Wicked Games

Most of what I remember about the bulk of my two-and-a-half year relationship is a collection of moments. Feelings that are mixed up in the past and the present. Sometimes I am not sure if the moment is a memory or a reflection. Is it me, living the moment, at the tender age of 19 or 20, or is it me, now, with the wisdom of 43 years, looking back?

When I see myself standing in the foyer of our Oak Park home, staring at the closed door to the family room, paralyzed with fear, is that me? Or her? I don't know. I do know I'm afraid of opening the door. Because on the other side of it is Javier, with a giant white Valentine's Day bear, presented with flourish because I was upset with him for something and he wanted to make me feel better (which, of course, is to say that he was hoping a big stupid stuffed animal would make me forget he pissed me off or made me sad). And if I open that door, I'm letting him back in. I'm saying it's okay that he hurt me; it's okay for him to bribe me with gifts; to make me feel like a fool for having feelings. 

Yes, I opened the door. And again some time later, when he "braved" the rain to walk to our house, just to see me, and when I opened the door he said, "You see how much I love you?" Only that was a lie. A platitude, a fucking ploy to get me to let him in. He was banking on me getting so wrapped up in the words "I love you" that I'd forget everything else. 

Did I believe that he loved me? I wish I could answer that. I can't connect to any emotions other than fear and confusion. 

Looking back, though, I know he didn't. He was a sociopath and he was playing with me. Playing games with my sanity, because it was fun. 

For example, one night he left with my car, without telling me where was going (or, you know, inviting me, his live-in girlfriend, along), and stayed out well past midnight. He didn't have an actual driver's license, so every time he left with my car I worried something would happen and he'd end up in jail. The later it got, the more frantic I became. I couldn't sleep. I remember pacing my room at three a.m., wondering if anyone would even know to call me if he got pulled over, or got into an accident. I worried about what my parents would say once they found out I'd let him drive my car without a license. I worried about everything.

Sometime around 3:30, he came home. I was in bed, but not asleep, and I remember very clearly looking up to see him in the bedroom doorway, waiting. I flew out of bed in a rage, yelling at him for not calling me, for staying out all goddamn night, for having no consideration for me at all. He made a single lame excuse about not calling (he couldn't find a phone), I called bullshit and kept on yelling. And the whole time, he just watched me. No regret, no apologies. Only amusement.

He thought it was funny that I was mad. Funny. 

Another night, we got in a fight about something, and I was furious. Angrier than I'd ever been, maybe. He never yelled, just spoke to me quietly in condescending tones, which only made me yell even more. At one point in the argument, we went into our bedroom and closed the door in my face. He was done, the conversation was over, and I was left on the other side of the door, raging in a way I'd never raged before. I slammed my fist into the door, over and over, screaming at him, hating him, and he didn't even react. He didn't shout back telling me to shut up, he didn't open the door, he did nothing. He got the satisfaction of pissing me off, and I got a bruised hand and a battered psyche. 

It was all a game for him. How far could he push me? What new and inventive ways could he find to get a rise out of me? I played into it every time. He'd gone from punishing me for getting angry (like he'd done in the beginning) to making a game out of pissing me off. 

The man was making me crazy. He was making it so I never had solid ground to stand on, so I never knew which end was up, or even who I was. 

He was taking me apart.