All That I Am

I was going to tell the rest of the story -- how Javier finally disappeared from my life and I was free to move on. I was going to write about the years it took me to regain what I lost; about how many times I repeated this pattern of giving myself away for the sake of keeping a guy who wasn't anywhere near good enough for me. 

I was going to reflect on the damage, but I changed my mind. 

I believe there was purpose in telling the story, in sharing it with the world instead of holding it inside the bubble wrap of shame and regret. I believe that going back to those pivotal moments was clarifying for me, and I even believe that reliving the period after we broke up -- those months he spent terrorizing me for what seemed like sport -- was important for me to do, even though I had a hard time with it. I didn't like being in that place of fear again -- a place I had deliberately avoided for a very long time. But allowing myself to do so gave me a new perspective, even as I processed the pain. 

I don't live there anymore. I haven't for a very long time.

I had a deeply transformative experience this weekend that shifted my intention as to how I want to approach the end of this particular project, so instead of sharing anything more about the man who abused me, I am going to examine and celebrate the woman I have become.

I am a woman who knows herself -- smart, sassy, moody, sensitive, empathic, irritable, impatient, funny, uncertain, and sometimes incredibly insecure. I have learned to accept and own all of those aspects of myself, and as I become aware of the many other sides of Nancy, I will welcome them, too. 

I am a woman with a passionate and creative mind, who sees a picture in everyday things, who stops a hundred times along the way (wherever that is) to capture that secret world, that story, that magic. I have a vision of doing wildly creative photo shoots that express the worlds inside my soul, the colors and shapes and moods that live inside my mind. 

I am a writer, a storyteller with the ability to take my readers to places they've never been, to experience things in a new way; a passion for creating characters that live beyond the page, characters that people (including me) talk about as though they were real. I believe in what I do, and I will not give up on my vision of sharing those stories and those characters with the world.

I am a musician -- sharing that passion with my mother and holding the intention to share her talent, in my own way. By pushing myself to learn a new instrument, I have discovered a love for music and creation I never dreamed I'd have. By pushing myself outside my comfort zone, I am growing as a musician every week, I am finding the voice I never knew I had. I'm finding power I never knew I had.

I am a woman with a soul that longs to travel. To go wherever the Universe takes me, knowing I have a home, a sanctuary, to return to. 

I am a woman who is discovering what it means to have faith. To connect with something far greater than myself, to believe in its possibilities, to believe in what's possible when I work with this power, rather than against it. 

I am developing a new relationship with my body. Experiences early in my life taught me that it wasn't to be trusted, to be cared for, and certainly not loved, but I am working on changing all of that. I am learning that there is no reason to punish or shame this body, and there are many reasons to love it, just as it is. 

I am loved. For so much of my life, I truly doubted that I could be. I felt I couldn't possibly deserve the kind of love that came without condition, without qualification -- and even then I felt I couldn't live up to whatever those might be. I was confused when people said they loved me. In my head I kept asking, why? Who am I to deserve their love? But now I know. And I know this because I love me. I have made peace with the parts of me I abandoned a long time ago, found forgiveness and love and trust in them -- and they in me -- and now I understand what it is to be loved. Now I believe it when people say "I love you". I feel it. 

I am the woman one man tried to hold me back from being. But I found my wings. I claimed my power. I am the warrior, and the victory is mine.

Every Breath You Take...

It's funny how the reality of a situation can completely escape you when it's actually happening, and be so glaringly obviousr in hindsight.

I had a stalker and I didn't fully realize it.

I was afraid, sure, and I knew he was playing games with me, but I didn't slap the "stalker" label on it for another until months later. 

After the break-in/remote control games, I started hearing noises outside my window at night. Tiny clicks against the window that were loud enough to wake me up, but also soft enough to make me wonder if I was imagining things. I started to question my own sanity. 

I couldn't enjoy my freedom because I felt like there were eyes on me all the time. The bank I worked in was all glass windows -- top to bottom -- and there were moments I was convinced Javier was out there watching.

He called one of the direct numbers to the teller line one January night, asking for me. I'd already asked my co-workers to screen any calls that came in for me, so I didn't have to talk to him, but they told me it was him. I was agitated for the rest of the shift, and when we all left at seven that night, I was glad to be out of that fish-bowl of a bank building.

It was really cold that night, so most of us sat in our cars to let them warm up a little before driving. I was the last to leave -- but I didn't leave soon enough. The second I was alone in that parking lot, a car I didn't know turned in and sped toward me. I held my breath when it stopped right beside me, the driver's side right next to mine. The window came down, and there he was. Smiling at me, like we'd made plans to meet in a dark parking lot on a freezing cold night.

I asked him why he was there, and he said, "to see you, and to give you this." 

He handed me two greeting card envelopes. I looked at them, then back up at him. He was still smiling. 

What was his angle? What did he want from me? And why the hell was he bringing me greeting cards?

I opened the first one. There was some kind romantic picture on the front -- white roses with a soft-glow filter or something corny like that -- and a message that said, "Ever get the feeling that someone is thinking about you?" And on the inside, "Well, it's me."

He's sitting in that car watching me with that ridiculous fucking smile on his face, only his eyes had changed, and I had to fight the urge to vomit all over the inside of my car. I didn't open the second card -- I couldn't. I didn't want to know what fresh hell awaited me inside of it. The only thing I could do was tell him to leave me alone and drive away as fast as I could.

