Happy Wednesday readers.
You can read part one Here if you haven’t already.
And if you have, grab a snack, it’s about to get real.
After the cell phone fiasco at her house, I thought about a whole lot on that hot ass walk up river road.
Why is she so understanding? Why didn’t she yell and scream? Do I deserve redemption? Why’d she go through my phone so early?
I was baffled, stumped, astonished. The way she dealt with me in that instance was a way I had never been dealt with before. It ignited a curiosity in me that would burn like a California forest fire.
So I went back.
She called me that night to make sure I had made it home safely. We laughed and talked like nothing had happened. This confused the young me, considering I had an inbox full of bitches at the time and no lock on my phone.
The thing was, we got along so well that negative things weren’t addressed. Opposed to handling problems, we solved them with intimacy or gifts. That was a problem within itself. With her when it was good, it was amazing. I was glowing inside out and a ball of love, a mess of emotions, completely free and open with her. We were emotionally and physically falling all over each other, I was happy.
In that conversation I promised her an iPhone for my behavior, she accepted and we continued to see each other. We spent weeks together. Time flowed as if it was abundant, as if there was no limit. I would run to her after work, and she’d be scantly clad, have my shower running and a meal ready.
I remember going to see every marvel movie with her and sitting in the theatre afterwards and talking about comic books. We we would sit in the buffet at Golden Corral and eat, talk and drink for hours until we got hungry again, then repeat. We dined and dashed, broke rules, smoked good bud (which isn’t even my cup
Of tea) and completely consumed each other.
I remember her driving my car to taco Mac one night. I never let anyone drive my car, by the way. It was after midnight, “Adorn” by Miguel was playing and my hand was on her thigh.
At a stoplight in downtown Decatur she turned, looked at me with those big brown eyes and said “Malcolm, I think I’m falling in love with you.” Before I knew it, she was on my lap and the windows were foggy. It wasn’t our first time, so I had already learned her body and particular reactions to certian stimuli. This wasn’t lust. We were spiritually in tune. If I thought something, she did it. She guided my hands, our foreheads touched, we breathed in sync. The rhythm was perfect, all inhibitions were lowered, I didn’t care if she got pregnant. I was making love for the first time.
After that night, insanity started to rear it’s ugly, ugly head.
Every time I stayed at her house, we would get up, eat breakfast and watch a particular show. One morning, I wanted to grab some extra hours at work and I decided to leave early. I left her a text and went on about my day.
It was raining so I left my phone in my locker. Came back on break, 22 texts, 15 missed calls, 5 voicemails. I thought something was wrong with my family, then I saw that they were all from her.
“Don’t you ever leave without waking me up and telling me goodbye.”
“What if you died today without speaking to me?”
“You’re inconsiderate and I hate you, lose my number I’m done with you.”
“WHY ARENT YOU TEXTING ME BACK STOP IGNORING ME”
“Honey I miss you, I didn’t mean all that. It’s a defense mechanism.”
“Please accept my apology. Come home. I miss you.”
WHOA. I didn’t know, but this was the tip of the iceberg. I liked her so much that I dealt with it, but it continued to get worse.
Every week, just when things were getting back good, she’d break up with me just to see if I would stay around.
Serial relationship sabotage at it’s finest.
At one point she blocked me via text, call and twitter. When I went to her house to confront her, she didn’t answer the door. She unblocked me on her phone and texted the following:
“If you can’t text me, call me. If I block you, tweet me. If I block you on there, you tell a friend to tweet me for you. If I block them, tell another one. NOTHING I DO SHOULD KEEP YOU AWAY FROM ME IF YOU REALLY LOVE ME. HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE ME?”
Holy shit. What had I gotten myself Into?
It got worse.
Because I was staying at her crib so much, I had a bag there. Work clothes, regular outfits, socks, underwear, cologne etc. The normal things. I left some Dove shower cream in her bathroom. Her big sister and roommate, who hated herself so much that she hated everything, blew up on my girlfriend for being happy. She made it seem like it was about cleaning up after me, but it was really about being jealous of our relationship.
As result of that argument those two had a fist fight in the house, and guess who was to blame.
You guessed it!
She called me and gave me the entire story about the fight and such as I was on my way to her crib after work. Mid conversation she decided that everything was my fault and told me that we were breaking up, again. She was done with me, again. I needed to get my things, again. Because this was some weekly shit, I paid it no mind and decided to crash at my own crib for the night and let it blow over, knowing she would call me to hang out the next day.
8am I get a call from her and “Not Gone Cry” by Mary J. Blige is playing in the background. I continue to say “Hello” and get no response, but I do hear a faint crackling.
