Chapter VIII: Monster

I remember being in a haze when my flight landed at Midway. I was dreading going back; home to an empty house that no longer felt like home. My ex had spent the time I was away on my work trip starting to move his stuff out. I remember thinking how fast he did it all, almost as if he had been planning it for some time.

When I turned my phone off of airplane mode, his name was the first thing to pop up on my screen.

“Landed?”

He had asked me earlier in the day if I was going to stay at our place for the night. He wanted me to; which disgusted me. For all I knew he was seeing her while I was out of town. I didn’t know who he was any more and I was starting to realize quickly that I never did.

I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I wanted to see my cats, Paisley and Halsted. I wanted to just curl up with them and sleep. Sleep to forget my own reality. It was the only time I was free from the truth that was so quickly swallowing me whole.

My friend and I pulled up in our Uber outside my condo to drop me off first.

“Are you sure you are okay going in there with him?” he asked.

“No, but I just need to be at home.”

He offered up his couch or to take me to my girlfriend’s house instead.

I shook my head.

“Call me if you need anything. It’s going to be okay. Love ya, bud.”

He gave me a hug and helped me get my luggage out of the car. I held back tears the whole way inside. Praying, hoping, begging that my ex wouldn’t be there.

He was.

***

I opened the old door and walked into our grand, pre-war entryway. He had been waiting and was sitting on the bench with his hands folded and head down; the exact position he was in before he told me about his baby. He smiled eerily as he unfolded his fingers and stood up over me.

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

***

I remember so little of the conversation we had. What I do recall; however, is he had done all sorts of “chores” for me. It was as though he thought it would somehow make me forget what he did. That I would be like, “Oh shit dude! You cleaned, bought groceries, and moved out all by yourself? You are a fucking saint!”

He got no such reaction and the fact that he seemed surprised by that is truly astounding. It was around this time that I started reflecting on all the little idiosyncrasies of this strange individual still living in my home. It was then that I actually started researching what it meant for someone to be a narcissist; a sociopath. It was also then, that I started fearing him.

***

People often commented on how well I handled the breakup emotionally. In reality, I was drowning in my own thoughts. Drowning in 30 foot waves of nausea, panic attacks, and moments of complete and utter darkness. The emotion that I didn’t have? Sadness. I didn’t miss him. I didn’t miss him at all.

I didn’t miss him at all because his reign over me was over. He no longer had his mask on and the spell was immediately and completely broken. The power was back in my hands to realize who he really was:

A monster with a key to my apartment.

I started reading through whitepapers on sociopaths and their prey. You see, men like him don’t know how to love anything. They lack all emotional depth, empathy. They get off on power. They go through three phases of abuse. Assessment: sizing up their victims to see how they tick, what insecurities they have and how to best pursue them. He knew when he met me that I was coming from a relationship that lacked a certain level of romance and depth that I craved. He knew I loved music. He knew and used these things against me. He knew exactly how to wrap me around his finger. The next phase: Manipulation. Feigning love and togetherness to meet this goal of emotional domination. What was his ultimate goal? Power. He wanted power in the form of control, money and the envy of others. He came from nothing and wanted to be rich in all sense of the word. He wanted the big house, the powerful job, the pretty wife, the big diamond ring. Anything to establish his superiority over others. If he saw anyone as a threat to this power, he would do anything he could to prevent me from being exposed to those individuals. If he saw no threat, he welcomed them with open arms. The third phase of the abuse: Abandonment. He grew bored. The problem with wanting the pretty and smart wife, is we eventually do start thinking for ourselves when you start slacking on your mind game. We stop doing things to solely please you. We start speaking up and we no longer live to serve you and your fucked up version of happiness. We start questioning why you deserve us and wonder if you even do.

He slept on the couch that night and I did exactly what I needed; locked myself in my room and passed out. I wanted to sleep and escape from the realty. I needed the break from myself, from my life. I wanted to wake up and not have him back, but wake up and have it all be over.

***

Monday was a surprisingly typical day. My ex was completely out of the house; living in a dingy studio in Lincoln Park. I couldn’t bring myself to keep on my engagement ring anymore, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone at the office. The embarrassment would have been too much. My work friend from the Seattle trip was the only one at the office who knew. He checked in on me from time to time; taking walks with me when I needed to clear my head or grabbing a quick dinner when the thought of going home to an empty house with empty walls was just too much to bear.

