage.
Freddy needed a job but what he really needed was to clean up. He had used heroin the entire time he was in prison but now that he was on the outside, he didn’t want to continue because it was an expensive habit. Freddy said it was cheaper and easier to get dope in the joint than it was on the streets and he had the track marks to prove it.
“You have to help me kick,” he said calmly.
“Ok.” I replied, also calmly, only I was pretending.
“You have to hide the knives, lock the doors and no matter what I say, don’t let me leave the apartment or call my dealer.”
That would really not be a problem since his dealer had showed up at our door only two days before. He had handed me a bag with a dead rat in it and said, “Tell your fucking boyfriend this is the only dime bag I’ve got for him until he fucking pays me. Got it, bitch?” So, hide knives, lock doors, dead rat in bag. Done. So done.
Freddy took all the knives and the phone and put them in a trash bag and gave them to our upstairs neighbor, a drag queen named Russell Richardson who went by the name Glamaruss. Then he made Glamaruss rope tie him to the bed. Freddy said it would take at least three days to detox, which was perfect because that’s how long it would take me to figure out how to untie the knots. A Maxwell House coffee can was Freddy’s new toilet.
He begged, he sweet-talked, he threatened my life but I didn’t untie him. At one point I got bored and asked him how exactly did he think he was going to kill me since he was tied to the bed? He called me a 'fucking whore' but based on my previous sexual encounters that had zero effect, obviously.
I didn’t leave the apartment for two days, afraid that he would die without me there. On the third day he stopped nodding off and sweating through his clothes and asked for orange Hostess cupcakes. At that point I knew he’d turned the corner because who the fuck would eat the orange ones except a cleaned up junkie?
Freddy started a job at his father’s chicken plant and checked in with his parole officer once a week. He would write me notes each morning and leave them on the kitchen table. “Dear Baby, I am going to pluk chikens. I took twenty dolars out of your walette to by chiken pluking gloves.”
Yes, I know; Love Is Blind and Has No Spell Check.
About three weeks after our homemade detox, I went to a pay phone to call Freddy at the chicken plant. Our phone had been temporarily disconnected since I didn’t have enough money to pay the last month’s bill. Freddy was taking more and more of my boutique paycheck to buy things for his new job.
“Freddy? Freddy who?” the woman asked.
“Freddy, the guy who plucks chickens for his father.”
“Sorry honey, no Freddy here. This is a car dealership.”
(to be continued)
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Breaking (Up) Bad 7
Another reader submitted story on break ups. When is it time to leave?
Over my last few relationships, I've learned a few things. I'm glad to report that I haven't made the same mistake twice (yet) however, it seems as though I have my share of lessons to share- I wish it were more simple than having to go through these experiences and avoiding a whole lot of embarrassment and heartache. So what kind of things made me realize it was time to 'pull the plug' you ask?
- When you realize the person you are dating calls his mom 'mommy' out in public and he's more than 7 years old. When I asked him why he couldn't call his mother 'mom', he snapped at me and said it was the way he was raised, to just leave it.
- When out on a skiing/snowboarding outing, we stopped at a Mexican place for dinner and on the way home he has to pull over and take a shit on the side of the road. Yes I looked, and all I saw was this white ass, moving from place to place, apparently marking his territory. But the doozy here is that I went out with him one. more. time. Until..
- All along he made it seem like he was this big hot shot, we go to his apartment one night and out peers this woman out of one of the rooms...his maid? NO. His mother. He was in his 30s. Enough said.
- This one guy had made all these arrangements to take me to a beautiful beach resort. It was gorgeous. We were trying to get busy with it and don't ask me how I found out but apparently going #2 and wiping his ass were not necessarily two things he did that went together. Call me a cab so I can hightail it out of there.
- Then there was another one, oh so vain. I really did like the fact that he took care of himself so well, until I walked in on him plucking his nose and ear hairs. I'm all for cleanliness but don't do it where a significant other can see you do it because after that? the mystery is gone and all I could see were hairs populating every single nook and cranny.