When I got home (sick, scared, and sad) the driveway was dark, but both my parents' cars were in their usual spaces. I didn't understand how they could forget to leave the garage and porch lights on for me, knowing I was coming home after dark. Furious, I marched into the house and started yelling. Didn't they know anyone could be out there waiting for me? Didn't they care about my safety?

They both looked at me like I'd grown two heads and shrugged. Nothing to worry about, we lived in a safe neighborhood, everything was fine.

No, I insisted, everything was not fine. Javier was out there, following me, watching me, calling me, playing games with me, and, now, showing up at my work. Still, I got the blank stares. Finally, I waved the cards at them, and said "now tell me I don't have anything to worry about."

I remember my mother's face when she was finished looking at the cards. There was regret in her eyes. Sorrow. And a little bit of fury.

I think my dad just went into ostrich mode. He didn't have a thing to say.

Once again, I was living in fear. I didn't want to go anywhere alone -- not even work. But I couldn't tell all of my co-workers that my crazy ex wouldn't leave me alone. I was embarrassed...and probably a little worried that by saying the words out loud, his behavior would only get worse. 

I finally had to admit how dangerous things had become when he called the house one night later that month. I guess I thought he wouldn't be that bold, given the chances my dad might answer the phone, but he was, and I was the lucky fool who answered.

Again, he acted like we were still together. Just a "hey, how's it going?" kind of call. Except this time, I had reached my breaking point. My mom and my sister happened to be in the room with me, looking on with curiosity and concern when I started crying, and then holding my hands when I started yelling. 

I told Javier this had to stop. He couldn't call me anymore, he couldn't show up at my job, and he absolutely could not bring me greeting cards or any other damn thing. He had to leave me alone. The relationship was over, and he had to stay out of my life.

It took so much energy to say those words, to stand -- literally -- on my own two feet and demand my life back. But I did it. And I thought he'd heard me. I thought we were in agreement.

But ground shook beneath me once more when he said, "okay, so when can we talk again?"

Which One of Us is the Crazy One?

It took two and a half months for Javier to move out. For nearly ten weeks, I fought an internal battle between my impatience that he wouldn't leave and my fear of pressuring or forcing him to do so. It had taken so much energy and courage just to ask him to leave; I felt like pushing him was more than I could manage.

Meanwhile, my parents threatened daily to toss his shit out on the lawn -- and a part of me loved the idea, but I knew he could just as easily bring it all back inside (no, I did not get the key back from him the day we broke up, something I certainly regret).

He finally left in August. I don't remember the day, if there was any kind of pomp and circumstance to the moment, or if he did it while I was out of the house. No clue. I just know that one fine August day, he was gone.

Well...he was out of our house, anyway.

I don't remember anymore when it started -- the phone calls, the random appearances at our house -- but I do remember being annoyed. I wanted him gone for good and he was like some stupid mismatched sock that just kept showing up. 

One evening he came to the house again, said he wanted to talk to me. At this point, I had no interest in anything he had to say but he was insistent and seemed sincere so I agreed to sit out on the porch and listen to whatever he wanted to say.

He went on an on about this girl he was living with (yes, you read that right -- not even three months out of my house and he was living with another woman), and how he felt like she didn't trust him. She was listening to his phone calls, accusing him of being with other girls, the whole nine yards. Inside I was screaming, but I managed to simply take a breath, look him in the eye, and ask, "Well, how does it feel?"

He gave me that blank look, like he didn't understand the question, so I rephrased it. 

"It doesn't feel good, does it? Living with someone who treats you like that?"

He only shook his head and changed the subject. I don't know if he was playing me or not --  hoping for a specific reaction, lying to my face, maybe both. I just know I was done with all of it and didn't have it in me to play along.

Early one evening that December, my mom and I decided to go Christmas shopping -- it was one of our favorite things to do, aside from decorating -- while my dad was off at a choral group rehearsal. We were gone for maybe two hours, and when we got back we engaged in another favorite activity: dessert and evening TV. 

But when I went to turn on the cable box, the remote was missing. It was always either on the coffee table by the couch, or the on the tray table beside mom's chair, but it was in neither place -- or in any other not-at-all-logical place. It was just gone. 

Giving up the search, I went into my bedroom and grabbed the remote for my TV and we went on with our night, making a point to remember to ask dad if he'd for some reason run off with the remote. 

A week later, I got a call from my mom at work. She wanted to know where I'd found the cable remote for the living room. Thinking she'd lost a marble or two I reminded her that we were using the one from my room, but she said "no, your remote is in your room. The one with the sticker (which was the living room remote) is right here on the tray table."

Once again, my body went cold. "We need to change the locks," I told her.

My mom gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. "The locksmith is already here."

I hung up, feeling like my life had just been turned upside down -- again.

What bothered me more than knowing Javier had likely made a copy of the house key before he left; more than the very clear understanding that he was not done messing with my head; was the fact that my mother was in the house when he entered.

She and I both knew that the night before the temporary remote was in the living room, so if the "right" remote was back in its place when she came downstairs the next morning at eleven o'clock, he'd come into the house some time after my dad and I left for work, knowing what time my mother habitually came downstairs.

It's hard to find the right word for what I was feeling. Horrified, terrified, furious. All of those but none of those. It was just too much.

The safety, the sanctuary I'd found in my parents' home after two and half years of living in fear, had been violated once again. 

And it wasn't over yet.