The Aftermath

I suspect any interest in my new little forum has mostly stemmed from wanting to know what happened next; the aftermath of my tragedy. If you were to ask me, one off, how everything has been, I would tell you I’m great. The weight that I carried on my shoulders for the better part of two years is finally lighter. I can breathe again and I no longer have just a belief, but a knowing, that my future has been completely redirected towards something awe-inspiring, magical and full of love.

While 2020 was one of the most bizarre years of my lifetime, I can say it holds a special place in my heart. Getting engaged to Ben, spending countless days and nights quarantined in our little zen apartment in Lincoln Park; cozied up and breathing life back into my lungs. COVID-19, in an ironic way, gave me time to be alone; to rest and recover in solitude and peace.

The truth, however, is that no matter how magical my life has become, there is always an aftermath; an eventual undoing of parts of ourselves in our recovery. I know the puzzle pieces fit together perfectly now, but it’s as though I have to tear apart the puzzle of myself and re-remember how each piece fits together. Meeting the man of my dreams doesn’t make this part of grieving disappear, though it makes it easier at times, certainly.

The truth is that I’m still very angry.

The once carefree and happy-go-lucky person I was seems permanently altered; my true self, distorted. I drop a coffee on the sidewalk while carrying it to my car and become enraged. Times of needing to patiently wait for anything have become catalysts for making my blood boil. Seeing injustice anywhere makes me feel like I could punch through a wall in the apartment. And while I still have the self-control to hold back all these moments of rage, I still feel them very overtly and strongly. I am so angry that I sit up at night, long after Ben has peacefully fallen asleep, and I think about karmic revenge and all the things I hope it does to the people that have hurt me and destroyed the lives of others. This anger, in many ways, is slowly poisoning me to death. I see the moments of joy that life has brought me and, on occasion, cannot truly feel their warmth because of this newfound coldness that has slowly crept into my being.

***

Monday, September 28th 2020

It’s 2:27 a.m. As I lie on my back in bed with eyes wide, darting around the room, I am unable to stop my brain from thinking terrible things. Terrible things about myself and terrible things about others. I’ve never truly hated anyone before, but from time to time, the repugnance seethes from within and overtakes every part of my body. Tossing and turning, I try to shake loathsome thoughts from my mind; attempting to soothe the anger calmly with breathing techniques or gentle strokes over Paisley’s soft fur. The truth, I knew, was that I didn’t want to fall asleep; I knew what that would lead to. I no longer could handle waking up to cold sweats from night terrors or waking up crying anymore. Eventually, I’d drift into a state of what I can only call madness; madness that would sit next to me, nestled on my pillow, and whisper terrible, gut-wrenching thoughts that would finally lull me into a crazed sleep.

I can’t do this anymore.

I lifted my head off of my soft pillow and grabbed my phone. Its light shined on my face in the dark as Paisley pawed at my arm, her way of telling me gently to lay back down.

I had lied to myself for long enough; used every trick in the book. But it was time now.

I pulled up google and, in the dimly lit room, I typed in the word that had been on the tip of my tongue for months.

Therapist.

***

October 2020

I remember our first appointment; a video conference, of course, during the odd times of 2020. Bill was younger than I was used to. In my 34 years, I had been in and out for therapy for multiple reasons. Mainly my painstaking anxiety would become so crippling at times that I had no choice but to seek help from a professional, lest I embarrass myself continuously with my own avoidance techniques or nervous ticks. I was used to older men, however; Grandfather-like figures whose words of wisdom I would have no choice but to heed. This felt different, lighter. I had even thought for a brief moment, “will this work?”

“Hey Lindsay, my name is Bill.”

I covered my mouth for a second thinking about all the times I’d be tempted to reenact the “oh no, Mr. Bill” claymation scenes from Saturday Night Live, though I wasn’t sure he’d find my impressions as amusing and I would.

“So tell me a little bit about yourself, what made you reach out to our practice?”

For the first time in my many hours of therapy, I wanted to crack a joke. A million responses ran through my mind.

“Thank f*cking God you’re young, because this is going to take YEARS…”

“I’m thinking of developing a drinking problem to help cope with the myriad of other problems I’ve collected over the years…”

“I personify my cats to an unhealthy degree, thoughts?”

“I suffer from violent stints of anemomenophobia…”

“I almost married Satan…and I mean, how bad is murder, REALLY?”

“I may or may not be sexually attracted to Winnie the Pooh….crop top and no pants, man? C’mon!”

“I think Mike Tyson Mysteries was the greatest show ever made and…I dunno.. I just feel like there’s a lot to unpack there…”

I was tempted, but I didn’t. Like I always did when I saw a new therapist, I started from the beginning. It always baffled me how it would take multiple sessions for some folks to unveil their troubles. I never understood that. Was it fear of being judged; having to admit your own faults to another human being? Fear of admitting them to yourself? Whatever the reason, I never understood it. I was there for a reason and it was going to take enough time getting closure, so the last thing I wanted was to make him work to get out my stories.

“I reached out because I can’t sleep.”

Bill asked more about that. If it was new, what I thought caused it.

I explained that I had sought therapy before; how I was a high functioning person with acute anxiety. I described my learned techniques for battling it: various breathing techniques, finding a place to be alone, drinking soda water and popping pepto bismol like candy. “When all my ideas stop working, I know it’s time to get help from a professional.”

“That makes sense; so what is keeping you up,” he asked empathetically.

“Brace yourself, there’s a lot to get through.”