-Then there's one that was always a doozy in my mind...him picking his ex-wife's side over mine. More than once. Why didn't I run away faster is beyond me. Doormat, nice to meet you let me take a seat next to you.
Read more of this blogger here.
Over my last few relationships, I've learned a few things. I'm glad to report that I haven't made the same mistake twice (yet) however, it seems as though I have my share of lessons to share- I wish it were more simple than having to go through these experiences and avoiding a whole lot of embarrassment and heartache. So what kind of things made me realize it was time to 'pull the plug' you ask?
- When you realize the person you are dating calls his mom 'mommy' out in public and he's more than 7 years old. When I asked him why he couldn't call his mother 'mom', he snapped at me and said it was the way he was raised, to just leave it.
- When out on a skiing/snowboarding outing, we stopped at a Mexican place for dinner and on the way home he has to pull over and take a shit on the side of the road. Yes I looked, and all I saw was this white ass, moving from place to place, apparently marking his territory. But the doozy here is that I went out with him one. more. time. Until..
- All along he made it seem like he was this big hot shot, we go to his apartment one night and out peers this woman out of one of the rooms...his maid? NO. His mother. He was in his 30s. Enough said.
- This one guy had made all these arrangements to take me to a beautiful beach resort. It was gorgeous. We were trying to get busy with it and don't ask me how I found out but apparently going #2 and wiping his ass were not necessarily two things he did that went together. Call me a cab so I can hightail it out of there.
- Then there was another one, oh so vain. I really did like the fact that he took care of himself so well, until I walked in on him plucking his nose and ear hairs. I'm all for cleanliness but don't do it where a significant other can see you do it because after that? the mystery is gone and all I could see were hairs populating every single nook and cranny.
-Then there's one that was always a doozy in my mind...him picking his ex-wife's side over mine. More than once. Why didn't I run away faster is beyond me. Doormat, nice to meet you let me take a seat next to you.
Read more of this blogger here.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
There Was That One Girl Who
Reading all these Breaking (Up) Bad stories submitted by readers reminded me of a girl I used to know.
She dated a neighbor of mine in the old building. Everyone liked him. No one liked her. She smoked a lot of pot but that wasn't what turned people off. She dressed like a homeless person but that didn't turn anyone off either. She never wore a stitch of makeup and was a woman who needed makeup as she was quite unfortunate looking. But that didn't turn anyone off either.
It was this statement she made at a party at my house, "I've never been dumped."
Everyone else at the party had been dumped, some of them (me) more than once. (68 times) (or it just seems that way) We were all skeptical that she had never been seduced and abandoned based on:
A. pothead
B. the dumpster look
C. aforementioned unfortunate face
Years later I discovered the unfortunate looking poorly dressed pothead wrote a one woman show on HOW TO DATE MORE THAN ONE MAN AT A TIME.
I don't know why I bother.
She dated a neighbor of mine in the old building. Everyone liked him. No one liked her. She smoked a lot of pot but that wasn't what turned people off. She dressed like a homeless person but that didn't turn anyone off either. She never wore a stitch of makeup and was a woman who needed makeup as she was quite unfortunate looking. But that didn't turn anyone off either.
It was this statement she made at a party at my house, "I've never been dumped."
Everyone else at the party had been dumped, some of them (me) more than once. (68 times) (or it just seems that way) We were all skeptical that she had never been seduced and abandoned based on:
A. pothead
B. the dumpster look
C. aforementioned unfortunate face
Years later I discovered the unfortunate looking poorly dressed pothead wrote a one woman show on HOW TO DATE MORE THAN ONE MAN AT A TIME.
I don't know why I bother.