I go back to sleep. I awake to my twitter, Instagram and texts buzzing. She set my favorite jacket on fire and put it on Instagram. I cried. I’m not even gonna sit here and lie to y’all. Navy blue and Grey BBC varsity jacket that I spent a hard earned paycheck on. Nigga, I was in shambles. I went to get the remainder of my shit immediately.
I’m in the front yard knocking at the door, screaming in the lawn and this crazy ass woman is holding my bag, looking through the glass at me, taunting me. I try every door and window and they’re all locked. I leave in a fury as it starts to rain.
Two days and 35 thunderstorms later, she tells me that I can come and get my things. Once again, I’m expecting to make up until I show up and my bag has been sitting outside in the rain since the last time I was there.
I WAS PISSED.
Now it gets crazy.
That same day I decide to take a trip out of town to clear my head. Everything in my bag didn’t get wet and surely I had enough clothes and shoes in there to survive out of town for two days, right?
I flew out to Virginia beach to relax on a resort. As I’m getting out the shower, I spray my cologne on and it smells funny as hell. I’m like “Damn, when did Polo Black get so SCRONG?” I Wiped off the excess cologne with my towel and it was brown.
I questioned my hygiene first, then I sniffed the towel. She poured out half my cologne and replaced the other half with garlic powder and soy sauce. (Later when I asked her how she got the top off, she told me she bit it.) I got back in the shower with a look of disgust on my face. Went to my bag to put some clothes on and I couldn’t believe what happened. I opened up a brand new bag of black socks and put a pair of just to see my toes staring back at me. My socks looked like fucking ankle braces. She cut the tips off of every pair of socks and then folded them and put them back in the bag. She cut the elastic waistbands off my boxers, so I had the drawers of a slave under my jeans. She worked in department store retail so she was a master at folding. I opened up a brand new 3 Pack of white Ralph Lauren Tee shirts just to see “PUSSY, CUNT, and ASSHOLE” scribbled across them in black permanent marker. She defaced Ralph Lauren button downs by scratching out “custom fit” and writing “custom bitch” as well.
I packed up my shit and flew right back home. She was deranged. A prideful psychopath who was cold, calculating and took pride in her work. She was so ahead of the curve that I didn’t even realize some of the damage until months down the line. I’ll never forget the final straw. I was at work and I grabbed a company shirt out of my locker that I threw in there out of my bag some time ago. I put on my shirt and my good friend T-Brown burst into laughter, crying real life tears. His yellow ass face turned red and pointed to my company shirt as my nipples were exposed. She cut holes in my work shirt. I was fed up.
I called her ass and blew up. Her being the nutjob that she is, she nonchalantly invited me over after work. I arrived at her home and it was just like nothing had happened. She showed up in a tank and some compression shorts. No panties, no bra, hair wrapped. That beautiful tatt was showing and her booty was poking, PLUS she made tacos. A favorite meal.
She presented me a poem and a letter of apology in addition to drawing me something. She knew exactly what she was doing, but I still wasn’t sold. After I ate and showered I told her about herself. I turned up and I yelled, I lost all composure. The more aggressive I got, the more turned on she got.
That night, We had the most sadistic, angry, filthy breakup sex ever that night. She didn’t know it was breakup sex, but I surely did. When we both finished and I told her that we shouldn’t date anymore, she thought It was a game. She thought that I was pulling a her and testing her reserve, seeing if she was going to stick around.
That morning we had sex again and it was just as good as the night before. Right before I inserted, I told her that this was the last time. She nodded.
I refused to put up with it. I moved on. I stood on my own two and decided that I deserved better. I deserved stability, security and sanity.
The next time we spoke, she asked me to come over and bring her Zaxby’s. I told her I wasn’t there for her like that anymore and she should lose my number until she got therapy. She left a message crying and apologizing to me and text me a few times, but I never responded. That was the last time we spoke for 2 years.
The universe stays looking out. What if she had gotten pregnant? I would’ve been stuck dealing with irrationality at it’s finest for the rest of my life. As men we all like crazy, but you have to recognize what you’re dealing with. Her crazy was on a 10, I prefer to stay under 7 these days.
2 years after these events, I had a meeting with some industry clients at a restaurant in Buckhead. I put on a pair of my favorite jeans and as I went to put my keys and phone in my pockets, they hit me in the fucking ankles. She had cut the pockets out of my jeans and left a message on each snipped pocket. Right then, I should’ve known something was strange. I change my outfit and get to the restaurant just to walk in and feel uneasy. My entire soul was in turmoil, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I had goosebumps. I felt a pair of eyes burning into me, my spidey senses tell me to look to the left, and sure as shit.
Guess who was the bartender?