When I say I started from the beginning, I don’t mean I started from the beginning of Chapters; the story of the Monster. I started all the way back to my childhood. The truth, my friends, is there’s a lot that’s there; underneath the story of the Monster. Other pain that has never truly gone away; it simply gets muted to make room for other hardships. In a way, I am comforted in knowing that I can appreciate life’s beauty because I have seen it be so ugly. We unpack some of my tumultuous family relationships, friendships lost, a childhood plagued by alcoholism and the selfishness of adults. We discuss abuses of others before the Monster even came into the picture. We unpacked all this for weeks before getting to the heart of what was, at the surface, keeping me awake. We did this all because I knew it was relevant. Even if the thoughts I had revolved around recent occurrences, my fears and pain were deeply rooted in a foundation of other trials and tribulations; all embedded in other parts of my psyche that make the resolution of this chapter so hard for me to close.

***

February 4th, 2021

“Another girl came forward,” I said to my Bill after avoiding the topic for the first 40 minutes in fear of the tears welling up in my eyes.

“Oh?” He said, surprised while also somehow expecting the news.

I promised her I wouldn’t mention anything publicly but told Dr. B of the details.

Trauma is one of the loneliest places I have ever known. It isn’t fleeting. It isn’t brief. It’s a constant nagging in the depths of your being; a wound that does not bleed for the world to see but one that stings and torments you silently day in and day out. People look at you, thinking you’ve moved on, and are unable to understand how you are still talking or thinking about it.

“He doesn’t just cheat,” I say through heavy breaths. “He manipulates intelligent, extraordinary women and takes away their sense of value, worth, and safety.” He makes us question society and the world as we know it, while at the same time making us feel insane; using the same insidious tactics religiously in order to gain our trust.

The tactics, I continue to explain, are so clear to an insider; to the women who have experienced them. But to others, the tactics are masked, mirrored even, so that calling him out would make us seem so utterly incredible that we must be the liars and manipulators ourselves.

“It’s a new version of victim-blaming,” I say with a straight face. “He gaslights us so well that, when we finally unveil the truth and say what he has done out loud, it is impossible to seem credible to any outsider.

To many reading this story, we are the monsters; I am the monster.

But she was an insider; a new person rowing ashore to visit me on my lonely island of one. She actually, truly understood.

She knew all the tactics so well. She had studied them in the same way I had and the same way the others had; Sarah, *Savannah, all ten plus women who came forward. She told me everything I knew to be true, but that so many others refused to believe. She told me how my story changed her life, for the better. She told me all these things and, for the first time in almost a year, I cried.

It was in this session that I was able to uncover how he operated. Realizing that he feigned intimacy and honesty by doing the one thing that would disarm anyone - he told the brutal truth. The monster knew that by telling people things they didn’t want to hear - bad things about himself, his weaknesses, his faults, he could gain their trust - the problem was these truths were used to paint a story that was much different than the larger picture. He used these brutal truths to tell a story of his redemption; to illustrate how bad he used to be but how far he has come by working on himself. And we all bought it. Every. Single. One of us.

Every. Single. Time.

It forced empathy onto his victims and he, knowing all-too-well he had chosen the perfect scapegoat, would use this fake intimacy to manipulate and control his victims.

“Because who would tell the truth about this stuff so openly except for an honest person?” I asked.

“A person who uses convenient truths to manipulate the bigger picture.”

“I am still so angry.” I say to Dr. Bill; hiding my clenched fists out of the video view. “It’s as though he has poisoned me with anger that I never had before; his way of manipulating from beyond a physical reach.”

“How do you let go of that, Lindsay? Forgiveness?”

“Never.”

“Understandable. Tell me then, what does this story looks like for you in ten years?”

I sit back in my chair and glance outside thinking of the future as the bulbous flakes of snow rain down on the streets below me. “I don’t think I could ever forgive him.” I say with conviction in my voice. “I guess I just hope it fades away and each day, week, month-whatever, I think about it less and less.”

I continue to tell him how I don’t think about the Monster every day; not even every week. But when something comes up; a new person, detail or anecdote, I spiral into a deep, dark rabbit hole that is near impossible to climb out of without some type of lifeline or rope.

I start to choke up and speak again, “Honestly, I just miss feeling safe.”

Safe.

Safety, I realized in that moment, had become scare; like a luxury I could no longer afford. Even years later, he was robbing me of safety. Feeling physically safe from him as well as feeling safe in a near-perfect relationship.

“And this comes back to your sleep issues,” Dr. Bill noted.

“I’m afraid to sleep,” I said. “I can no longer take having dreams where Ben isn’t there; I can’t find him. He’s gone or missing or, in the worst of dreams, just doesn’t want me.”

I sigh and run my hand partway through my hair and hold it there while I try to think of the right words to say.

“Its hard to articulate properly but the loss is still being felt perpetually every night,” I pause. “Every night at 3:00 a.m. waking up from a dream where I am alone and unwanted.” It’s such a simple dream but it has very real, tangible physical effects. Cold sweats, hot sweats, crying in my sleep.

“I can’t survive if I can’t sleep through the night.”

I can tell my desperation is all too apparent to Bill and knowing all too well that I view closure as justice, he speaks up.

“For what it’s worth, sociopaths are unhappy people. They experience fleeting moments of pleasure, but they are incapable of experiencing true happiness,” Bill says.

I chuckle briefly. Not out of vindication but out of recognizing my own weakness.

“You know, the old Lindsay would hear you say that and actually feel empathy for the guy,” I said laughing while a straight face quickly took over as if on cue, “I’m not that person anymore.”

I’m not that person anymore and it fucking terrifies me.

***