It slowly came out during the week to some of my close friends. I didn’t know how to really say it. “He cheated. She’s pregnant. And that’s that.” I think it shocked people that I didn’t break down in tears every time I uttered iterations of the story. Perhaps it was the denial, though my denial very soon became a raging tsunami of hopelessness and anger. I was so very lost. Constantly wondering what I had done to deserve the struggles and traumas that this life has never ceased to provide to me, my friends, my loved ones. I was already exhausted from spending years working to free myself from paralyzing anxiety caused by other wounds. Now, most of all, I was angry. Angry at him. Angry at her. Most of all, angry at myself. I spent hours trying to figure out what was wrong with me. Why I wasn’t good enough. How he fooled me, my family, and everyone. For years. How did I not see it coming? What should I have done to make him not want to look elsewhere?

I knew deep down I’d be okay. I always was. But this time around, I had had enough. Enough manipulation. Enough abuse. Enough of me keeping quiet because its the proper, lady-like thing to do. This time around, I wasn’t going to stay silent.

***

That next Friday, the word was out to my inner circle of close friends. I asked a few girlfriends to grab dinner with me. We went to Beatrix in River North and, after a few drinks, I walked them all through the story as they quietly listened. They glanced subtly back and forth at one another; left, right, me. None of them quite sure what to say. Two friends started tearing up listening to me talk about the surprise party and him throwing his phone at me. It felt almost worse knowing I had brought them down the deep, dark rabbit hole with me.

We decided to take the group back to my house because, despite my facade, I was drowning. I didn’t want to be alone.

My brother and a few others met us there as well. As we all congregated at my front door, I told them to brace themselves for what was next.

***

As we walked into the hallway, my friends and I were greeted with hundreds of yellow sticky notes. All over the walls. All over everything. I hadn’t yet been able to take them down. This was his attempt to dig his claws back in me one last time; it was working.

“I will always love you”

“You’re so pretty”

“Don’t forget to feed the cats”

“I can’t wait to marry you someday”

My childhood friend’s mouth had to be pulled off the floor. He was disgusted as were the others. I couldn’t handle reading them all but the group walked through the hallways looking at them, baffled.

“What kind of fucked up person does this?”

One of my friends walked into the bathroom. On the mirror in my lipstick he had written song lyrics from a song I loved:

“Little do you know how I’m breaking while you fall asleep

Little do you know I’m still haunted by the memories

Little do you know I’m trying to pick myself up piece by piece

Little do you know I need a little more time…”

My friends, one by one, plucked the notes from the walls, and scrubbed the lyrics off my mirrors. I sat with the others on the couch and opened a bottle of wine. My brother; a man of few words; visibly shaken by what he had seen and heard. The others not sure what to say. I tried to joke; poke fun at my unfortunate situation because, more than feeling grief itself, I hated feeling like I had hurt or disappointed those close to me. I hated it but all the while loved them so much in that moment.

One by one they slowly exited my condo; the last leaving a little after midnight.

“He doesn’t have a key does he?” they asked.

“No, he left it on the front table when he took the last of his things.”

“Change your locks anyways.”

***

As my last friend left, I shut the door, latched all five of the locks, and let out a sigh. I abruptly set my forehead against the door and felt myself begin to tear up. I turned around and slid my back down the door and wept like a child; letting out all the ugly tears that had been waiting patiently until it was safe to come out. I sat there in my entryway, legs folded, mascara running until the sobs subsided into smaller, less pathetic whimpers.

After composing myself, I got up and stared at the keys he set on the table; I started to wonder what he was truly capable of. Nervous; I hurried to check the back door. It was locked. I walked back through the dining room and as I walked past the now empty guest bedroom, I began feeling uneasy. I had always mentioned to him that if anyone was going to break into the house, it was going to be through the windows in that room. The locks were rusted and someone could easily access them from the fire escape behind our building. I often times felt like we were being watched through those windows. Like I would turn the corner and there would be a face staring back at me. Daytime or nighttime, the windows always made me tense. And now I was completely alone.

Like a small child afraid of the boogeyman, I rushed back into my bedroom, locking myself in with my two cats. I hadn’t eaten or slept in days; medically exhausted. As I rolled over to my left side, Halsted came up and nestled his 17 pound body next to my chest. He let me put my arm around him and pull him close. Paisley slept on the other side between me and the door. As sad as it sounds, I felt safest when they were there. I knew they’d protect me from his ghost; a memory of a monster I would soon come to know all too well.