Monday, May 07, 2012
Breaking (Up) Bad 6
Having just graduated from college I moved to a beach town on the other side of the state to avoid moving home and living with my parents. One day I was laying out on the beach when a strong wind came up and blew my beach umbrella away. A cute, dark-skinned guy a little older than me caught it and brought it back. I was so touched by the chivalry I agreed to give him my telephone number.
A week later he was late picking me up for our first date which I ignored because I was busy sipping on beers for liquid courage.
We had a good time and laughed at each other's stories and agreed to go out the following Saturday night.
He was late again picking me up.
As a punctual person, this was a pattern I wasn't too pleased to see.
Instead of going to dinner he took me on a detour to a friend's party. Since I know no stranger, I was happy to talk to new people. I kept looking around and couldn't find my date. After about a hour several people at the party decided to go to a bar so we could dance. It was then that my date suggested I ride with his buddy who "didn't quite know the way." I discovered in the car that his buddy was a native of the area.
At the bar which was called Have a Nice Day Cafe, the group all met up, got drinks and started dancing.
I kept seeing my date and then he'd disappear for awhile.
At one point I asked one of the girls that had been at the party how she knew my date. She said, "He sold me my most recent car and we've been dating for about three months."
What?
My date not only was dating someone else he brought us both to the bar.
I hunted him down and proceeded to yell at him louder than the house music. Then I went back to his girlfriend and told her that this was our second date. The look on her face was priceless. Since I didn't have my car I asked his buddy to drive me home. I was fuming the whole way home.
Years later at my company Christmas party I saw him. He was married to one of my coworkers. They later got divorced because he was cheating on her and I had to tell her that her ex-husband is my Worst Date Story Ever.
She wasn't even surprised.
To read more stories from this blogger, go here.
A week later he was late picking me up for our first date which I ignored because I was busy sipping on beers for liquid courage.
We had a good time and laughed at each other's stories and agreed to go out the following Saturday night.
He was late again picking me up.
As a punctual person, this was a pattern I wasn't too pleased to see.
Instead of going to dinner he took me on a detour to a friend's party. Since I know no stranger, I was happy to talk to new people. I kept looking around and couldn't find my date. After about a hour several people at the party decided to go to a bar so we could dance. It was then that my date suggested I ride with his buddy who "didn't quite know the way." I discovered in the car that his buddy was a native of the area.
At the bar which was called Have a Nice Day Cafe, the group all met up, got drinks and started dancing.
I kept seeing my date and then he'd disappear for awhile.
At one point I asked one of the girls that had been at the party how she knew my date. She said, "He sold me my most recent car and we've been dating for about three months."
What?
My date not only was dating someone else he brought us both to the bar.
I hunted him down and proceeded to yell at him louder than the house music. Then I went back to his girlfriend and told her that this was our second date. The look on her face was priceless. Since I didn't have my car I asked his buddy to drive me home. I was fuming the whole way home.
Years later at my company Christmas party I saw him. He was married to one of my coworkers. They later got divorced because he was cheating on her and I had to tell her that her ex-husband is my Worst Date Story Ever.
She wasn't even surprised.
To read more stories from this blogger, go here.
Friday, May 04, 2012
Breaking (Up) Bad 5
The next in a series of reader-submitted stories about their worst breakups. Where's yours?
I had planned on breaking up with him. He was 25, I was 24. But when I missed my period I realized that the breakup was going to have to become my second priority.
I was pregnant.
I never wanted kids, and we were always careful. But condoms break and miracles happen and who knows? Maybe there was a second star in the East that day? Either way, I needed to make the appointment. He said we couldn't go to our local Planned Parenthood because he knew someone who volunteered at the front desk. Then we couldn't go to the next closest one because his mom's hairdresser was next door. Because I was young and dumb, I flipped through the Yellow Pages (remember those?) and found a place down the street. I went in, peed on a stick, and was told to show up the next Saturday with a money order and a ride home.
