Stalked

In reading One Smarmy Mama yesterday, I realized my own sense of the value of words. The weight of words, the power of words - how they can destroy and build. How many times have words destroyed my own world? How many times have I used words to build that world anew? This constant recycling of reality is normal, and although I should take measure of my own self-worth from within, it is often the words of others I use as supporting evidence in the on-going trial against myself. And once in a while, I lose the trial, then words have nearly become my executioner.

It was words that started this mess, in Moving On I was asked to troll the internet in search of a woman for my boyfriend and me to share. I did this obediently, but often I would come across other men in my search, Most of these men I ignored, but after a while I began to crave conversation with others. I wasn't speaking with my family, my boyfriend and I had no conversations other than those relating to sex. I was lonely. I wonder how many tragedies start from loneliness?

On the internet I met a man who seemed to be ideal. We talked about baseball, his divorce, his children. It was refreshing to talk to someone about their life; someone who seemed to care about what was going on with me. He lived far away, and for me, that was great, because the temptation to cheat was minimalized by the distance. As the months went on, the more disillusioned I became with the person I lived with. All of the love I had inside that I wanted to give, was slowly being shifted, like weights on a scale. My affection was being shot out through electricity traversing wires composing the internet. This man on the internet was responsible; he had children, he was a contractor for the DOD, he owned a home. I was impressed; but relationship-wise I was a child. The man I lived with was only my second boyfriend, and I had no clue what it took to maintain a healthy relationship. I only knew that I wanted affection and attention, and at the time, I didn't feel like I was getting it at home.

Eventually, my internet friend and I started calling each other. We would talk for hours while my boyfriend was at work. I would tell him of the growing pains my relationship was going through, and he would tell me about the struggles he was having with his ex-wife. It was comforting. Eventually, he would let me speak to his children, and girl and one boy. It felt as though we were building some type of virtual family, and it made me feel warm inside. Then a day came when my boyfriend decided to thoroughly review the phone bill. He found my new friend's phone number and asked me who it was. I lied. I was too weak to tell him that this was a man I talked to to feel normal, and not like some janitor or sex slave. If I had to do it again, I would have told him the truth, but this is a lesson I only learned through the rough hands of experience.

He dialed the number. The voice on the other end was a recording repeating a message that included a name. I stood there terrified, wondering what my boyfriend would do. He asked me once again who the voice belonged to. I said an uncle. Then the conversation was over.

My virtual friend and I talked for years. When I moved out, I decided that it was time for us to meet in person. He came by train. It was awkward, us seeing each other for the first time. I quickly acclimated to the new sensory information he presented, but he was clearly nervous. As we made our way back to my place, I was talking up a storm, but he struggled to make conversation. I was worried, I wanted my friend, the person I had known for years, to be comfortable with me. I didn't understand what the problem was. Was I ugly, fat, tall, short. I had no clue why he clammed up.

When we arrived at my home, we slept on a blow-up mattress together (I didn't have a bed then). There was no touching, no kissing, no nothing. This increased my worry. In the morning, I began preparing for a party I was throwing at my house while he watched baseball. Then, suddenly, he came into the kitchen and started telling me he didn't expect me to be as tall and big as him. I felt hurt to the core, but also, I thought it was strange. The wording. . ."as tall or as big as me". . .not, I didn't expect you to be so fat, or ugly, it was just strange. As my friends started arriving for the party, I confided in one of them what my internet friend had said to me. She was a young, beautiful, French woman. She told me that I should march into the living room and kick him out, but I refused, standing there in the kitchen crying on her shoulder.

People came and went all day. My last guest arrived at 3am. It was an epic party with 70's music, a disco ball, a strobe light, alcohol and food. By sunrise, my internet friend was ready to leave. I never expected to hear from him again.

A few days later, when I was coming home from work, I saw him. . . but it wasn't exactly him. I had happened to glance in his direction, and when my eyes happened upon him, fear pierced my heart. He was in disguise! He was wearing a wig, something on his skin to make him appear darker, and ice blue contacts. But his nose, his very unique looking nose was the same. I stared and stared, and although I was afraid, I didn't quite know why. I wondered why he would be here when he lived so far away. I wondered why he would be wearing a disguise. I wondered why he didn't talk to me. When I got home, I examined these thoughts over and over again, until it finally hit me, he was stalking me! I was too afraid to move. I knew what he did for a living, the weapons he had, I immediately thought of his words, about me being as big and tall as him. Those are the words of someone who is planning to attack, the words of someone who has decided the direct approach wouldn't be best. Beads of sweat ran down the back of my neck and my hands began to shake. I knew that I didn't have anything to go to the police with, so I waited.

Every day, I had visions of him attacking me from behind, or breaking into my apartment and assaulting me. Every day there were things missing from my apartment, underwear, household items, things were moved. . . Finally, one weekend, I went away, when I returned a lock on my door was broken. I called the police and asked them to write a report, but there was no solid evidence and they did not dust the door for prints as I hoped they would.

I lived in fear for my life every day. I prayed to God that this man would not take my life. Although he never touched me, there was something inside me letting me know that he wanted to hurt me. Instinct, that nervous twitch I get when something is about to go horribly wrong. I felt like an animal in a hunter's crosshairs.

I had my locks changed, I changed my route home frequently, and I slept with a weapon. After a year, that feeling of being watched went away. I was able to sleep again.

Tomorrow, The Other Men. . .