Friday, February 14, 2014

Eff Him: A Valentines Day Opus (Warning: Copious use of the F word)

Mr. Earthquake has said Fuck You to me two times over the three years that I knew him. The last time was after I tried to save our relationship. The first time was when I tried to save his life.

When I finally had no more left for him, I told him I was done and that he should leave me alone and let me heal.  He had betrayed me in a way I never thought he would. I knew he was an asshole sometimes (aren't we all), but I never thought he would be mean. And this one felt mean.  I had compromised and sacrificed so much to accommodate him and his need for what he called “mosaic tiles." The women in his life that were adding color, fun, adventure, companionship. I was 2000 miles away. I didn't begrudge him tiles. At least, not much. 

The one thing that I asked of him was that he not introduce any of these “tiles” to his children. Which he did anyway. I'm not sure he is capable of understanding others' feelings right now. He just doesn't realize how what he does can hurt others.

And so I told him I was done. He had finally found the line in the sand to cross in order for me to end it. Which I am kind of thinking he was what he was trying to do, because it would be easier for him to be dumped than to be the bad guy.

He wrote me an email after that. He said he admired me. He thanked me. He apologized to me. Then he wrote his last Fuck You. 

The first Fuck You was after he had done one of the hundreds of things he did that hurt me terribly. There have been so many that I can’t even remember which one it was.  But I do remember my response to it. I packed up the few belongings he had at my house and told him to come get them and return my key. I left a bag of stuff outside, then took Kidlet to the mall for dinner so that he would not have to see Mr. E or any discussion/fighting/crying.

Apparently, my removing myself and my child from a volatile situation was too much for E to handle. He went off the deep end. He started calling me, over and over and over. I didn’t answer the phone because I was both too angry and my son was within earshot. Then I got a text.

I need to own one small piece of this. I tend to run away rather than stand and fight. Or at least I used to. I'm getting better. But I will always struggle with my fight/flight reflex. 

E texted that I should say goodbye, because this would be the last chance I would have to talk to him. Then he asked me if I would help his ex-wife to settle things for him with his apartment and belongings.

That was a fear that I have never before felt. Thinking about it still sends a surge of adrenalin through my body. 

I took my son to my parents’ house, and rushed over to E’s apartment. E was incredibly drunk and wouldn't open the door. I finally convinced him to let me in. 

What I saw scared the hell out of me. He had all his kitchen knives lined up on the counter. He was writing farewell notes. I asked him if he would let me take him to the hospital. I said I would sit with him all night if need be, but that he needed help. He refused.

I quietly took the notes he had written to his children and his mother. I never, ever wanted them to find those letters. But E saw me with them and grabbed then out of my hand, destroying them. 

I did not know what to do. I was so afraid for him. So, yes, I called an ambulance.

As they were loading him into the back, he used both hands to flip me off and he said: Fuck You. If I close my eyes, I can see it all play out in my mind. And it still hurts as much.
That night ended any hope that my family would accept him. That night, the police told me to sever ties with him because he would do this again. The paramedics told me to not come to the hospital because E was so hostile and aggravated by me.

I sat up the whole night watching hate-filled texts come into my phone. I called the hospital twice to check on him. Of course, they wouldn’t give me any information because I was not a relative.  I finally fell asleep at around 4 in the morning, with the phone in my hand.

I know he thinks I betrayed him. Failed him. I hope someday he can see that I did the only think I could think to do. Sometimes, even I need reinforcements. 

He has told me on several occasions that he has never forgiven me for calling 911 that night. He told me that the moment I did that, I lost my best friend status.  I don’t know why I continued to fight for our relationship.

But also, I don’t know why he continued to fight for it. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t just let me go so he could chase whatever it was he was looking for. 

I know that I am at fault for letting him back in my life, knowing he would probably hurt me again. I think a very real part of me felt like I deserved the humiliation and pain. But I never once—not for one moment—intentionally tried to cause him pain.

 I guess my hope for what could be trumped the knowledge of what had been.

My therapist is helping me try to sort this out. Because I know I can’t fix me by myself.

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