He cried all the way to the clinic, and when I went in back he cried some more. I don't remember much, except waking up next to a girl who was screaming and profusely bleeding. Have you ever unhooked yourself from an IV and walked out of a clinic in your booties and a plastic bag holding your clothes? (Don't worry - it's not one for the bucket list.)
At least my boyfriend was there for the one thing I really needed: a ride home.
The light at San Vincente turned red when he started to shake. He was crying - bawling, even. He turned to me: "I can't drive. I'm too emotional."
That's how I ended up driving myself home from my own abortion.
We got to my apartment and I sent him out with my prescription and a fistful of money. He returned 45 minutes later with a bag of Tootsie Rolls and told me that I could pick up the prescriptions later that day. He then complained he was hungry. Exhausted, bleeding, and pissed off I brought him to the diner down the street.
I ordered three entrees, telling him I was incredibly hungry. After the waitress left, I slid a quarter across the Formica tabletop.
"Call your mom and have her come pick you up," I told him, and walked out of his life.
(Coda: a year later he emailed me saying "TODAY IS THE ANNIVERSARY OF A VERY BAD DAY." I told him if Hallmark doesn't have a card for an abortionversary, you probably shouldn't celebrate it.)
I had planned on breaking up with him. He was 25, I was 24. But when I missed my period I realized that the breakup was going to have to become my second priority.
I was pregnant.
I never wanted kids, and we were always careful. But condoms break and miracles happen and who knows? Maybe there was a second star in the East that day? Either way, I needed to make the appointment. He said we couldn't go to our local Planned Parenthood because he knew someone who volunteered at the front desk. Then we couldn't go to the next closest one because his mom's hairdresser was next door. Because I was young and dumb, I flipped through the Yellow Pages (remember those?) and found a place down the street. I went in, peed on a stick, and was told to show up the next Saturday with a money order and a ride home.
He cried all the way to the clinic, and when I went in back he cried some more. I don't remember much, except waking up next to a girl who was screaming and profusely bleeding. Have you ever unhooked yourself from an IV and walked out of a clinic in your booties and a plastic bag holding your clothes? (Don't worry - it's not one for the bucket list.)
At least my boyfriend was there for the one thing I really needed: a ride home.
The light at San Vincente turned red when he started to shake. He was crying - bawling, even. He turned to me: "I can't drive. I'm too emotional."
That's how I ended up driving myself home from my own abortion.
We got to my apartment and I sent him out with my prescription and a fistful of money. He returned 45 minutes later with a bag of Tootsie Rolls and told me that I could pick up the prescriptions later that day. He then complained he was hungry. Exhausted, bleeding, and pissed off I brought him to the diner down the street.
I ordered three entrees, telling him I was incredibly hungry. After the waitress left, I slid a quarter across the Formica tabletop.
"Call your mom and have her come pick you up," I told him, and walked out of his life.
(Coda: a year later he emailed me saying "TODAY IS THE ANNIVERSARY OF A VERY BAD DAY." I told him if Hallmark doesn't have a card for an abortionversary, you probably shouldn't celebrate it.)
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Breaking (Up) Bad 4
Anonymous reader submitted story number 4:
i once went out with a guy (9 months! of hell!) & when i broke up with him, first he trashed my flat (threw the sofa across the room, among other things, then when i locked him out tried to break down the (steel plated) door with a fire extinguisher), and then he stalked me, calling me late at night to tell me he was in the phone box at the bottom of the street. it was probably the most pathetic (and inadvertently amusing) attempt at stalking ever. that lasted about 2 weeks. i knew i should've chucked him 7 months earlier when we had a huge stand up & scream row while running around the local town centre.... bad times!
i once went out with a guy (9 months! of hell!) & when i broke up with him, first he trashed my flat (threw the sofa across the room, among other things, then when i locked him out tried to break down the (steel plated) door with a fire extinguisher), and then he stalked me, calling me late at night to tell me he was in the phone box at the bottom of the street. it was probably the most pathetic (and inadvertently amusing) attempt at stalking ever. that lasted about 2 weeks. i knew i should've chucked him 7 months earlier when we had a huge stand up & scream row while running around the local town centre.... bad times!
