It Never Quite Goes Away, Pt. 3

Part 1 Here.

Part 2 Here.

Far From the End

So he’s trembling on my doorstep, clutching a ridiculous and probably stolen, bottle of wine. He’s sweat-soaked, too, which I discover is because he walked the 16 miles to my apartment in the late August sun. I’m surprised to see him, really, I thought it was over. But, I’m hospitable to a point. I tell him, thanks for the wine, but I’m on my way to San Diego to visit a friend, which was the truth. He asks for her name, then scribbles an indecipherable message on the bottle label, wishing us a good time or some such crazy thing, and thrusts the bottle into my arms.

He’s almost whispering before I shut the door, begging me to re-think my decision to end the relationship. And now I see him clearly: a lost, unbalanced, surreal cut-out of the person I thought he was — and who he led me to believe existed. I fought the urge to be cruel, really there’s so much I haven’t told you of the selfish, twisted things he’d do — and I was largely successful. Still, there was no doubt that when I closed the door, it was for the last time.

I drove to San Diego a scant hour later, relieved and free. Later that evening, as my best friend and I sipped the wine, she confided that she’d always known he was “off,” and that she’d bitten her tongue time and again when I spoke of our relationship. Unlike any other break-up before or after, I flew light and unfettered — no regrets, no looking back. I’d done the right thing.

The weekend passed in a blur. Then, late Sunday, before I headed home, I checked my answering machine, and to my utter astonishment, heard the robot voice announce that I had 37 new messages. After the first 15, I hung up in numb horror. Each message he left — and he’d left all 37 — alternated between scary threats and yearning regret. He’d rotate from, “You’ve got a flat ass!” to “I want to caress your breasts,” within the same five-minute span. Listening, it came hurtling at me in one swift instant: this was not over and I had no idea what I was dealing with.

So I returned home to more messages. And more after that. Then, still more. I changed my phone number a week later, and so he’d stand outside my apartment, shouting up at my second-story window and yelling into my apartment intercom.

Nowhere was I safe. In the two months we dated, he’d seen where I worked, who my friends were, where I hung out. As a result, that entire post-break-up month I’d find him in my office, bearing strange gifts like a bear backpack stuffed with dead leaves; around corners, in the nooks, in the crannies. I never knew where he’d turn up, but I tried to be prepared for anything.

Co-workers locked me in the bathroom when he came to call, friends hid me in their homes. Yet, he’d find ways in. He showed up at my friend’s apartments, muscle his way into my parking garage, keen threats from outside restaurants. My mom called in a panic one day to tell me he’d contacted her with the news he might have AIDS. Then the next day, he put a phlebotomist on the phone to tell me personally that he in fact, did not have AIDS. And the games went on.

It got worse. So, so much worse. He vandalized the cars of people he thought I was dating, painted over every window at my office, threw rocks in my windows. During this time, I called the police repeatedly. And if someone came, the disinterested, couldn’t-care-less looks on their faces stripped me of any pretense of protection.

And so he grew bolder. One day, I received an unexpected call that the police had just taken him to jail for breaking and entering. Apparently, a neighbor observed him scaling my wall and climbing into my tiny bedroom window. By the time the apartment manager let the police in, they’d found him under my bed. When I think of what would have happened in those hours after I arrived home from work that day – had my neighbor not called — I still shiver.

I filed a restraining order the next morning and brought it to jail. He had no place of residence, so I’d never been able to serve him before, but this time, the deputy brought it back to his cell, and I really thought this document would conquer all.

Oh, but no. On my scheduled court date a few weeks later, I stopped by the Santa Monica courthouse on my way to Dallas for a business trip. I ran into him in the hall outside the courtroom — really, there were so few safeguards for the stalked at that time — and pleaded with him to leave me alone. After all, I foolishly didn’t buy that he were capable of violence or presented a real threat. I viewed him as an elevated nuisance, but something I could handle overall. And so he agreed. He’d leave me alone, and relieved, I left for Dallas — without arguing my right to the restraining order.

I do not have to tell you what a grave misjudgment I made. When I returned from Dallas, I came home to more of the same, but worse. I called his friends I knew and shared the gravity of the situation with them. Each time, I hung up with a promise made to talk some sense into him. Then, finally, I heard he planned to move to Europe.

In the days following that news, I rejoiced. All remained quiet. For the first time in months, I wasn’t awakened by a rustling outside my apartment, a shout from the stair, a gift on the doorstep. Up to that point, I’d slept at friend’s homes many nights, or they stayed with me. Emboldened by the respite from his relentless emotional assault, I came home one night to my own place and fell asleep easily for the first time in months.

I remember screaming. I don’t recall what woke me up, but surveying the scene, it must have been the sound of my door being obliterated. The wood lay splintered in the entry and a large hole gaped where the door used to be. And as my eyes further adjusted, I saw him there, standing silent at the foot of my bed.

{{One last continuance…The resolution is coming. This mother took way more out of me than I realized it would…and I’ve got PROMPTuesday to prepare…}}

Part 4 Here.