“So there’s some things I gotta say; Gonna jot it down and then get it out; And then I’ll be on my way”

Two things can be true at the same time if …

I hated geometry language then and I certainly don’t understand it now.

Two things can be true. Period. I love him but I hate what he did to me. To us.

For eleven weeks now, I grapple to understand what happened and why it happened; who he is, and why he is. My brain twists and bends to see the man I love who I know exists somewhere within that heap of flesh, muscle, and bone; and to understand the darkness that spews hateful words and acts on devious compulsions.

I accept various theories – narcissism being at the forefront – and rationalize the truth. Yet, something still tugs at me, begging me to listen.

The day he came home from jail, we yelled and argued. I packed several bags of clothes, toiletries, and some items that still baffle me, including my 2019 and 2020 tax returns. I headed for the side door. Upon reaching the island in the kitchen, I paused, turned around, and softly said, “I just wish you loved me as much as I love you.”

Without hesitation he shouted back, “I DO LOVE YOU.”

I walked away.

That sentence haunts me. Its power grips at my emotions. In the moment, I thought it to be a farce. A movie scene. The emotional instrumental soundtrack played, first soft then gaining momentum as the heroine says a last goodbye. The villain then slaps her with her own words. A power move. Her cheeks sting from impact.

Now, I remember it differently.

I hear the strain, a force against the dominant cruelty and calculated condescension.

He had spent two days in county jail. He didn’t call me when he arrived there. I stewed in worry and panic fretting the worst, secretly fearing he left me for an affair. For sixteen hours, I didn’t know if he was dead, dying, or running away. I played various scenarios in my mind, praying he’d come back to me. I curled up on his side of the bed, gripping his pillow, taking deep breaths of his scent left behind, and begging the universe to bring him home to me.

When he did reach out, through his lawyer’s cell phone the following day, it was to beg for bail money. He promised to “explain everything” and defiantly denied accountability.

No apologies. No remorse. No love. No acknowledging my worry. Just “rescue me.”

I didn’t.

When he came home the next day, he tried to hug me. I stopped him. His temperament instantly changed and vile statements flew from his mouth like a skunk spraying its predator. “If I could relax around you, maybe I wouldn’t need an escort” was the first shot.

Minutes later, I shouted at him, “Do you know how worried I was? In the past three days, I’ve gotten four hours of sleep.” He retorted, “I didn’t get any. I haven’t slept at all.”

Now it was a pissing match.

Except I didn’t cause this. He didn’t understand. I may as well have spoken in tongue clicks.

This wasn’t my man. This wasn’t the person who volunteered at my work event just three weeks ago, nor the one who I planned to take out to dinner that weekend to celebrate Father’s Day.

This stranger was borderline demonic.

He frightened me.

For weeks, I didn’t know what changed, other than I learned his gruesome secret: a duplicitous lifestyle in which he sought relief from transactional sexual encounters and preyed on young women. One such happenstance was arranged with a child younger than sixteen.

Millions of questions flood my mind. How did it start? Was there an affair? What caused him to escalate? How long has it gone on? Has this been our entire relationship? Red flags that I brushed under the proverbial rug appear as blood-red stains. Who was involved? Who knew? Where did he go? Did he meet them at our house? In our bed? Did he kiss them? Did he use protection? Where did he touch them? Did they know about me? What did he tell them about me? What did he let them say about me? Was he really that unhappy with me? Did this have to do with me? Was he attracted to me? Was I really that unlovable? Unfuckable?

Some answers find me. Others are swallowed by the abyss, regurgitated, and spit back at me. Some roll off my shoulders as unimportant. Others stab me, relentlessly.

Eleven weeks later, I look back on that dreary afternoon in late June. The last time I saw him. My perspective has changed. Now, I see two definitive energies in that human male. There’s a dark, narcissistic vitality that stops at nothing to remain in control, defend secrecy, and keep itself guarded. And, the humanity with glimmers of love, hope, and truth.

I don’t excuse what he did and do believe justice needs to prevail by way of jail time, fines, and sex offender registration. But I don’t want to see the darkness win. I don’t want him to become permanently cold and heartless. I don’t want this to be the evolution of the next Ted Bundy.

There’s a man in there. Someone who loved me and held me when I cried; hugged me when I needed him; and once upon a time, desired me.

It wasn’t that long ago when we laughed together and spoke our own language with nicknames. I know a portion of that was the adoration I gave him reflected back at me, but some of it stuck like spaghetti thrown against a wall. He knew how to bestow love and celebrated romance with a balloon ride at sunrise over the Serengeti; and a dinner at a Michelin star-rated restaurant in Tromso, Norway. He showed up to scrub the house clean before we opened windows for the season; and stayed with me for three hours on a weekday afternoon as we waited for AAA to pick up my dead car.

We shared a life; adopted four-legged babies, and loved each other.

Three months ago, I knew him as mine.

I just didn’t know he didn't, or couldn't, give his whole self to me.