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Breaking (Up) Bad 3
This is the third installment of reader submitted Breaking Up stories from hell. If you have one, send it to me at the email found in my profile on the sidebar. Under 500 words and you can remain anonymous, as the reader below did.
There are times when a person wants out of a relationship but doesn't want to do the actual breaking up. What they'll do is manipulate the other person into breaking up with them. It's human nature, at least I think it is. I’m not proud to admit it, but I've done it…more than once. So I wasn’t surprised when karma caught up with me and a woman got me to break up with her. What's remarkable is how she did it: By describing how she ended a relationship with another guy.
A little history: This was not the healthiest of relationships. I’ve been an alcoholic all of my adult life. It’s never done me any good and about 10 years ago, I hit absolute bottom. The only choice I had was to get sober.
I’d put together about 8 months of sobriety and got a new job. I pretty much felt like I had my problem solved. A ridiculous set of circumstances led me to a bar in a trendy part of town. Of course I started drinking. I also struck up a conversation with a cute woman that was there.
We hit it off immediately. We shared a lot of interests: Books, music, movies. Beer. We started seeing each other every day. We drank every day. We had fantastic, amazing drunken sex. We had deep philosophical debates about fictional characters and history. We took turns outdrinking each other. We went everywhere together, drank everywhere together, and usually ended up banging each other in the washroom or alley or backyard.
She was the woman of my dreams.
But I was a little more serious about the ‘relationship’ than she was. Even though we never had time for anyone else, she didn’t “commit” to the relationship other than physically. She never came out and said it: I was head over heels for her but she didn’t share those emotions. I was a fuck who always paid the bar tab.
Not that I really minded, until she started quietly distancing herself from me. It started with a day or two apart. Sometimes she’d pay more attention to other guys at the bar. Sometimes she’d blatantly flirt.
Soon, we had THE TALK. I asked what this thing really was. I got the strangest response. It wasn’t an “I’m telling you my deepest darkest secret to emotionally open up to you” response. It felt like a prepared speech. Or a threat.
“Let me tell you a story. When I was younger, I spent the Summer with my mom down in Mexico. I started seeing this guy. One night we got into an argument and I decided I needed to break it off. A bus was getting ready to leave. So I got on the bus. With fifteen guys.”
“…And I couldn’t walk for three days after.”
Of course I told her it didn’t matter. Of course, it did. I couldn’t take it mentally. It was like a ricochet in my brain that I’d never be able to forget, and I’m positive that’s exactly what it was supposed to be. I broke up about a week later.
There are times when a person wants out of a relationship but doesn't want to do the actual breaking up. What they'll do is manipulate the other person into breaking up with them. It's human nature, at least I think it is. I’m not proud to admit it, but I've done it…more than once. So I wasn’t surprised when karma caught up with me and a woman got me to break up with her. What's remarkable is how she did it: By describing how she ended a relationship with another guy.
A little history: This was not the healthiest of relationships. I’ve been an alcoholic all of my adult life. It’s never done me any good and about 10 years ago, I hit absolute bottom. The only choice I had was to get sober.
I’d put together about 8 months of sobriety and got a new job. I pretty much felt like I had my problem solved. A ridiculous set of circumstances led me to a bar in a trendy part of town. Of course I started drinking. I also struck up a conversation with a cute woman that was there.
We hit it off immediately. We shared a lot of interests: Books, music, movies. Beer. We started seeing each other every day. We drank every day. We had fantastic, amazing drunken sex. We had deep philosophical debates about fictional characters and history. We took turns outdrinking each other. We went everywhere together, drank everywhere together, and usually ended up banging each other in the washroom or alley or backyard.
She was the woman of my dreams.
But I was a little more serious about the ‘relationship’ than she was. Even though we never had time for anyone else, she didn’t “commit” to the relationship other than physically. She never came out and said it: I was head over heels for her but she didn’t share those emotions. I was a fuck who always paid the bar tab.
Not that I really minded, until she started quietly distancing herself from me. It started with a day or two apart. Sometimes she’d pay more attention to other guys at the bar. Sometimes she’d blatantly flirt.
Soon, we had THE TALK. I asked what this thing really was. I got the strangest response. It wasn’t an “I’m telling you my deepest darkest secret to emotionally open up to you” response. It felt like a prepared speech. Or a threat.
“Let me tell you a story. When I was younger, I spent the Summer with my mom down in Mexico. I started seeing this guy. One night we got into an argument and I decided I needed to break it off. A bus was getting ready to leave. So I got on the bus. With fifteen guys.”
“…And I couldn’t walk for three days after.”
Of course I told her it didn’t matter. Of course, it did. I couldn’t take it mentally. It was like a ricochet in my brain that I’d never be able to forget, and I’m positive that’s exactly what it was supposed to be. I broke up about a week later.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Breaking (Up) Bad 2
My college boyfriend, who still remains the most attractive person I've ever been with, was very religious. Think newly evangelical Christian who was rebaptized at 19 but had a 16 year old knocked up sister. I grew up in Chicago as a chreaster (Xmas/Easter attendance) with gay friends and a long since misplaced virginity. A match made in heaven.
I gave up sex for love. A terribly illogical sentiment in retrospect. However oral was a plentiful. Condoned by Jesus and Bill Clinton (a winning combo) that was deemed acceptable. I swallowed more semen in that relationship than ever before (or since, my poor husband).
That was until one day on a bus when my boyfriend had a spiritual revelation and decided that he was possessed by demons which is what allowed him to be so sexually impure. So he broke up with me AND THEN HAD AN EXORCISM.
Let me tell you, the phone call where your boyfriend breaks up with you because of demons and then tells you he had an exorcism is a memorable one. Not great for the old ego.
Some how we got back together a few months later because I was "in love" or perhaps brainwashed. Wearing a gorgeous short pink dress I was apparently irresistible, that or the demons were back. We broke up again as he couldn't be around me and control himself and I finally got with the program (reality) and realized that college was for sex and drinking not bible study.
While I didn't get an invitation for the exorcism, probably in fear that I would set a flame upon entering the Christian College he attended in rural Minnesota, I was given a description of how it went down. Apparently, his friends "laid hands upon him" and chanted biblical verses and this removed the demons. No candlelight, holy water, or head spinning vomit. If they had followed the movie closer perhaps we wouldn't have gotten back together.
He married an ugly girl which pleases me.
(You can read this contributor's blog here)
I gave up sex for love. A terribly illogical sentiment in retrospect. However oral was a plentiful. Condoned by Jesus and Bill Clinton (a winning combo) that was deemed acceptable. I swallowed more semen in that relationship than ever before (or since, my poor husband).
That was until one day on a bus when my boyfriend had a spiritual revelation and decided that he was possessed by demons which is what allowed him to be so sexually impure. So he broke up with me AND THEN HAD AN EXORCISM.
Let me tell you, the phone call where your boyfriend breaks up with you because of demons and then tells you he had an exorcism is a memorable one. Not great for the old ego.
Some how we got back together a few months later because I was "in love" or perhaps brainwashed. Wearing a gorgeous short pink dress I was apparently irresistible, that or the demons were back. We broke up again as he couldn't be around me and control himself and I finally got with the program (reality) and realized that college was for sex and drinking not bible study.
While I didn't get an invitation for the exorcism, probably in fear that I would set a flame upon entering the Christian College he attended in rural Minnesota, I was given a description of how it went down. Apparently, his friends "laid hands upon him" and chanted biblical verses and this removed the demons. No candlelight, holy water, or head spinning vomit. If they had followed the movie closer perhaps we wouldn't have gotten back together.
He married an ugly girl which pleases me.
(You can read this contributor's blog here)
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Breaking (Up) Bad
I've been asked to put together bad (or funny) (or tragic) breakup stories in the hopes something might come of it. So if you have one, send it to my email (in my profile). Under 500 words. No restrictions whatsoever.
Here's the first one from Birgen, 19. No, you don't have to reveal your age, real name or the names of any of the people who trashed your heart unless you want to.
*****
Vince was a handsome 6'7" linebacker. I had an internship at a church the summer before we met and I introduced him at a church service to my friend Annie, another intern. Annie was kind of a granola-lesbian-man-hands-short-hair-christian kind of girl so I figured I had nothing to worry about. Yeah they ended up having sex not long after. And I was really hot back then... WHYYYYYYY
Aaron broke up with me on our 10 month anniversary at Olive Garden because he said he was afraid of commitment and that 10 months was getting too serious. I found out a few weeks later that he had been cheating on me with a girl named Katie. This was over 3 years ago. Aaron and Katie are still dating. Real commitment-phobe...
and my favorite
Tommy was a schizophrenic drug addict! (How could this go wrong?!) He had to go to treatment and I went to visit him every day. We had agreed to be on friendship terms at this point because a relationship would be hard for him to focus on in treatment. One day we were in his hospital room and he kept trying to kiss me. I said no because he was the one who really wanted to be just friends, and he replied by saying that he was in love with me and wanted me to be his girlfriend. I said "are you sure?" and he said "yes." He told me he loved me and would never hurt me just so he could get laid. Sooooo things happened (he had a private room) and then visiting hours were over.
Literally, just made it out of the parking lot, and Tommy calls me from the hospital phone and said he had changed his mind and that he didn't want to date me anymore. I was an absolute wreck knowing that I was used for my body like that. My emotions got the best of my driving abilities and I ran a red light with a cop behind me. Got pulled over, he asked for my license and I was so out of it and bawling so hard that I gave him my credit card.
He goes "Jesus, just go home." I did and then I drank a lot of wine with my cat.
Here's the first one from Birgen, 19. No, you don't have to reveal your age, real name or the names of any of the people who trashed your heart unless you want to.
*****
Vince was a handsome 6'7" linebacker. I had an internship at a church the summer before we met and I introduced him at a church service to my friend Annie, another intern. Annie was kind of a granola-lesbian-man-hands-short-hair-christian kind of girl so I figured I had nothing to worry about. Yeah they ended up having sex not long after. And I was really hot back then... WHYYYYYYY
Aaron broke up with me on our 10 month anniversary at Olive Garden because he said he was afraid of commitment and that 10 months was getting too serious. I found out a few weeks later that he had been cheating on me with a girl named Katie. This was over 3 years ago. Aaron and Katie are still dating. Real commitment-phobe...
and my favorite
Tommy was a schizophrenic drug addict! (How could this go wrong?!) He had to go to treatment and I went to visit him every day. We had agreed to be on friendship terms at this point because a relationship would be hard for him to focus on in treatment. One day we were in his hospital room and he kept trying to kiss me. I said no because he was the one who really wanted to be just friends, and he replied by saying that he was in love with me and wanted me to be his girlfriend. I said "are you sure?" and he said "yes." He told me he loved me and would never hurt me just so he could get laid. Sooooo things happened (he had a private room) and then visiting hours were over.
Literally, just made it out of the parking lot, and Tommy calls me from the hospital phone and said he had changed his mind and that he didn't want to date me anymore. I was an absolute wreck knowing that I was used for my body like that. My emotions got the best of my driving abilities and I ran a red light with a cop behind me. Got pulled over, he asked for my license and I was so out of it and bawling so hard that I gave him my credit card.
He goes "Jesus, just go home." I did and then I drank a lot of wine with my cat.
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